Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1)

by Jordan Taylor

  “Quite right,” Samuelson says. “We shall not take a minute of your time.”

  Orvar Kjellstedt, Oliver, pauses in the middle of the floor, fixing the runaway gear back to his sleeve. He looks up, from Ivy to Samuelson, who has also seated himself upon request, but leans forward at the edge of his chair. Melchior remains standing beside him, glancing around the room as if some object may come to life and devour him. In the moment of quiet, Ivy notices the soft rumble of ticks, whirs, hisses, and rattles. As if the room itself lives and breathes.

  “Oh....” Oliver bites his lip, standing still for the first time since the wall door opened. “Well, now. There’s no need to dash. None at all. Won’t you take some coffee? Or cold horchata? We have ice, of course. Run an icebox on electricity. Steam and batteries. Freezes water in half a day.”

  “Truly?” Ivy suppresses a shiver. She has not seen or tasted ice in a year.

  Melchior raises his eyebrows, clearly skeptical.

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” The smile returns to the maker’s face. “Isaiah? Would you be so kind as to ask Glendaleen to bring our guests drinks with ice?”

  Ivy cannot help noticing Isaiah’s uneasy expression as he heads for a back door leading, presumably, from workshop to living quarters.

  “Now, now, now....” Oliver leans back against a low table piled with metal scraps, impales his little finger on something sharp, yelps, and shakes his hand.

  “You!” he cries, rushing forward to peer closely down into Samuelson’s eyes. “And you as well.” Looking up at Melchior. “You have bright eyes. Did you know lighter coloration in the iris is often associated with photophobia? In these blazing mountains and deserts, one sees native people with dark eyes. Of course, they have the sense, correct? Yet, we are made as we are.... What we can do—” He waves a finger in Melchior’s face. “Goggles! Sungoggles!”

  With a flourish, he snatches a pair off the bench beside Samuelson’s chair and offers them.

  “Now, young men, you must try these. Simply must.” His gaze darts to Melchior’s spurs and hat. “Imagine it: riding the range. You’re pushing a herd north and east. The sun has risen, blazing into your face. The hat won’t shield you. Dust pounds your eyes like a summer blizzard. What do you do? You cannot see a May beetle on the end of your nose. You must blindly rely upon your horse and hope to lose no cattle. Or ... sungoggles! Please, please, try them on, step outside, under the door, right there. Look straight into the sun, I implore you. You will not regret it. You will be amazed.”

  He presses the dark-lensed goggles at Melchior, who appears interested, though Samuelson is smiling and shaking his head. Melchior pulls off his hat and drags the strap of the goggles over his head. With eyepieces fitted, he slips out below the door.

  “What did I tell you, young man?” Oliver shouts after him, leaning under the door.

  Melchior says something, then reappears, frowning and pulling off the goggles. “Damnation ... never seen anything like this.”

  “Did you look right at the sun? Right at it?” Oliver is nearly hopping up and down on the spot, wringing his hands.

  “Did.” Melchior rubs his neck, appearing grudging about the whole matter, yet unable to hide how impressed he feels.

  “Wonderful. Simply splendid. You may have those, sir.”

  “What?” Melchior looks up.

  “Just tell anyone concerned where you got them. Every cowhand and lawmen and rider or traveler of any kind in the whole of the Territory should own a pair and this is the only place in New Mexico you can get them.” He slaps Melchior’s back.

  Melchior grins. “Real good of you, sir. Oliver.”

  “Only do me the favor of telling anyone who asks that you paid ... twelve dollars for them.”

  Samuelson’s eyes widen.

  “No, no,” Oliver goes on, shaking his head. “Make that five. How does five sound?”

  “Sure thing.” Melchior nods. “Will do that. Much obliged.” He holds out his hand and they shake again, both beaming.

  Oliver turns to Ivy. “Now, young lady.”

  Ivy recoils, but catches herself, trying to smile.

  “Excuse me, ah, Oliver—” Samuelson leans forward from his rigidly upright posture. “I beg your pardon, but we rather had business we wished to discuss with you.”

  Oliver turns from Ivy to face him. “Yes, yes of course. I am sorry. What may I do for you?”

