She lifted Zombi from her tank. The snake was alert and in good temper, having eaten two days since. She twined herself around Marie’s arm at once, but suffered herself to be laid in the basket. She knew it meant she would be dancing soon, and Zombi enjoyed the dance.
Outside, the air was warm and moist, the early evening sky hidden by restless drifts of cloud. Three massive fires had been laid, tower-fashion in the custom of the area, between the house and the servants’ wing. The slaves were gathered behind these, milling and talking in excitement.
As Marie stepped from the building she heard drumming, and saw the drummers seated in a ragged line to one side of the unlit fires. A handful of the drums were made of wood, several more were improvised from cauldrons with skins stretched across them—including one gigantic drum that had formerly been a sugar cooler—and an assortment of cook pots were also being beaten with sticks. The rhythm was simple, and it washed through the root of Marie’s being.
Movement drew her attention to the house, and she saw Mr. Ramsey, swathed in many blankets and shawls, being carried out to a sofa on the gallery. The rest of his family joined him, including little Anthony—also wrapped in shawls—and Mignon.
Marie caught her breath, and glanced toward the barn. Mignon should be there, if she was to escape. Had something gone awry? If so, Marie could not change it. The ceremony had been set in motion; she must see it through.
The sun blazed out beneath the cover of cloud as it set, red-gold, behind the house. The moment it disappeared, the bonfires were lit.
Marie moved forward. A wild cheering rose, and the drumming stopped momentarily. She swept in all the gathered souls with a gesture, commending them to the blessing of the Orisha. Setting her basket on the ground, she began to dance around it, her feet beating out the rhythm against the red earth.
Drums picked up her rhythm. She circled the basket, arms raised skyward as she called down the power of Oya, goddess of wind, queen of change.
Hesitantly at first, slaves began to dance as well, moving into a large circle around Marie. They gave her a wide space in its centre as they danced all around her, following her movements. Feet pounded the earth, hands clapped in rhythm. Marie felt the sound thunder through all her flesh, felt it moving deep into her soul as she slid into trance.
“Winds of change,” she murmured, “set these people free.”
Through slitted eyes, she looked up to the gallery and saw the family seated there, rapt in fascination. Mignon was no longer among them. Her heart warmed.
The bonfires were now fully alight, and she felt the heat of them wash over her. Glancing toward the barn, she saw another fire, much smaller, beyond the building. She caught a glimpse of Mignon’s dress, and thought she saw the maid wielding one of the great furnace bellows that she had seen in the barn and in the sugar house, pumping with incredible speed. It made no sense, but sense was not required.
Marie circled closer, closer to Zombi’s basket. She raised her voice in a common chant to Oya, and the slaves took it up at once. Dozens of voices rose into the falling twilight. A sheen of sweat covered Marie’s face from the heat of the fires and from the dancing. She came to a stop beside the basket and lifted Zombi from it.
Cries of glee went up from the dancers as the snake crawled up Marie’s arm and across her shoulders, settling into place. Marie took up the dance again, adding undulations to her steps, moving her body in waves that started from the shoulders and rippled down, making the dance more snake-like, even as her soul resonated with snake magic.
The slaves surrounded her, crowding her now, calling to her for blessings. She touched them as they passed in the dance, brushing against them with her fingers, or with the coils of Zombi twined around her arms.
She kept half an eye on the barn, and soon a vast shape swelled behind it. In her trance, for a moment she thought it was the moon come to earth, then she saw that it billowed and trembled, and knew it was the silk she had bought.
Flames from the fire below—the fire that was making the silk dance as if alive, filling it with heat—brought its colors to light against the evening. Three colours, the least costly she had been able find in bolts at the market: orange that flamed against the night, and darker glowing purple and brown.
Oya’s colours. Marie smiled.
She danced faster, and sang, calling out to the Orisha. Dancers backed away, giving her more room. She changed her dance, commanding rather than flowing now, demanding the full attention of the onlookers.
Her head was light, and she felt as if the Orisha were singing through her—Oya giving way to Ogun, Guardian of Truth and the Father of Technology. She began to chant his name, “Ogun, Ogun,” and the slaves took up the chant.
As they danced, stamping and swaying, Marie watched a miracle from the corner of her eye. The silk swelled like a mother’s growing belly, taller than the barn that no longer hid it. It bounced, as if tugging at a leash, then suddenly it began to rise upward, into the air. A small moon rising, except that she could see the cords beneath it, where the cube-shaped basket dangled from the two rings joined with canvas.
Standing in the basket was Mignon, with Dominic beside her. Marie dared not stop dancing to watch, but kept an eye upon them, even as she held the gaze of everyone at Laurel Grove.
She let a note of celebration creep into her song, and raised her arms high as she began to spin, arms extended, Zombi clinging tight. The dancing slaves around her sang and cheered and wept. In the distance, she imagined she heard the song of joy echoing, echoing against the rooftops of the plantation, against the dark alley of laurels, drifting away up into the night.
