Call of Fire

by Beth Cato

  “It feels like my legs are going to burn off.” She could barely speak through the pain. “How close are we to Portland?”

  “A few hours out. Skies are clear. No thunderbirds about.” That was a reminder she didn’t need to hear. “Here, sit up, let me get you some water.”

  He helped her to drink; her jaw and lips were so tight that half the water dribbled down to her chest. Every movement seemed to spur more agony. She wobbled at the edge of consciousness. Through it all, her stomach resounded hollow and needy and nauseous all at once. She wanted to eat, but she knew nothing would stay down.

  “Laudanum?” Cy asked.

  “Laudanum. But I need to use the facilities first.” God, but she hoped he didn’t have to help her with every little thing there, too.

  She was vaguely aware of the warm presence of the sylphs in the rack above. They sent her a flash of acknowledgment even as they continued to rest. Their bellies were sated; good.

  Ingrid gripped the edge of the bed as she pivoted her hips out. Her bare calves flopped into the hallway. Pain throbbed down their lengths, but it was nice to actually see them—confirmation that they still existed, even if the flesh felt as if it were immersed in a furnace. She wore an old nightgown that Lee had packed for her. Lee. Ingrid blinked back tears even as she inhaled with a hiss at another horrendous pulse of pain. She scooted her bottom forward. Her nausea worsened. Her feet dragged; her knees angled out in a very unladylike way.

  “What the hell?” she gasped.

  She stared at her legs—which looked alarmingly thinner than before—and moved them with her hands; both knees felt rigid, reluctant to bend. She could feel the pressure of her touch, so it was not as though her skin was numbed. The cool air had even caused her leg hairs to go prickly. She positioned her knees so that her feet were flat on the tatami.

  She tried to scoot out again. Her legs didn’t move, even as agony seared through most every nerve ending.

  Ingrid understood power sickness. She understood fatigue. She knew what it meant to feel weak and wobbly, but this, this . . .

  “Cy?” Her voice was unnaturally high. “Cy, my legs aren’t working. They’re not working at all.”

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, April 26, 1906

  Nighttime. The shades were drawn. Ingrid was lying in a bed in a room that didn’t reek of vinegar, but of antiseptics and lemon. Mr. Roosevelt’s contact had secreted them in a manse somewhere in Portland. Truth be told, between her pain, her panic, and eventually, Fenris’s opiates, Ingrid wasn’t sure of the details.

  Pasteurian and Reiki physicians had visited; no names were exchanged, as discretion seemed to be the rule within this household. The gunshot wound was healing well enough, thanks to Ambassador Blum’s magic and Cy’s ministrations. The burn on her other thigh had been treated with salve and no longer pained her.

  She could barely see Cy through the cracked door. He was conversing in the hallway with Mr. Roosevelt, whose voice boomed here and there: “Sakaguchi, still captive!” “That fox!” “Fool’s luck for certain!”

  The door finally shoved open. “Miss Carmichael,” said Mr. Roosevelt. He offered her a bow.

  “Mr. Roosevelt, sir.” She tried to sit up.

  “Ingrid!” Cy scowled as he came alongside her.

  She let her body drop into the sheets again. She had to try. She had to pretend that her legs might still work, wasted as they were. She had said nothing to the doctors about geomancy or power sickness. The Pasteurian analyzed her with his eyes and his instruments, while the Reiki doc studied her strangely stained life essence. Both agreed that her condition seemed to involve her brain and the nerve impulses to her extremities, especially her legs. The Pasteurian used the term “spasticity.” He said some days might be better than others, and that she might show slow improvement over weeks and months if she worked to regain her muscle strength. Maybe. Not even the ki doc could do much to treat a brain and nerve injury. Such extensive, infinitesimal damage might even be too much for Blum to directly address.

  “Don’t strain yourself on my account, Miss Carmichael,” said Mr. Roosevelt, his hands clasped behind his back. “I cannot visit for long. This is a quick stop as I make my way to Seattle to assess the scope of the damage there. I’m sorry to hear of your condition. My staff can offer several locations where you might quietly, covertly convalesce.”

