The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  A woman cowered under her table, clutching a crying baby and trying to muffle its sobs beneath her skirt. But the dragon — like me — saw the world with her ears. She drove her wide snout under the table and tore at the unfortunate woman, tearing out her pretty arms and staining her dress with blood.

  Crème scones and Wedgewood china flew through the air as the beast charged the picnic tables, snapping up morsels of womanly flesh. The screams brought more bystanders — lovers strolling along the Serpentine, the Royal Horticultural Society, who’d been admiring the hydrangea beds, and, finally, a nearby guard on duty with his shiny blunderbuss.

  The shots rang in my ears for several moments, and I leaned on my stick, suddenly blinded to the world around me. The ground trembled as feet thundered past, and I turned to move after them, but a voice broke through my panic.

  “You sir, don’t move!”

  I froze. Now I heard the hiss of air escaping the dragon’s nostril, and the click of its claws as it stalked across the garden path toward me. The air grew hot, carrying with it the smell of butchery — blood and flesh mingled with the beast’s fetid breath. At any moment it would be upon me. The panic rose in my throat, and I fought the urge to run.

  “Easy does it, girl.” The man murmured, and I heard the footsteps slow. The creature stopped and sniffed the air. It grunted, turned, and thundered off into the trees.

  I dared not move, sucking a silent breath and listening for her return. Something grabbed my arm, and I lost my composure, sobbing to be spared.

  “Woah, easy, chap!” It was the man’s voice, the man who had driven the dragon away. “I don’t mean any harm!”

  The voice was husky from sucking in coal dust and engine fumes, and his hands were rough. He was a worker, probably a servant of one of the engineering sects. I allowed him to take my hand and lead me to a nearby bench, where I sank to my knees, confounded.

  “How did you defeat the monster?” I asked, wiping my sweating face with my kerchief.

  “That is a secret of mine,” the man said. “But she shant be coming back again, of that I am certain.”

  I knew he had used no weapon, for I would have heard the shot fired or the slice of steel pulled from a scabbard, and the creature had given no sign of a struggle. It had simply changed its mind. This man had turned the creature away with naught but his own mind.

  Interesting.

  “Tell me, good fellow,” I leaned forward. “Did you think the dragon away?”

  “Such a thing is preposterous.” There was the hint of a smile in his voice.

  “Not so preposterous, especially as you have saved my life. I have a friend, whom I think you should meet. We served as lieutenants together in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and he has just returned to London after spending some years abroad. He too can influence the minds of animals from his own thoughts.”

  The man leaned forward also, intrigued by my bold statement. But when he spoke, there was hesitation in his voice.

  “I should not think any man of your acquaintance would speak to the likes of me. I’m a Stoker, sir, born amongst the rail trenches and boiler boxes of the Engine Ward, a servant of the Great Conductor.”

  I should have known him a Stoker by the scent of coal on his clothes. Although the Stokers performed one of the most important and dangerous jobs — they were the mechanics of Engine Ward, maintaining the machines and furnaces of London’s engineering churches — their dirty, underground work and insular, fanatical society meant Londoners both hated and feared them. “The Dirty Folk” were shunned by polite society and thought to be incapable of innovation until recently. Isambard Kingdom Brunel — the boy I’d left behind in Engine Ward and had not seen for ten years — invented a new type of steam locomotive and took for himself the title of “Engineer”, a title protected by law and never before given to a Stoker. Brunel’s innovation had ignited the religious and scientific elite, and this man was right to assume most men would prefer not to associate with a Stoker.

  “I think you’ll find Nicholas and I most accommodating. My mother was a Stoker, although she was fortunate to marry a rich Aetherian so I did not grow up inside the Ward, though it holds a place in my heart. Nicholas sheltered there for a year as a boy, hiding from a cruel father. Both he and I were childhood friends of your engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.” I used the word engineer — a word many say Brunel should not be allowed to use — to show I harboured no ill will. I extended my hand. “James Holman, at your service. I am eternally grateful.”