Pati Nagle was born and raised in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Her stories have appeared in Asimov's Science Fiction, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Cicada, Cricket, and in various anthologies, including collections honoring New Mexico writers Jack Williamson and Roger Zelazny. She is a Writers of the Future finalist and finalist for the New Mexico Press Women’s Zia Award. Her short story “Coyote Ugly” received an honorable mention in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and was honored as a finalist for the Theodore Sturgeon Award. Her latest novel is The Betrayal, released in 2009 by Del Rey Books. She still lives in the mountains in New Mexico, with her husband and two furry feline muses.
To: Tristan Dellacourt, Viscount Whitlake
My Dear Viscount Whitlake,
Thank you for the information which you have communicated at such length.
I fear no definite conclusions can be drawn from the evidence of the orangutan. I regret to say, there is little that may be done at this point, unless you are prepared to produce the crocodile.
Yr. Obedient Servant,
Detective Inspector Bucket
Scotland Yard
A Princess of Wittgenstein
… by Jennifer Stevenson
“Now, Ileen, the Penderby residence is capacious, so you will sleep in your own room, rather than share with the other maids, as is more common in London. I gather that things were otherwise for you in...Paris?”
“Yes, M’sieur Soames, very different. I am most happy to serve in the house of the great scientist Docteur Horace Penderby.”
“Er, yes. Although it is to Mrs. Penderby that you owe your position here.”
“Quoi?”
“Mrs. Penderby is a founder of the Society for a Broader Definition of Humanity.”
“I assure you, M’sieur Soames, I am human.”
“Er, yes. Of course.”
“As are you.”
“I see you are curious. Very well, on this one occasion I will satisfy your natural question.”
“Thank you, M’sieur Soames, I should like to be satisfied.”
“Although in future it would be impertinent to pursue the matter.”
“Yes, M’sieur Soames.”
“If you would accompany me downstairs. As you have guessed, Ileen, I am one of Dr. Penderby’s automata. He endowed me with the equivalent of an
Etonian education, with one additional year of Oxford in his own specialties, so that I may assist in the laboratory. I have a chassis which satisfactorily mimics the human frame, such that visitors are not unduly alarmed by my appearance, and a minute understanding of etiquette, household management, London society’s practices and customs, in short, everything necessary to make the ideal butler for such an establishment as this one.”
“M’sieur Soames is indeed marvellous.”
“I am also capable of handling the wild beasts which reside—through this door—in the laboratory, which was once the ballroom. We have an orangutan, a crocodile, rabbits, agoutis, and smaller mammals and lizards. It will be one of your duties to assist me. I trust you are not afraid of God’s creatures?”
“But no. I, too, am one.”
“Er. Of course.”
“And did Docteur Penderby provide you also with a soul?”
“Automata do not require them. I have a mandate to which I refer, which aids in my self-direction.”
“But Docteur Penderby is the author of They Are All Alive—”
“Those pamphlets were penned by Mrs. Penderby. It is a topic on which master and mistress...differ.”
“Oh.”
“Do not look so stricken, girl. Mrs. Penderby will discuss your soul, if you choose, as exhaustively as you could wish. Dr. Penderby is easily satisfied, provided his staff do not faint, scream, or indulge in hysterics above once or twice a week.”
“M’sieur Soames is satirical.”
“I fear not. We suffer rather a high turnover of staff. It is the orangutan, principally. He forgets his trousers.”
“He does not mistake the maids for orangutans, does he, M’sieur?”
“I am gratified to report that he has stopped short of such an outrage. Er, Ileen.”
“Yes. M’sieur Soames?”
“Have you—that is to say, you seem to me—er, where are you from originally?”
“Wittgenstein, M’sieur Soames.”
“Fancy. I see. Hm. Thank you, Ileen, that will be all.”
“And I told him, my dear Gwendolyn, Piffle. An automaton of one hundred percent synthetic parts is no more nor less a creation of science than one that combines organic and mechanical elements.”
“And why is that, Horace?”
“Don’t look so crafty, my dear. It doesn’t suit you. What difference could it possibly make?”
“So the bishop argued that to use cadaver parts would be to risk contaminating your automaton with some remnant of the divine spark that once animated the corpse?”
“Not that word at table, my love. The servants. What must Soames think, or poor Ileen, only here a day?”
“You need not patronize me, Horace. I was your assistant until I lost the baby. I saw many a corpse on the slab.”
“Quite so, quite so.”
“That was, of course, before you created your own assistant. A more discreet one than I, I am sure.”
“Gwendolyn, you mistake. I treasure your interest in my work—”
“If it is silent interest.”
“Not silent!”
“Uncritical, then.”
“You wrong me, Gwendolyn.”
“That will never do.”
“Your womanly scruples are a very necessary counter-balance to the cold, inquiring mind of a scientist.”
“I don’t object to you inquiring, Horace. But you were not used to be cold. I fear that exposure to certain scientific minds—”
“My fellows in the Royal Society are of the highest character—”
“Do not freeze me, Horace, I beg you. But if it is not their influence that has chilled you, then whose?”
“No one’s!”
“Then why do you avoid me? If I could have another child, would you—”
“You are imagining things, Gwendolyn.”