  “It’s a matter of transportation,” Ivy says, sitting up straighter. “You see, I am not from here, Mr. Kjellstedt—”

  “Oliver, Oliver!”

  “Yes, of course. Oliver, I came to the Territory last year from Boston. Just at the time the whole East was closing down in quarantine in a last effort to stop Daray’s disease from spreading coast to coast. Now, it seems the West is no longer free of the sickness—”

  Bang. The interior door Isaiah disappeared through crashes back against the wall, making Ivy start. Samuelson jumps to his feet. Melchior’s right hand flies to his holster.

  Oliver winces. He turns to face the woman stepping through, tray in hand, with the apologetic air of a dog caught chewing slippers.

  “Ah, sweetheart.” He dashes around the bench toward the scowling woman in a neat gingham dress, her hair done up at the top of her head. “Thank you—”

  “Oliver, I would like a word.” Her gaze sweeps past him to the three assembled.

  “Now, darling, it’s not how you think.” Oliver smiles so sweetly at her he is actually batting his eyes.

  She pushes the tray at Isaiah as he steps past. “A word.” Then vanishes back through the doorway.

  “Right. Yes.” Oliver looks around at Ivy and the two men. “Shall I ... be just a moment?”

  Why is he asking them?

  “Of course,” Samuelson says, sitting down. “No rush.”

  Oliver closes the door behind him.

  Isaiah passes clay mugs around. In wonder, Ivy clasps both sweaty hands about the cool surface. Inside, a chunk of ice floats among some light, cloudy liquid. A sip reveals a strong taste of almonds and cinnamon, too sweet, yet the most refreshing thing she has tasted in a long while.

  “Did we do something wrong?” Samuelson asks as he accepts a tawny cup from Isaiah.

  The young man shakes his head. He pushes aside several oddities to make a space for the tray on a table, then returns to his hammer at another. He lifts a soft length of buckskin to stretch over some roundish metal plate, apparently checking the fit or measurement.

  “You’ve done nothing. She grows put out over callings on account of Oliver giving away half the things he makes because he can’t find a buying market.”

  Samuelson and Ivy both glance at Melchior with the sungoggles in his hand. He glares back, draping the strap across the butt of his revolver for safekeeping.

  “He came out here because there were no makers in these parts,” Isaiah goes on. “Oliver expected to corner the market. Get the West into these big ideas of progress and development. Trouble is, a lot of the West never seemed keen on it. He’s been in Santa Fé years and hardly scrapes enough of a living to keep from going hungry.” He shrugs, lifting a knife to slide along his piece of buckskin.

  “Just the way it is. Some folks don’t like new ideas. Don’t like changing old ways. Wouldn’t matter if Satan himself invented those old ways if they’re comfortable and familiar. Anyhow, she’s got nothing against you. She’s mostly a fine lady and over the moon about him. They’re to be married shortly and she’s already started keeping house here and there. Been saving up a long while and I suspect she’s just reminding him of that before she let’s him back out here to talk with you all.”

  He lifts the small hammer over a rivet, but pauses, looking up as the door opens once more.

  Oliver shuffles into the workshop, watches clanking gently about his neck like wind chimes, rubbing his hands as if cold.

  “My apologies,” he mumbles. “I did not mean to abandon you.”

  “Not at all.” Samu
elson smiles at him, but Oliver does not look up.

  “Anyway.” He glances distractedly around the room, casts a vague smile toward his assistant, then spots Ivy. “Ah, yes. You were telling me a story, young lady. You came here from Philadelphia?”

  “Boston.”

  “Boston. Yes, it was Boston.” His broad smile returns, eyes wide and eager as a child expecting a gift. “Donataious and Dr. Frepson.”

  Ivy manages a weak smile, feeling almost relieved by the sound of familiar names—something she understands in a world upside down.

  “Yes. Donataious’s workshop was—is—only blocks from my family’s home.” Ivy takes a deep breath, wishing all four would not stare at her as if she is onstage. “Anyway ... they, the risers, came to the ranch. A horde. I have seldom seen so many at once. My cousin and I, and Mr. Samuelson, just rode into Santa Fé yesterday afternoon. The ranch was well south of Albuquerque, but not so far that both cities are not now in terrible danger.”