  Home. She wanted home. She wanted to return to a city, to a time, that no longer existed. Ingrid thought back to what Tacoma had said—that she needed to return to her mountain for safety. If only she had such a refuge now.

  Her grandmother had such a place, though: Kilauea, in the Hawaiian Vassal States. A volcano that did not sleep.

  “Cy told you about Mr. Sakaguchi and Lee?”

  “Yes, Cy did.” Mr. Roosevelt’s mustache twitched as he said the name. “I’ll monitor any reports of submarines. Nothing has emerged—pardon the unintentional pun—thus far, so it’s my hope that Ambassador Blum remains ignorant of their escape method as well. However, if these submarines are used to attack American forces, that changes everything. Our military will retaliate, regardless of who is on board.”

  To that, Ingrid could only nod. She knew Cy wouldn’t mention the pact that Mr. Sakaguchi had made with Uncle Moon, which was good. Mr. Roosevelt wouldn’t approve of his friend filling kermanite for the Chinese cause. It would make the pretense of their broken friendship into reality—and cost Ingrid and Cy their most powerful ally.

  “Blum’s method of tracking you disturbs me greatly,” Mr. Roosevelt continued. “This sorcerous brand on your body seems to be working—and healing as well as a burn can, from the doctors’ reports—but I suggest you travel far. Very far. Blum’s powers aren’t infinite, and the effects of all Reiki are known to fade in time. Again, my staff can assist with these travel arrangements.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ingrid said. She already had a certain place in mind.

  “That said, there is one particular reason why I wished to see you both again. Our conversations this past weekend have lingered in my mind. About you in particular, Mr. Jennings.” Roosevelt whirled on his heel. “You looked familiar to me, as did your mannerisms. It took me a full day to realize that you’re truly Bartholomew Augustus.”

  Cy stood, fists balled at his hips. He met Mr. Roosevelt’s cool gaze. “The deceit was necessary, sir.”

  “You’re a deserter from the A-and-A, presumed dead in an airship crash.”

  “I did desert, sir, but I made no effort to fake my death. Ambassador Blum mentioned in Seattle that she arranged that deceit with the hope that I might foolishly attend my own funeral.”

  “Did she?” Mr. Roosevelt adjusted his glasses on his nose. “So you merely ran from your duties, is that it? Are you one of those white-livered copperheads?”

  “Sir—” Ingrid pushed herself to sit upright. Her arms quivered from exertion. Her legs had taken the brunt of the magical-physical depletion, but her entire body had been damaged.

  “My duties to God, humanity, and the good of my own soul took priority, sir.” Cy stood at parade rest, his posture strong.

  “Damned conscientious objectors,” Roosevelt spat. “Well, you’re no coward. You proved that much. I’d see you locked up, but you do hold another vital role now with Miss Carmichael in your charge.”

  Ingrid was now Cy’s assigned duty? She would have laughed at the pompous statement, but she had no desire to make Mr. Roosevelt even more incensed.

  Cy accepted the news with a cool nod. “Has there been any word of my father, sir?”

  “No. Last I heard, George Augustus is still missing in San Francisco.” Mr. Roosevelt sighed.

  “While my twin sister is alive and well in Atlanta,” Cy said softly. “My father doesn’t know, does he?”

  “Am I correct in guessing that Ambassador Blum informed you of this news?” asked Mr. Roosevelt. Cy nodded, and Roosevelt’s thick shoulders sagged. “George does not know, and that has pained me grea
tly. I have come to call him a good friend in recent years.”

  “My family has known greater pain, sir,” Cy snapped.

  “This is what your sister wanted, Mr. Augustus,” Mr. Roosevelt growled back. “She wanted to escape and invent again, and that never would have happened, not with the burden of Augustinian’s management falling on her. I have seen her work on the flying citadel.” His voice softened as he shook his head. “There is nothing like it in the world.”

  “I can believe that.” Cy sounded so very tired. “She was always the smartest of us.”

