by KW Jeter
They were not alone in that chaotic resurrection; the shocks convulsing the cemetery, as its propulsive machinery continued to disintegrate, were strong enough to break open the great districts of tombs and graves at its centre, jagged portions of stone and iron lifting upward as ice floes are seen to do, when the underwater currents thrust the frozen masses against each other. Those who had thought themselves safely buried, if they had advanced to that heavenly abode which their faith promised, would have no doubt been horrified to see their mortal remains so rudely wrenched from casket and tomb, and flung like broken tinder into space. Those still unfortunately living, in the dismal Scottish borders and bleak north of England, would soon be similarly aghast, finding themselves pelted by a rain of corpses, some of them reciting their potted biographies.
But at least the eruptive dead had the comfort of being beyond sensation; I, on the other hand, would experience a more uncomfortable disembarkation from the cemetery. That seemed even more of a certainty, as a sheer chasm broke through its bulk, dividing it in twain. The latter half underwent further transformation, crumbling into fragments that were first the size of hillocks, then into smaller and smaller bits churning against one another. A shock from another mechanical explosion dislodged these pieces, sending them hurtling down and away.
As my continual luck would have it, the terminal edge of what remained of the cemetery’s airborne mass – still attached to its forward cables and pulled ever faster by them to a catastrophic destination ahead – ran directly underneath the statue to which I so desperately clung. It swayed precariously, as though the angel were in contemplation of taking wing and flying to more placid skies above; if I had any confidence in its ability to do so, I would have retained my grasp upon the form, but prudence dictated other efforts on my part. Given how convulsively topsy-turvy everything about me had become, I could scarcely calculate what my next action should be–
Something struck the engraved base on which the angel’s bare feet stood; I looked down and saw a more familiar face. It was that of Scape, the clouded eyes in the scarred visage confirming that he remained just as lifeless as when last I had seen him. However, the rope was still knotted about his chest; Spivvem had not sliced it away as he had done to that which had bound me. The preciously small bit of ground on which we both had landed, its clods and pebbles shaking with further tremors, now tilted closer to a vertical angle – I saw the rope draw tight, its distant end apparently snagged on some point I could not determine.
It would have to suffice, though there was no telling how secure that anchor might be. I let go of the marble angel and threw myself toward the much darker form lying before me; no sooner was I clear of the statue than its purchase upon the ground was shattered, and it toppled end-over-end to the void.
Thus I found myself with my face against the other’s unbreathing one, my arms wrapped about his shoulders and chest as tightly as I could manage. However many times Scape had rescued me before, it had always been with some ulterior agenda in his ceaselessly devious mind; this instance was perhaps as selfless as he could ever have managed. I reached above him with first one hand, then the other, securing my grasp upon the rope and using it to pull myself across Scape’s body, and then toward what I hoped would be some position of lesser danger.
Unsurprisingly, I found Spivvem there. I had lost sight of the rogue when our conversation had been interrupted by the battering commencement of the cemetery’s destruction, not yet concluded. He had saved himself, with seemingly scant concern about me, by wedging himself shoulder-first into a stony crevice that had broken open behind where he had stood.
“You!” I ventured to loosen one hand from the rope, so I that I might stab an accusing forefinger toward him. “This is all your doing!” The rush of wind – shivered even more by the continuing explosions and grinding of iron against iron, rock upon rock – threw my voice back into my throat, yet I was sure he understood me. “Your clever tampering… the machines… why couldn’t you have let them be?”
To my astonishment, he smiled. Thus I realized that he was of that nature of men, who relish chaos even as it crushes them in its jaws.
“Worry too much, Dower.” He spoke with no exertion, but it seemed as though he might have been whispering right into my ear. “Should try–”
I heard no more. For he was suddenly vanished, his image replaced by clear, open sky; the rocks about him had crumbled away, their underpinnings ripped apart as a final, shuddering wrench shook through what little remained of the aerial cemetery. Peering over the edge that had suddenly appeared before me, I could see rocks and boulders tumbling downward; Spivvem was no doubt in their midst.
The rope loosened, its anchor having been eliminated as well. I dug my fingers into the shivering ground, face pressed into the dirt. The fragment on which I rode was still attached to one of the cables drawing it to its destination, sparing me from an immediate fatal descent to earth, but preserving me for the bone-crushing impact ahead–
What else could I do but laugh?
And I did, my mouth filled with as much soil and bits of twig as any hastily buried pauper. My circumstances had either driven me from sanity, or restored me to it – for I was struck that I seemed no worse off than ever before. Broken and battered, awaiting certain death, clinging to a rock hurtling through emptiness – in what way was I different from all other men?
TWELVE
The Americans Bid Farewell to Mr Dower
If God’s brighter and nobler creatures are weary of me, I am no less of them.
