“If you tell me this reminds you of hunting tigers, I shall… I’m not sure. Be jolly disappointed.”
“If the tigers were a hundred feet tall and bent on creating a hydrogen explosion large enough to make it rain shards of dirigible shed on Bristol for a week, then I would consider something like that, yes.”
Hardwick could manage smugly correct as easily as breathing. Other people might call it sardonic charm, I just called it infuriating.
The elephant was standing between the cliff-sized hangar that contained a dirigible and the huge pentagram marked out on the landing field. The scale of its surroundings managed to make the elephant look like something a favoured son would find under the Christmas tree.
Hardwick and I stood in the howdah, each ready to aim a distress rocket at a marauding crane. The rockets were connected to big reels of phosphor-bronze rope, which in turn were earth-strapped to the conductive pentagram. Hardwick had point-blank refused to allow me anywhere near anything until I had pointed out repeatedly that he’d need four hands to aim and fire both rockets, and all the brave soldiers seemed to have done a bunk.
I was wondering if I should dive below to see how Sergeant Hoskyns was doing when I felt some odd vibration through the grab-rail surrounding the howdah. I’d been around the elephants for so long that I had learned to ignore the noises of the steam turbine, condenser, hydraulic pumps, gearboxes and driveshafts and listen for the tiny sounds of impending failure. It was as if someone close at hand was running a workshop filled with trip-hammers in something akin to waltz time. I waved at Hardwick. “What’s that noise?’
He glared at me. “Noise? I can’t hear a blasted thing over the racket that… Ah.”
His gaze shifted to something over my shoulder. Something apparently large and scary, judging by the way he gripped the rail in front of him. I swivelled on one heel the way Zoe had done and caught a dock-crane in the act of peering round the end of an airship hangar to see if the coast was clear. I hadn’t realised that it was possible for something made of steel and glass to stiffen in surprise and appear rather shifty, but that was exactly what it looked like. The crane made a modulated grating noise, which was followed by a slightly different sound. When the crane appeared to reply, it became obvious that a hissed conversation between the two surviving cranes was in progress. Something along the lines of ‘Crikey, it’s the law!’, ‘Oh, really?’, ‘Stand on me. Omi and a bint on a tin effalump.’, ‘Well if there’s a bint it’s not the law, dimlo.’
They charged us. Two one-hundred foot dock-cranes skittered round the end of the airship shed like angry spiders and pelted in our direction.
“Fire!” yelled Hardwick.
I needed no encouragement. I ignited my distress rocket and ducked sideways to avoid the blast. There was a whoosh, a whine of metal rope unspooling at high speed and then a satisfying bang as the rocket hit the right-hand crane square in the control cabin. This was followed by a much larger bang that smelled of ozone as the earth-strap did its work. The phosphor-bronze rope resonated like a vast piano-string and sounded a note that I felt with my ribcage rather than my ears. A cobalt-blue shimmer radiated from the rope, like slow ripples in a pond. The ripples washed against the outline of the pentagram, crackling with a scarcely-contained energy, and were reflected right back into the control cabin. There was a third and final bang that I felt in my teeth as all the remaining glass panels in the cabin shattered, spitting an arc of glass fragments into the ground as the crane toppled sideways.
The second crane was almost upon us. I looked across at Hardwick to see him hammering his broken igniter into the floor of the howdah. “Hardwick!” I shouted, tossing him my igniter when he looked up. I would have fumbled the thing and dropped it down the hatch into the works of the Jacquard. Hardwick one-handed it, wrenched his rocket near-vertical and fired into the belly of the crane as it vaulted the elephant.
Hoskyns must have been keeping a close eye on proceedings because at that same moment the elephant lurched backwards, out from under the shadow of the crane. I lost my footing and fell backwards down the hatchway, shredding my skirts on the way down and landing in a heap next to the secondary transfer box. The elephant shuddered as if walloped with a croquet mallet the size of a village and tendrils of blue lightning crackled round the lip of the hatch. I felt rather than heard the elephant’s turbines spooling down, as the impact blew half the safety valves. The second crane could now cheerfully roquet us into the nearest bag of hydrogen and there was nothing to be done about it. I could picture daddy saying something heartfelt but pithy at my funeral…
“Miss Butler?”
“Still here, Sergeant.”
“It seems to have gone a bit quiet up top.”
“Mister Hardwick is saving the day, no doubt.”
I listened for a while. No waltz-like trampings or electrical discharges seemed to be happening. I hauled myself up the ladder and peered out of the hatch. The howdah had vanished. The elephant’s back sloped away from me past the ring of holes and snapped-off rivet ends. In front of the elephant, the second crane had collapsed onto what passed for its knees, leaning drunkenly forward on its jib and contemplating the mangled remains of the howdah. There was no sign of Hardwick.
I still have nightmares about it. Colonel Elliott fusses and reassures me that they’ll pass in time. He still seems to treat the women on his team like they’re going to explode in a shower of tears and corset-shrapnel at any time, while Zoe acts like I’m a semi-civilised urchin whenever she lets me near the department’s big Jacquard in the basement. She’s probably right. Daddy regularly huffs something about impending spinsterdom and no man wanting me after what happened. He’s probably right, too. Good.