  Roosevelt looked between Cy and Ingrid. “I must depart. My staff here will assist you, and I’ll assist when possible. You know how to contact me again. I hope your recovery continues to go well, Miss Carmichael.” He shook Cy’s hand, somewhat grudgingly, and laid an avuncular kiss on Ingrid’s knuckles, and then he was gone.

  Cy stared at the door for a moment and then pulled a small, familiar box from his pocket. He triggered the mechanism inside of the invention that he had dubbed the radioflash; it emitted no sound as it neutralized any electronics within range. There were none in view—this domicile wasn’t even wired for electricity—but Ingrid knew he was most concerned with whirly-flies left to spy on their conversations. He also physically checked her room several times a day, paying special attention to the vents.

  Satisfied with their security, he pocketed the radioflash and sat beside her.

  Ingrid reached for his hand, and he clung to her as if to a lifeline.

  “I think it was easier to mourn Maggie when she was dead than to think of her working on that war machine. God help me, that’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s the truth.” He stared into the paisley wallpaper. Tears stung Ingrid’s eyes. She hated to see him hurt this way. She hated that Blum’s parting shot had struck so true. “Death counts don’t matter to Maggie. It’s about creation. The fun of it. What happens after that . . .” He shook his head.

  “We must stop the Gaia Project from going forward,” Ingrid said. “It’s Blum’s pet scheme.”

  “One of how many?” Cy’s laugh was curt. “You’re right. We do. We need to go up against my twin sister to do it. Destroy the invention she likely loves more than anything else on this earth. God help me, but I want to save her. I want to save her soul before she causes so much destruction.”

  Blum’s words echoed in her mind. Hope is a kind of gangrene. Ingrid shook her head to force the thought away. “It doesn’t sound like Maggie’d welcome your intervention.”

  “No.” His expression was grim. “She won’t. But it’s still what needs to be done. Mr. Roosevelt said before that the citadel is almost ready to deploy.” He released a huff of breath. “However, right now, Ingrid, you—”

  “If you’re about to tell me to go to some remote resort to convalesce while you head off to kill yourself doing some damn fool thing, I should remind you that my arms still work, mostly, and I can throw something at you.”

  That coaxed a small smile onto his face. He scooted closer, his grip becoming more tender, less desperate. “Or I could do this.”

  “That works, too.” She stroked the veins down the back of his knuckles. “We need to stay together. Somehow, some way, an opportunity will arise when we can take down Blum. If not with the guandao, then by other means. Surely we’ll find Lee again. Mr. Sakaguchi, too.” Though she was unsure of how this second reunion with him would play out, knowing what she did now. Damn Blum and her foul truths.

  Cy looked weary to marrow and soul. “We don’t even know if Lee or Mr. Sakaguchi is still alive right now, Ingrid.”

  “I know, I know. But I have to think that we followed the course that the qilin thought was best. You’d think that divine beings would know more or be able to do more, but then, look at me.” She snorted. “This body of mine is all too human—”

  “I’m quite fond of that body, and I do intend to look at it as often as I can.”

  At that, she gave him a small smile. “This body does have its perks, but it’s also decided that I can’t walk right now. That . . .” She took a deep breath as her brain fumbled for words. “That won’t stop me. I refuse to be weak. I need answers.”

  Cy’s brow furrowed. Light gleamed off his pince-nez. “Where’d you think to find them?”

  “Hawaii. I want to talk to my grandmother, if at all possible. If I can understand my heritage and my power, maybe I can do something to stop the Gaia Project. Something that won’t cause more damage to my body.”

  Cy stared at their hands. His thumb stroked circles against her knuckles. “Hawaii is a prime place of harvest for Japanese geomancers. The energy always flows. That could kill you, Ingrid, or make this spasticity worse.”

  “Geomancers there take precautions. A trip there’d send us far from Blum, too, like Roosevelt advised. If you or Fenris have other suggestions, I’ll gladly listen, but I’m not about to lounge in a feather bed while this war goes on. There’s a line in the opera Lincoln, do you remember? ‘The war is done but I’m a warrior yet.’”