“That also will never do. More hot water, please, Ileen?”
“No more for me, thank you. I have—I have a meeting this evening, and must be from home at the supper hour.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see—oh, what’s the use!”
“Soames, I shall receive Viscount Whitlake and Mr Danton this evening in the library. And, er, as Mrs. Penderby is attending her own meeting from home, it will not be necessary to, er, trouble her with my guest list. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not that the gentlemen are unwelcome here.”
“Far from it, sir.”
“No. Precisely. Well, I’m off. Have brandy and cigars in the library by nine, and see that the fire is well along. Nine o’clock, mind. No earlier. Mustn’t ruffle Mrs. P.”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Er, Ileen, have you finished with your duties abovestairs?”
“Yes, M’sieur Soames. You see I am bringing the shoes down to the mud room. That is the last?”
“It is. Ileen, I do not like to ask this in front of Cook or the boy, but there are certain matters of routine maintenance which, er, I feel sure that your Continental mind will be resilient enough to—that is, which you may approach in a purely impersonal manner—“
“Of course, M’sieur Soames. Where I come from, the upstairs maid is often required to service the major domo.”
“Oh, please! You mistake, I assure you. One would shrink from—I am not sure an automaton can—er—in short, here is this oil can. Do you suppose you can reach the back of my neck? It will, I fear, be necessary to remove my collar, for which breach of decorum I deeply apologize.”
“It makes nothing. M’sieur Soames.”
“Thank you, Ileen.
“This is the hole for me to put the oil?”
“It must be added slowly, one drop at a time, twenty drops. The oil is very fine, and the mechanism absorbs it slowly.”
“M’sieur Soames is a work of art. I had not noticed the hole. M’sieur Soames is synthetic?”
“Nearly. Certain organs function better than man’s makings.”
“But the limbs? The—the arms?”
“One hundred percent artificial. Ileen, your arm—”
“It was lost when I died, M’sieur Soames. This one is a substitute. So the skin tone differs.”
“It was not you who died, Ileen. Mrs. Penderby likes us to be correct in our speech. The previous occupant of your body died.”
“No doubt, but I have no memory of another body.”
“Were you not then translated into this one?”
“I do not know, M’sieur. I think not.”
“Do not blush, Ileen. Under Mrs. Penderby’s roof you must receive due respect as a full member of the human race. Everyone is a person here. Do you—are you soulless, then?”
“I—don’t know. I overheard them talking while I lay on the stone, so I ran away. You are shocked. Will you expose me, M’sieur Soames?”
“Of course not. Merely, I am surprised you were able to motivate the, er, body before a soul could be installed in it.”
“M’sieur Soames is well informed about a process that is illegal in England.”
“The master and his associates are very interested in the process. Do you not know whose your body was?”
“I remember nothing. And yet I feel...everything.”
“That must be distressing for you.”
“I contrive.”
“The thought of waking prematurely on the slab in a body so recently mutilated—I can only imagine—”
“There. Twenty drops, and no spills. Does M’sieur Soames bathe? Must the hole be covered? Merveilleuse! And the meat organs, have I said that right? They accommodate satisfactorily in every respect?”
“I apologize if I overstepped, Ileen.”
“M’sieur Soames disarms me. In a manner of speaking. You have said nothing about my color, M’sieur Soames.”
“I shouldn’t dream of passing remarks—”
“I am blue.”
“Er, a very attractive pale blue.”
“But not sufficiently attractive? Je regrette.”
“It was never my intention to make light of your situation.”
“Mais non, it is I who make light. If one may not laugh in adversity, life—or death—becomes very long indeed.”
“Your fortitude does you credit.”
“Absurde. And now to bed. M’sieur Soames is positive he wishes no additional service?”
“Ileen, really! You must not speak so saucily!”
“Oh, we are special, we two.”
“In this respect we are different, Ileen! An automaton is well-educated in the laws of decorum, A—a—”
“Promethean? Zombi? Corpse-monster? How do the English call me? The laws of decorum float outside my mind, as it were, in the bubble of my past life. I am aware of them, but I do not regard them. I feel driven to break them all, now, while I may, so that when—if—I am dragged back into my old class and my old decorum, I have at least amused myself with some little disobediences.”
“Disobedience is unwelcome in a servant, Ileen.”
“So I perceive. And yet, one may get away with a certain amount of...sauciness!”
“Good night, Ileen.”
“Bon soir, M’sieur Soames.”
“Good evening, Soames. Did your mistress go off to her meeting all right, then?”
“Yes, sir. Er, Dr. Penderby—”
“Well, Soames? She didn’t ask about my movements tonight, did she?”
“No, sir. But I discovered a piece of information that might interest—”
“About Mrs. Penderby? What?”
“No, sir. About the new maid, Ileen. The, er—”
“Promethean. Although with Mrs. Penderby out of the room I can say corpse-monster if I choose.”
“Sir, she is no monster.”
“No indeed. Pretty little thing, apart from the arm.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the blue skin.”
“Yes, sir.”
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