  He took my hand and gave it a firm tug. “I am Aaron Williams, and it is an honour to meet you. Forgive me, but am I speaking to the James Holman, the celebrated Blind Physician?”

  His statement surprised me. Not many Stokers could read, and my book — a treatise on the effectiveness of various “cures” for blindness — was hardly a popular volume. “I wouldn’t say celebrated, sir. My book was rubbished by the critics. The Times concluded a blind man had no right to pen a medical treatise.”

  “Nonsense. Isambard speaks fondly of you, and he cherishes his copy of your book. I know all about you … and Nicholas. Isambard and I became friends after you left, and he always speaks of his schoolmates with reverence. I was never permitted to attend school myself, but I know all your stories as if they were my own.”

  I beamed at the praise, and clasped his hand. “I cannot allow such an avid fan of my work to escape into the London gloom without buying him a drink. I am meeting Nicholas for dinner, and I’d be honoured if you would join us.”

  He seemed reluctant, but I insisted, and tugged on his arm ’till his protests fell silent. I was due to meet Nicholas at the Butchers Hall Beef House at six o’clock. With Aaron leading the way through the busy streets, we made it there shortly after five, so I led Aaron to the end of a long table and paid for three pints of beer. I allowed Aaron to regale me with renditions of his favourite parts of my book ’till I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  “James Holman, it’s good to see your face again.”

  “And to hear your voice, old friend.” I rose and shook Nicholas’ hand. I could not see him, of course, so I did not know how his physical features had changed, but his handshake was firm, his fingers rough with the calluses of a seaman. His voice had lost none of its kindness. “It has been a long five years since I left you in Portsmouth.”

  “You shouldn’t have come home so soon, James. The war only got interesting once you left. I have much to tell you — but who’s this ragamuffin sitting in my chair?”

  His voice betrayed something: Reproach? Fear? I remembered the letter he’d sent me, asking to meet. He’d chosen his words carefully, the tone perfectly congenial — as though he had seen me only yesterday — and explaining nothing. It was as if he were afraid of being followed. Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t brought Aaron along. I should have guessed Nicholas wanted to talk privately.

  Aaron must have sensed Nicholas’ apprehension, for he spoke kindly. “I am Aaron Williams, sir. Mr. Holman—”

  “Call me James,” I interjected.

  “Mr. Holman invited me here to speak to you, on a … private matter.”

  “I see he’s already plied you with ale, so it must be a very private matter indeed.” Nicholas sat down, resting his hat on the back of the chair and grabbing the remaining glass. “Unlike most men, James Holman’s tongue clamps shut under the influence of any brew, so one cannot wrestle a secret from his lips even with the liberal application of lubricants.”

  His words were jovial, but his voice trembled as he spoke. Yes, he was definitely afraid.

  I grinned at his words, trying to put him at ease. “I met Aaron in Kensington gardens today—”

  “Ah, yes, nasty business, that. I heard the screams all the way from the Society of Architects.” Nicholas had spent the years since the war ended training in France as an industrial architect. At least, that’s what he’d told me in his mysterious letter. “Trust the Blind Physician to be first on the scene. I see
you’re not nursing a dragon-tooth-shaped wound?”

  “I am fine, thanks to Mr. Williams. Nicholas,” I lowered my voice, “he thought the dragon away.”

  Nicholas drummed his fingers against his glass. I waited for him to digest this. Aaron finished his glass and clattered it on the table.

  Finally Nicholas said. “So you hear them, also?” The fear had left his voice, replaced by barely concealed excitement.

  “I do, sir. It is a power I inherited from my grandfather. Apart from him, I have never met another who possessed the power.”

  “Nor I, Mr. Williams,” Nicholas smiled. “The sense is a mystery. No one in my own family ever possessed it, or if they did, they kept quiet. You have, it seems, greater control of your power, as you call it, than I, for I would never be able to hold — let alone control — the mind of a fully grown dragon. You must tell me how it felt to enter her thoughts. To loosen your tongue, I’ll even buy you another drink.”