  “I remember.” Cy’s gaze met hers. “There’s the line after that, too—‘I’m a sinner, true, but eternal peace is what I hope to get.’”

  “‘What I hope to get, get.’” Ingrid spoke the refrain.

  She clutched his hand with shaky fingers. The burned kanji character on her thigh ached, reminding her of its presence and of her own inherent power. Yes, she might be bed-bound for now, but she wouldn’t stay down.

  Somehow, she must fight on for the sake of peace.

  Author’s Note

  The world shown in Breath of Earth and Call of Fire is grim, and it is based on historical truth. Japan’s ambitions for the Chinese mainland began long before World War II. In America at the turn of the twentieth century, Chinese immigrants were persecuted and murdered, and justice did not prevail. The Geary Act and its “Dog Tag Law” in the 1890s truly did force Chinese residents to at all times carry photo identification cards as evidence that they were legal residents of the United States.

  Some historical details in these books, such as the altered life spans of Chinese Emperor Qixiang and Abraham Lincoln, were deliberate. It is vital to note that in reality, the Qing Dynasty is remembered as ruthless, corrupt, and extravagant; men were indeed executed if they did not wear the queue style haircut. There was no declaration of equality between the Manchu and Han peoples.

  Theodore Roosevelt is a brilliant, contradictory, and charismatic historical figure. In reality, he did indeed believe in the manifest destiny of America as a world power, and he rightly predicted that Japan’s rising clout would bring it into conflict with America in the coming years. He was also a progressive for his time period when it came to matters of race and society. I found it bizarre, really, how well he fit into the altered history of Call of Fire.

  The Old Chinatown of Portland, Oregon, was different from other Chinatowns in the United States. It was geographically the largest, due to extensive urban gardens, and was not segregated from the white population. This enabled these diverse people to come to know and understand each other. This is a marked contrast to cities like Tacoma to the north, where in 1885 the entirety of Chinatown was emptied by vigilantes and then burned. Hundreds of Chinese people fled to Portland and other cities.

  Dog sorcery was truly practiced to prevent attacks by kitsune in Japan, with the character for “dog” written on the foreheads of children to guard against possession.

  Russia and Japan have squabbled over territory for years—and still do. The real Russo-Japanese War took place in 1904 and 1905, with a peace deal organized by President Theodore Roosevelt; he later won a Nobel Peace Prize for his effort.

  Other historical and cultural inconsistencies are the result of my undeniable ignorance. I beg forgiveness for any errors and omissions.

  My goal in writing these books is not just to entertain through fiction, but to encourage people to read nonfiction about this time period—to confront the dark parts of American his
tory that are dismissed and ignored.

  The research bibliography I included in Breath of Earth incorporated many of the works I also used for Call of Fire. The following are additional books and articles that provided useful data for the series. This list can also be found at BethCato.com with links to available works online.

  Japan, Its Mythology

  Kitsune: Japan’s Fox of Mystery, Romance & Humor by Kiyoshi Nozaki

  Daughters of the Samurai: A Journey from East to West and Back by Janice P. Nimura

  Early Twentieth-Century America (General)

  Hard Drive to the Klondike: Promoting Seattle During the Gold Rush by Lisa Mighetto and Marcia Montgomery

  “Airship-Mooring Masts of the U.S. Air Service,” Aerial Age Weekly, Vol. XIV, No. 14, December 12, 1921

  Native American Tales

  A Guide to B.C. Indian Myth and Legend by Ralph Maud

  Myths and Legends of the Pacific Northwest by Katharine B. Judson

  Totem Tales: Indian Stories Indian Told by W. S. Phillips

  Theodore Roosevelt

  Honor in the Dust: Theodore Roosevelt, War in the Philippines, and the Rise and Fall of America’s Imperial Dream by Gregg Jones

  China, Its Mythology, and Chinese in America

  The Man Who Loved China: The Fantastic Story of the Eccentric Scientist Who Unlocked the Mysteries of the Middle Kingdom by Simon Winchester

  Hawaii

  A Military History of Sovereign Hawai’i by Neil Bernard Dukas