Something In The Water
- Cheryl Morgan -
From the personal records of Miss Amelia Edwards, dated June, 1877
If you are reading these words then I will be dead. I have struggled with my conscience regarding how much I should disclose to the world of what was witnessed on that fateful night in May. As the reader will appreciate, there is much in this record that would harm not only my own reputation, but that of several persons dear to me. Furthermore, all of us who witnessed those events fervently hope that the actions taken by Mr. Guppy and his men put an end once and for all to the menace that was disturbed beneath the cold waters of the Severn Estuary. Nevertheless, there is some risk that his efforts were incomplete, and that danger still remains. I have therefore left instructions in my will that these papers shall remain sealed unless and until some new major engineering work should take place in the locality, and those leading the project need to be informed of what may lurk below.
My involvement in the affair began on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 16th, when I received a visitation from Mr. Thomas Guppy, the celebrated engineer who had been called back from Italy specifically to lead the effort to build a Barrage across the Severn Estuary. Certain engineering techniques first developed by Mr. Guppy’s remarkable mother, Sarah, were apparently vital to the plans for the Barrage, and the Board of the Great Western Railway insisted that no other engineer would do. I presume that a considerable amount of money must have been offered, for Mr. Guppy’s health was very poor and he had long since abandoned the soggy Bristol weather for the altogether more healthful climes of Naples. When he arrived at my house that afternoon he was already struck down with a cold, having only been in the country two weeks. Swathed in heavy clothing and a thick scarf, he cut a mournful figure, far from the confident and dashing young man who had been a friend and partner of the great Brunel.
“Thank you for receiving me, Miss Edwards.” He sneezed. “I do beg your pardon for interrupting the day, but I believe that you can render a great service to both myself and the Barrage Project.”
“I fail to see how, Mr. Guppy, for I have little expertise in engineering. I am a writer and antiquarian, and such expertise as I have is in the history of the ancient peoples of Egypt.”
“That, Miss Edwards, is precisely why I am seeking your help. Might I reveal the artefact that I have brought with me?”
He gestured towards the item covered in sacking that two burly workmen had deposited on my living room floor. He had sent them away afterwards, having ascertained that I had a male servant capable of manhandling the object and whom I trusted implicitly.
“Jenkins, if you would assist Mr. Guppy, please?”
“We have managed to keep this story away from the newspapers, Miss Edwards, and I am sure that I can rely on your discretion in this matter, for I am convinced there is a simple explanation to the mystery.” He sneezed again. “A number of workers have gone missing from our site. The men we are using are rude country folk from Somerset, whom like as not have run back to their farms having found construction work not to their liking. I would have preferred to hire Welshmen with construction experience, but luring them away from the coal mines, despite manifestly better working conditions, has proved difficult. It seems they do not like to work too far from home, and the other side of the Severn is too great a distance for them.”
By this time Jenkins had removed the sacking from the object, revealing a large piece of stone some two feet high, one foot across and maybe four or five inches in the other dimension. One face of the stone was worked smooth, and on it was an inscription.
“This stone, however, has caused my work force to become obsessed with all manner of superstitious ideas. It became fouled in our dredging equipment last week, costing the life of one man in the process of freeing it. The workers now believe that the project is cursed, and that those men who have run away have in fact been murdered by evil spirits associated with the stone. There is talk of screams being heard at night, and strange noises coming from the estuary. Country folk have very active imaginations. <
I waited for him to tend to his nose, which was clearly causing him much discomfort.
“The writing on the stone is unknown to me, Miss Edwards. All I can decipher is that there are pictograms of sea creatures of various types. You, however, are an expert in the works of the Egyptians, Assyrians and other such Biblical races. If you are able to provide a rational explanation for the presence of the stone in the Severn, we would be forever in your debt. The country folk are familiar with the tale of Joseph of Arimathea’s visit to Glastonbury, with our Lord Jesus as a boy apprentice on board his ship. A similar story would appeal greatly to them, I think.”
I studied the stone, trying to decide what to say while Mr. Guppy attended once more to his over-active nose.
“I do believe that the inscription on the stone may be Middle Eastern in origin, Mr. Guppy. Had the script upon it been Egyptian, I could tell you what it said, as the marvel of the Rosetta Stone has allowed us to translate that language. Sadly the scripts of other ancient peoples of the region are still somewhat opaque to us. Nevertheless, thanks to our explorations, we have many examples of these scripts. If you give me a day or two to consult my records I am sure that I shall be able to tell you far more about it. As you say, there must be a rational explanation for its presence so far from Egypt, and it could even lead us to some great historical discovery.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Due scientific process and all that. Historical proof of visit by a great Pharaoh or some such to England. That would satisfy both my workforce and my Board of Directors. Miss Edwards, you will deserve a sainthood if you can prove such a thing. May I leave the matter in your capable hands? I fear that another visit to my doctor is in order.”