  “It was quite something, sir,” said Aaron as Nicholas placed another glass in front of him. “A feat I’d experienced only once before, when I was a boy and my mother took me to see a swamp-dragon in a travelling menagerie. The sadness of the animals, trapped in tiny cages with little food, dying slowly in a land far from their home, drew me in. When my mind grasped the thoughts of the dragon, their ferocity knocked me down. I saw as it saw, smelt as it smelt, and I looked up at my mother’s stern face and imagined devouring her flesh. The thought so excited and frightened me that I pushed, heaving with my mind to escape the terrible thoughts, and then my head felt clear, but I had pushed too hard. The dragon and all the animals broke through their cages and tore their cruel master to pieces before the guards finally shot them down.

  Aaron’s voice grew cold and angry as he spoke. I sensed a deep, smouldering temper behind his placid exterior.

  “To be inside the mind of a man-eater … it is both fascinating and wholly repellent. Their thoughts narrow, every thread of their mind coiling, poised for the kill. Today, inside her head, I could smell Mr. Holman as she smelt him; wild and peppery and absolutely delicious. Against the desire to bite his head off, I pushed. I pushed with my whole mind, and she forgot her hunger, and retreated toward the swamps, where a line of constables and Royal Guard waited with blade and blunderbuss.”

  Silence descended. I did not feel it proper to speak, as I did not share this unique experience. Finally, Nicholas rapped the table and declared another round of ale. He asked Aaron what his grandfather had done with the power.

  “My grandfather hunted the dragons in the fens. It was he who first led the Stokers to success as dragon-hunters, before we were brought to London to work in the Engine Ward.” He practically spat out the last part of his sentence.

  “Hold on,” I leaned forward, my heart racing. “Are you in any way related to Henry Williams?”

  “He was my twin brother,” Aaron said. “He died many years ago, in a—”

  “—beam engine accident,” whispered Nicholas. “We know. We were there.”

  We lapsed into silence as the barmaid slammed three pints of beer on the table, followed by three plates of stewed beef. I dug into my food, glad of the distraction. Aaron did not realise he was dining with the man who’d caused his brother’s death. I was holding Mordred, but I was so excited about leaving for the Navy that I was barely concentrating. I’d put the chain down — so stupid — wrapped it once around the railing — not tightly enough — so I could check my pocket for my papers again, so I could glance again at the bright drawings of the port of Halifax that would soon become my home. And Mordred had seen Henry out on the platform and leapt across, taking the unsecured chain with him.

  The accident had been all my fault. But I hadn’t liked Henry anyway, and I certainly didn’t want his death to postpone my embarkation, so I left for the Americas without explaining to anyone what I had done.

  And Marc Brunel, who’d already been in trouble for innovating without the sanction of the Council, had been blamed for Henry’s death, and sentenced to thirty years’ penal servitude in Van Diemen’s Land. Thinking of Henry’s death and Marc Brunel’s deportation turned my stomach, and the coagulated gravy on the beef stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “Isambard never speaks of that day,” said Aaron. “I thought only he had witnessed it.”

  A fresh wave of guilt coursed through me. Not only had I caused the death of Aaron’s brother and Isambard’s father’s deportation, but I’d left Isambard to bear the pain of it alone. “We left for sea the next day,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “We were not here when Isambard’s father was sentenced.”

  “No wonder Isambard does not wish to speak to us,” said Nicholas.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have been away from London for ten years, and for five of those years, I wrote to him every month. He has not answered any of my letters,” said Nicholas. “Have you managed to contact him, James?”

  A new guilt flared in my stomach, and I clutched my glass to keep my hands from trembling. Even though I’d been living at Windsor Castle for three years and Brunel’s profile had been growing in the city, I had never tried to contact him. I could not face him, knowing my carelessness had cost him his father. “I have twice requested an audience with him on my visits to London,” I lied, “and he has twice refused.”

  “Of all us schoolboys, he was the one destined for greatness. And despite everything, look at what he has achieved — an engineer with his own church — the only engineer ever to rise from the Stokers’ ranks.” Nicholas smiled. “He was my dearest friend at a time when friends were few. More than anything, I would like to see him again.”