I have been plagued with angels; much of the ongoing tribulation engulfing me has been heralded by these pesky representations of the Divine Will. What little tranquillity I had in this life, after my wife’s demise, had been rudely interrupted by the onslaught of a squadron of clattering, simpering mechanical cherubim, unleashed at the funeral service in my Cornish village’s little church. That would have been bad enough, but further appearances of celestial messengers had continued, principally in the form of that elabourate winged statuary by which the English moneyed classes signify their belief that all of Creation is as upset by one of their removals as they are – I expect their wearied household staff at least would disagree with them on this point. Nevertheless, I had been afflicted with those silent and decorously mournful angelic beings, first in the cemetery at Highgate, then in that monstrous graveyard elevated to the skies above – though one of those latter had at least provided the welcome service of a handhold to preserve my life for a little while longer.
So to regain consciousness – again! – and find myself face-to-face with another winged form, this was no great surprise; I have managed to become accustomed to such appearances. I have nearly arrived at the point that if there were not such a one, it would be more of a novelty to me.
That I was lying on my back, I was able to perceive as my scattered thoughts partially coalesced. Which indicated that this latest angel was not so much before me, as suspended above me; how precariously so, I was not yet able to determine. But it seemed a bloody large example of its breed, similarly carved of weighty marble, so prudence dictated an attempt to extract myself from beneath, before it fell and crushed me.
Doing so, by rolling onto one shoulder and crawling with my hands dug into the ground, quickly revealed that I was not in the best of physical condition; merely drawing in my breath produced a wave of sharp pains along my upper torso, indicating some broken ribs, if not worse damage. That I was alive, and not dead – a result which I seem never able to achieve, however much circumstances assist me in that direction – was further indicated by the aching of my battered and bruised flesh; my muscles rebelled at the effort to which I put them, and spots of thickened blood dropped from a wound across one corner of my brow. At last, though, I achieved a position of relative safety, or as much of one as my general exhaustion would allow me to calculate. Forcing myself up and sitting, my flattened palms balancing me from behind, I attempted to survey where exactly I w
as.
A landscape of disorder greeted my eyes; the immense angel, larger than a man, from beneath which I had just escaped, was not the only monument that had been thrown into upheaval. All about me lay instances of engraved stone and marble, some more-or-less intact, but the majority broken to impressive ruins or completely shattered to rubble and white dust. A few nearby tombs and mausoleums had been rooted up and toppled onto their sides, iron doors flung from their ornate hinges, revealing the unlidded caskets within; the surrounding fences and gates lay tangled about them. I had been saved from sleeping extinction by the fortuitous dislodging of two large headstones, complete with the deceased’s names and dates, that had been juxtaposed in such a way as to have provided a space beneath the angel falling across them; if not for the bare shelter they had provided, I would have been buried beneath the statue’s weight, thus becoming the most recent person to be interred in this sombre locale.
Taking another painful breath, I gathered enough of my senses to realize what place this was, however much it had been altered from when I had last seen it. That I was once again in Highgate was confirmed by those sultry mists that blurred so much of what I discerned; as well, the disconcerting heat that my hands felt as they pressed against the ground assured me that those vast subterranean engines still operated some distance below. The course that had been set for the aerial cemetery before its utter disintegration, rocketing through the skies above the British landscape, had been exact enough to not only return me to London, but close to the very spot from which I had exited the city.
Such an accomplishment further explained the disordered state of the grounds surrounding me. Looking about, I perceived another oddity, of such dimensions that I had previously mistaken it as some geological feature of the nearby hills; I saw now that it was one of the enormous cables by which the aerial cemetery had been tethered to the earth, the adjustments to which had enabled the construction to be shifted from over one part of Britain to another. The cable looped across these ruins as though it were one of those legendary serpents from the Brazilian jungles, of a size capable of swallowing whole not just oxen but entire unfortunate native villages. Snapped free of whatever had remained of the aerial cemetery’s mechanical underpinnings, it must have scythed across Highgate with tremendous velocity and impact, scattering the funereal monuments like tenpins.
And not just in this earthbound cemetery; the fact that I was seemingly alone here was explained by the cable’s awesome length disappearing from view in the direction of the nearby Highgate district of shops and homes. Whatever wreckage had ensued among the dead was likely exceeded by what had been wrought among the living; tilting my head, I thought I could hear their distant shouts and cries. The apparatuses of succour were no doubt busily engaged with those most able to be assisted by them, leaving me to my fallen solitude.
With an effort that caused my bones and sinews to all but scream, I got to my feet. So many of the uprooted statues were close to the spot to which I had crawled, and leaning at such precarious angles, that I thought it best to find a place of somewhat greater safety, where I could gather my strength as best I could, and calculate my next actions.
My stumbling tread brought me within a short distance, as I cautiously sidled past the largest of the marble fragments, to what appeared to be a gravesite recently excavated; the rectangular hole had been dug, but no casket lay in its depths. A rush of memory came close to overwhelming me, as I realized I had stood upon this very spot; the empty grave was that which had been intended for my late wife, before she in her coffin had been snared from above and lifted to the aerial cemetery which had so startlingly hove into view.
As I stood there, stranger things took place. My mind’s engagement in those recollections was swiftly terminated, as I saw a light come springing upward from the grave; I stood close enough that I was momentarily blinded by the glare.
“Well, I’ll be…” A voice with a familiar accent sounded from before and below me. “Look who’s here, Mr Haze!”