  Oliver gazes at her, watches no longer clanking, lips parted and light eyes even more enormous behind small spectacles.

  “It seems nowhere is safe these days,” Ivy says. “My aunt and uncle did not make it away from that ranch. Our only home here is destroyed. With all grounds being equal, I must find a way back to Boston and my father. So I beg your assistance. I am told trains no longer run. Stagecoaches and all other passenger vehicles are banned. Where I come from, there are fantastic devices, as you know. Dirigibles and balloons, self-propelled trollies, vast steam ships. If anyone in this Territory can help me, I pray you can.”

  The maker stares and stares at her. He closes his mouth, wipes his brow under his hat with a handkerchief, removes and polishes his spectacles, then leans back on the metal scrap table.

  “Miss ... uh....”

  “Jerinson,” Ivy says softly. “Ivy Jerinson.”

  “Miss Jerinson.” He pauses again, his eyes dropping from hers.

  Ivy feels a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “Please,” she whispers.

  He looks at her, opens his mouth, closes it, swallows. “I am ... terribly sorry for the predicament you face. You see ... I understand what it is like to be a long way from home. The fact remains, this ... Plague, as they call it—I heard it was coming West, though I did not know how close. Government orders close our roads across state and territory lines. What you are asking me to do, miss ... it’s breaking the—”

  “All she’s asking is an idea.”

  Ivy glances up, startled to hear Melchior sounding for once irritated on her behalf instead of irritated with her.

  “You’re the idea man.” Melchior looks around the assorted room. “And you do have an idea on how she could reach Boston, don’t you?”

  Oliver looks at him, Samuelson, Isaiah. Back to Ivy.

  “I am not asking that you take me there yourself, sir,” Ivy says. “Only assistance, please, if you can. I’ll pay. I’ll do anything. I’m afraid you are my only hope.”

  He swallows. “There is a ... plan—a vehicle I have ... long wished to make.” His glance darts again to Isaiah, who sits still, watching the maker now, instead of Ivy. “In such times ... with materials so terribly difficult to obtain, even black market—”

  “It will be expensive to make?” Melchior again interrupts.

  “Terribly,” Oliver mumbles, coloring as if ashamed to admit it. “Extravagantly.”

  “But it can be made?” Ivy asks, breathless. “You know how? You can make a device which would travel faster than horses yet without railway lines? That could avoid military shutdown and run as far as Boston?”

  Oliver glances around his workshop, as if concerned lest he be overheard. He swallows. “If one could obtain raw materials, plus funds for said materials and labor”—he looks up, meeting her eyes—“Miss Jerinson, I would guarantee it.”

  Sixth

  The First Time In Her Life

  Ivy stands beside the rail fence, considering first crossing her arms on top, though it would be rude and unladylike, then leaning against a post despite filthy wood. She ends with neither, only staring into the corral with unfocused eyes below her cheap sunhat. Although it is well past lunchtime, more beans, rice, corn, or chiles did not appeal. She does not even feel hungry, her stomach a knot of uncertainty.

  Before her, kicking up dust inside a small corral adjacent to the livery stable, Melchior works with the chestnut mare. Ivy can neither saddle nor bridle the little mustang on her own. Her heart aches for gentle, reliable Gambit.

  “Shifting?” Melchior calls to Ivy. “Snails—got to handle her. Won’t do her hale to get friendly with me.”

  Are horses always the first thing on his mind? Even after their meeting with the maker?

  Ivy looks away.

  “Blast it, girl. Only horse we’ve got for you. Don’t matter if she ain’t fine as cream gravy. Got to get along.”

  Of course she wants to get along, feels proud to have her own horse. Only ... not right at this moment. He is the one who wished to bring the mare out as they tried to think of a plan. While Melchior seems to find the horses soothing, Ivy longs for shade, a book, another iced drink to stimulate her mind to productive thought.

  “Ivy!”