  “I am still close to Isambard,” said Aaron. “Perhaps I could talk to him on your behalf. I am sure there is a reason for his coldness.”

  ***

  Aaron left around 9pm to begin his shift in the Engine Ward. Reluctant to retire to his desolate lodgings, Nicholas walked with James along the Strand, the Thames to his right and the magnificent city sprawled out in all directions. Watchmen darted in front of them, lighting the streetlamps that twinkled between the buildings like fireflies. Businessmen hurried home to wives and children, or darted through the alleys to the taverns and bawdy houses of Fleet Street and Covent Garden, ducking to avoid the Metic preachers on the street corners, who yelled at the top of their lungs about the evils of Imperial measurement.

  Downriver, the London docks lay shrouded in shadow — the once-vibrant port over-run with weeds and vandals. Only one ship waited for cargo, and she was likely moving up-country, rather than across the water. Hardly any ships had crossed from London to Europe in three years — not since Napoleon had blockaded the waters around England and forbade any god-fearing Christian country to trade with Industrians. King George’s navy, vastly depleted from his previous losses, had so far failed to dislodge the blockade.

  For Nicholas, this was a bittersweet homecoming. After ten years away, he was back in this city, penniless and lost. He’d left England to escape his father’s wrath, to make a name for himself, and lose the voices of the animals in the emerging world of warships and industry. Now this Aaron Williams had shown up and in a single night rewritten everything he thought he’d known about himself.

  James — his face averted, his eyes sewn shut with golden threads — walked in silence beside Nicholas, his stiff gait betraying the pain in his limbs. Both men wallowed in their uncomfortable thoughts, ’till Nicholas broke through the silence.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” he said. “I was afraid I didn’t have a friend left in England.”

  “I’m stuck in that tiny boarding house at the castle with only the six decrepit Naval Knights of Windsor for company. I would’ve rescued you from France myself if only for a little adventure.”

  “James Holman, I read your book. You spent four years sneaking into lecture halls and dissecting corpses at midnight using only your fingers as a guide. That’s adventure enough for any m
an, let alone a man in your condition.”

  “Pfft. Any young gentlemen with a taste for wine and a strong stomach can become a doctor. I have a more lofty ambition.” Holman raised his head to the sky, almost as if he could see it in his imagination. “One day, Nicholas, I will circle the globe.”

  “In a ship?” Nicholas knew from their days in the Navy what time at sea did to James’ health.

  “Even if an Englishman could still buy passage on one, I cannot afford a ship. I will go on foot, crossing Russia and Siberia and passing over the great land bridge.”

  “That’s suicide!”

  “That is the life I seek.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit. Didn’t all those years on the Cleopatra teach you that the world’s the same no matter where you go? Miles of ocean and endless voices.”

  “I believe differently,” Holman said simply. “I must believe differently.”

  They wound their way into increasingly poor districts, slipping between crowds of drunks spilling from the public houses and ducking under the outstretched arms of haggard beggars. Nicholas shrugged away a bangtail who’d grabbed hold of his coat.

  “There’s adventure enough right here, James, if only you thought to look for it.” They came out on the edge of the Thames again, and Nicholas stared across the water, watching as the black cloud over the Engine Ward swirled and stretched. Fires crackled and belched within it, creating a maelstrom that churned and circled above the city. Although he was no engineer, but an architect, he felt an inexorable pull toward the place — the only place that had ever been a home to him — the angles and pylons like some intricate tapestry draped across the city. The Gods of Engine Ward working their elemental magic.

  “I can no longer look for anything,” Holman said cheerfully. “This city has lost her magic since the border closure. If I stay in England, I am doomed to live the remainder of my days in Travers College at Windsor Castle with only twice-daily prayers to Gods I don’t believe in to occupy my mind. I have my Royal Society membership, but I’ve no stomach for politics, and what engineer would hire a blind man? I might have been some use to Isambard, but he does not want me. But if anyone can carve a future for himself in these interesting times, it is you, Nicholas Rose.”