“I recommend an infusion of whisky in hot water, inhaled,” I said as I escorted the poor man into the hallway.
Jenkins had remained in the living room, examining the stone quizzically. Having accompanied me on many travels, he was as aware as I was that the inscription looked nothing like Egyptian hieroglyphs, or the cuneiform script of the Assyrians. It was altogether unusual.
“Upstairs, ma’am?”
“If you please, Jenkins.”
When I told Mr. Guppy that I trusted Jenkins implicitly I meant that most sincerely. For all that he was a servant, I trusted him with my reputation, and with my life. He was, after all, the only person, aside from my dear Mrs. Brayshaw, privy to a secret that would have ruined me, had it become public knowledge. Oh, many people knew that I had brought the mummy of a great Pharaoh back home with me. No one but Jenkins and my dear friend knew that I communed with it.
I kept the sarcophagus propped up inside a large closet. I don’t know that it helped Taharqa to appear to be standing, but I found the process less disturbing if I was able to converse with what remained of him face to skull. An unwrapped mummy is not a pleasant thing; it is mainly a skeleton, dark and discoloured, with odd scraps of less perishable parts such as hair hanging from it. It smells, not of the dead, but of the incense used in the embalming process. There are mainly wooden notes: cedar, sandalwood and myrrh, with a hint of cinnamon. The Egyptian priests were skilled in the arts of perfumery, and the scent of an unwrapped mummy will stay on your skin for days if you handle it. Yet no pleasant smell can detract from the baleful aspect of something thousands of years dead.
Taharqa, of course, knew nothing of English; and modern Arabic, in which I am mildly competent, bears no relation to the language of the ancient Egyptians. It would be wrong to say that Taharqa spoke to me. He had no lungs, throat or lips with which to do so. And while I maintained the fiction of conversation, and bolstered my own sanity by uttering words aloud to him, I was sure that this was not necessary to our communication. I report his words here as they appeared in my mind.
I once asked Mrs. Brayshaw if she ever heard Taharqa’s voice coming from my room, afraid that perhaps my neighbours, or the maid, might hear it too and wonder if I entertained a gentleman companion. She said only that she occasionally heard a sharp, whiny bark, like that of a jackal, and that perhaps I should buy a small dog that might make a similar sound. I followed her suggestion, but we soon discovered that no dog could live happily in our house. Something about the proximity to Taharqa infused the poor animals with terror.
I would be dishonest if I said that no such fears assailed me, especially when I first began to talk to him. However, after many months I had become much more sanguine about the ghastly process.
“Awake, Great Taharqa, I bring you news of the world beyond your tomb!”
As, I suppose, is the case with all successful monarchs, Taharqa had an insatiable appetite for political gossip. Though he had ruefully accepted the fact that he was long dead, and that the country he ruled with such effect had lapsed into decay, whatever strange ancient magics had kept his spirit bound to our mortal coil had also maintained his interest in the mechanics of power. Having not spoken to him for some months, I was able to offer the story of the Cape Colony’s annexation of the Transvaal. Taharqa continued to entertain the hope that the people of Africa would one day throw off our imperial yoke, and stories of war between native peoples and our settlers always encouraged him to provide me with favours.
I know not how he was able to see. His eyes, along with all of the other soft organs, had been removed in the process of mummification. Only the heart was ever left in the body. I had found no remains of that organ in Taharqa when I first unwrapped him, but a polished red stone, slightly warm to the touch, nestled between his ribs. I left it in place.
Despite the obvious emptiness of his blackened skull, scientific experiment had proved Taharqa’s claim that he could see objects near to him. Jenkins had placed Mr. Guppy’s stone, draped in sacking, where it would be visible to him. When I removed the covering I am certain I saw his dead body shudder. I had never seen such a reaction from him before, and was quite un-nerved by it. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, as if some cold and nameless power had suddenly fixed its gaze upon us.
“Where did you find THAT!” I emphasise the final word as if he raised his voice, though in my mind it was less of a shout and more of a rumbling bass tone t
hat he adopted.
“It was brought to me, having been dredged up from the estuary near my home. I know the inscription is not Egyptian or Assyrian, but a great lord such as yourself will have seen the writings of many peoples. What can you tell me of it?”
“It is in the language of the Sea People, known to you, if I remember our conversations correctly, as the Philistines. They inhabited the sea coast north of Egypt. This stone praises an evil god known to them.”
“What sort of god, great king? How is he worshipped, and why is he evil?”
“No man worships him, though all fear him. This is no god of man you have found, British woman. This is a thing of the deep seas. The Sea People, as they make their livelihood from the waters, live under the baleful eye of this god. They give their children to him in the hope that he will look away from their enterprises. His name is Dagon.”
I slept poorly that night, being much troubled by dreams of drowning. Mrs. Brayshaw informed me that I cried out several times in the night, and latterly slept so soundly that it was necessary to shake me awake least I miss the day. Though I am normally very partial to a good breakfast, I found myself unable to stomach the thought of kippers.
Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion Page 15