  “Let her be.” Samuelson’s voice, soft. He stands around the corral, closer to Melchior, grooming his own horse. Elsewhere, the handsome bay, good-natured, dependable, reminds Ivy so much of Gambit she can hardly look at him.

  “Got to work things out with this mare sometime.”

  “And you believe shouting at either will improve the relationship?” Samuelson continues brushing his horse.

  Melchior says nothing, sending the mare away around the pen.

  Ivy closes her eyes against dust. So much, so fast, that her thoughts, complicated by nightmares which replay recent events, cannot sort themselves into linear, practical paths.

  Something brushes her boot. She starts and looks down, then lets out her breath.

  “I didn’t think you would come to town.” She smiles—her third in one day—as she bends to lift Es Feroz into her arms.

  The fox sniffs energetically around her collar, then into brown hair held up in too few pins, nibbling and rubbing her cheek across Ivy’s ear. Ivy presses her close, burying fingers in gold and gray fur.

  Siesta time in Santa Fé must have made the city quiet enough to draw the vixen back to Ivy’s company. Or else Es Feroz, like Ivy, cannot identify the city as such, feeling she visits no more than a human-scented prairie dog town.

  Ivy should be warning people, not standing here in dust, petting a fox while she selfishly tries to think of a means to pay her own way home. She should be at the sheriff’s office. If no such office remains in town, as Melchior implied, shops, banks, churches, hotels. But he said no one cared. No one was afraid. And how many people even remain? Are they her responsibility? Yes or no, thinking of them makes focusing on her newfound financial crisis impossible.

  Oliver assured them either government or black market freighters with clever teams of men and powerful oxen, able to haul in steel and engine parts, could still be counted upon. But at what cost? So much needed. So little on hand. For the first time in her life, Ivy has nothing but the clothes on her back, her tiny handbag with contents, and two half-wild animals to her name. While she has every reason to believe her two human companions face similar circumstances.

  She closes her eyes as she presses her face into Es Feroz’s shedding spring coat. At least the vixen looks healthy: fat and lithe. Ivy suspects she has been cleaning out the livery stable of vermin.

  Melchior is mumbling under his breath. Something unfriendly.

  Ivy looks up. “Melchior? Will you be able to pay our board tonight and the next?”

  He makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.

  She bites her cheek as the fox leaps from her arms to jog along the top rail. Did she expect him to speak with a civil tongue all of a sudden?

  Melchior runs his h
ands down the muzzle of the chestnut mare, then reaches across her pole. When he touches her ear, Luck throws her head out of reach. He has her blindfolded with the blue bandana and she soon lowers her head as he murmurs to her. He repeats stroking the cheeks and nose, avoiding her ears. She keeps her head low.

  “Mare’s had her ears twisted to mount,” he says.

  “Why?” Ivy watches him rub Luck’s throat with his knuckles.

  “Likely kicked. Grab hold of the ear, twist to drag her head around, then swing up while she’s bothered.”

  “That is barbaric.”

  Melchior shrugs. “Plum stupid. Makes a horse head-shy. Never get her headstall on without a fight after. I’d sooner tie up a foot if she kicked. Sooner try just about anything than hurt her face. Won’t forget that treatment. Problem for yourself at the time and for the horse her whole life.”

  Ivy feels for the mare. At the same time, she wonders if she will have a place to sleep tonight. “Did you say you could get ours and their board in a card game?”

  “Faro table at the Irishman’s saloon. If anyone’s playing, I can get it.”

  “Are you certain? How much do you have left to gamble?”

  Ivy notices Samuelson’s shoulders have stiffened.

  “What is the matter?” she asks, glancing from him to Melchior.

  Samuelson looks up. “Nothing, miss.”

  She frowns, looks back to Melchior. “We could sell her. As a last resort, I mean, if we cannot get it any other way. Of course I do not wish to, but I shouldn’t need a horse now, should I? If I figure out this funding situation with the maker....”

  “How you aim to do anything without a horse?” Melchior looks around.

  “I was hoping to avoid doing anything which required a horse now that we reached the city.”

  He unties the bandana around the mare’s eyes. “For a girl dead set on getting out of here, you’re mighty quick to throw away your only transportation.”