My vision cleared sufficiently that I could discern the top of a ladder, extending from below, its topmost rungs propped against the interior edge of the grave. Formerly, the hole had been no deeper than the customary six feet; it had been transformed as well, now seeming to extend a great deal further down into the earth. Clambering upon the ladder was a figure I recognized, that of the American entrepreneur Blightley. A smile appeared on his face as he gazed up at mine.
“Things that happen – who would’ve guessed?” His dismounting from the ladder and onto the ground near me was made more difficult by both one of his arms being encumbered in a sling, and that he was burdened with a large satchel, of the type colloquially known as a carpet bag, its broad leather strap over his shoulder. “Pretty much thought we’d seen the last of you.”
He was shortly joined by his partner, who said nothing, but directed toward me a sullen glare through his owlish glasses.
“Come no closer–” I stepped backward, reaching down to scoop up a large rock. “I will defend myself, if I must.”
“Hold your horses, Dower; no need for all that.” Blightley was visibly weary, chest heaving from the exertion of climbing whatever distance the ladder represented. He took the opportunity of divesting himself of the satchel, and dropping it at his feet. “We’ve no harm in mind for you.”
“That remains to be seen.” I kept hold of the rock. “The last time we spoke, you were aiming a pistol in my direction.”
“So I was,” admitted the other man. “But let bygones be bygones, all right? There was a lot going on then, that’s pretty different now.”
“Such as?”
“Well…” He glanced over at the sulking Haze, then back to me. “The two of us still had some ambitions we were pursuing in this part of the world – and now we don’t. So the urgency of recruiting you into our plans is kinda diminished.”
“You are both leaving England?” I had been able to study him with greater thoroughness; his garish suit, as well as that which Haze wore, was stained and even torn in places, giving them both a somewhat dilapidated appearance, magnified by a subtly perceivable air of defeat and discouragement, that undercut his habitually cheerful manner of speech. “Courtesy would dictate an expression of regret on my part – but somehow I am unable to summon as much.”
“Yeah, well… same to ya, pal. Me ‘n’ Haze will be glad to get back home, no matter how much trouble’s waiting for us there. Least we’ll be among folk who don’t have a poker up their backsides, when it comes to embracing new ideas.”
“I fear that your new ideas very much resemble the old criminality.”
“Have it your way,” said Blightley. A bit of his American resolve seemed to have returned to him; having caught his breath, he slung the strap of his satchel back onto his shoulder. “Pretty much on your own now – been a lot better off if you’d thrown in with us. All we wanted to do was make a pile of money; these other folks have got a different agenda, to say the least.”
“Those,” I replied, “are the chances I am forced to take.”
“Come along, Haze–” Our conversation at an end, the American gestured to his partner with his unbound hand. “It’s a long way to Liverpool, but a steamer’s waiting there, with a captain owes me a favour. Then home’s just the other side of the pond.”
I watched them go, making their way through the mists and rubble, considerably entwined with the cemetery’s jungle-like foliage; having only slightly recovered a portion of my own strength, I had no means of halting them. Whether Blightley might have had some further knowledge to impart to me, which would have been useful in determining my present circumstances – those, I judged, continuing to be dire at best – that would have to remain a matter of conjecture. For the moment, at least, my solitude had once again been restored.
With every fibre of my body protesting, I stumbled to the edge of the grave, from which the departed pair had so surprisingly emerged. Peering over its edge, I perceived that t
he ladder which enabled their exit, though of a considerable length, did not reach all the way to the bottom of this four-cornered shaft, but only to a rocky ledge farther down, which itself connected to a slanting trail along the walls, narrow enough that Alpine goats would have had difficulty traversing its course; it spoke to Blightley’s determination to return home with his partner that he, with his injured arm, had so managed.
Beyond that, I could see little; I might as well have been standing at some Vesuvian aperture, gazing down to the fiery bowels of the earth. The light continued, wavering and ominously tinged, that had first drawn me toward the side of the grave; what it might have signified was obscured by roiling clouds, seemingly of such weighty composition that they were unable to escape and rise into the sky above.
Having once before plummeted into such caliginous depths, propelled by the impact of one more damnable angel, I had no desire to do so again – thus I stayed at a cautious remove from the grave’s edge, leaning forward to make my survey of its contents. I therefore reacted with both fury and surprise when I was impelled forward by a sharp blow across the back of my shoulders. Catching my balance a few inches away from a surely fatal plunge, I whirled about–
And spied another, whom I had expected never to see again, yet was not totally astonished to find standing before me.
“Greetings, Dower.” The irrepressibility of Nick Spivvem’s angled smile was once again apparent. “Keeping busy, are you?”
“Maintain your distance–” I still had in my grasp the rock with which I had earlier meant to defend myself against the Americans, if the need had arisen; brandishing it now at shoulder height, I gave Spivvem fair warning. “Whatever it is you want from me, I do not care to know. Go about your ill-conceived business, and leave me alone.”
“Bluidy hell – this how go off?” He gave a shake of his head. “As if had friends other than me! Not so far out the woods, can spare any’d help you.”