Emissary Metal OMNIBUS 1-3

by Paton, Chris

“It's ready then?” Seffi propped herself up on her elbows. “They'll just have to get it onto the beach.”

  “They can't possibly in this,” I pointed at the waves breaking onto the shore.

  “No,” Seffi flopped back onto the sand. “Not just now.”

  Turning to look at the village lights, I shuffled closer to Seffi and tapped her arm. “Someone is coming.” Seffi sat up. She turned her head in the direction I was looking. “Do you see him? He has a lamp.”

  “I can see him.” Seffi wobbled as she stood up, swaying from one foot to the other in tune with the freighter wallowing in the waves. “Get up, Karl.”

  Swaying alongside Seffi, I watched as the man trudged through the sand. Shorter than Seffi and I, he paused a few feet in front of us, swinging the oil lamp towards the boat, blinking the light with his palm three times. He waited for the crew of the freighter to respond with four long flashes of light before walking up to greet us.

  “Would ye be them as come from Germany?”

  “That's right,” I took a step forwards, reaching out with my hand. Seffi wrapped her fingers around my arm, pulling me back alongside her.

  “Who are you?” Seffi let go of my arm.

  “Archie,” the man twisted the oil lamp down to a flicker. “Short for Archibald. Ah’m frae the Inverkirkaig Estate,” he pointed further up the shore, beyond the silhouettes of spiky-crowned trees. “Laird Whistlefish sent me to meet you.”

  “Laird?” I looked at Seffi.

  “Aye, Laird,” Archie set the lamp down by his feet. “He runs the estate. Oons it, too.”

  “Oh,” I nodded. “A lord.”

  “Aye,” Archie stared at me. “That's whit ah said.”

  “Are you alone, Archie?” Seffi looked past the young man's shoulders.

  “Noo, wan o' Whistlefish's men is with me. Tae drive the ponies.” He nodded in the direction of the freighter. “Tae move your cargo.”

  “Ponies?” I glanced at Seffi. “You don't have a steamcarriage?”

  “Steamcarriage? Oon these tracks?” Archie laughed. “Noo, we no have such a thing. The ponies'll do. Jest like always.” He paused to look at the swell, pinching his lips between finger and thumb as he gauged the height of the waves breaking onto the beach. Archie let go of his lips and looked at us shivering before him. “It'll be a wee while fer we can get your cargo af the boat and on tae the beach. I think it best we get on up tae the hoose. Ye is that close to drowning in those clothes, you'll catch your deaths oot here.”

  “Seffi,” I whispered as Archie turned his back to us, stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled. “What is a hoose?”

  “I don't know,” Seffi's lips quivered in the moonlight. “But if it is warm, then I don't care either. We're safe enough before the field tests begin. I think we can trust him.”

  “Think?”

  “Yes, think. No matter what Schleiermacher might have agreed with Herr Bremen,” Seffi's lips sneered around the minister's name, “he wouldn't sell us out. Schleiermacher plays within the rules of the game, and the game has yet to begin.” Seffi stopped speaking as a second man, his face hidden beneath cowls of tartan, tramped along the beach.

  “Archie,” the man nodded as he approached. Stopping to look at the boat, he turned to study Seffi and I before talking to the young man. “You'll wait here, lad, while I take them on up to the house?”

  “Aye, that was ma thinking, Bhàtair.”

  “House,” I nudged Seffi.

  “Then that's what we'll do.” Bhàtair lifted the cowl from his face, letting it fall around his neck. He dipped his head, the thick hair, tawny-grey like the colour of a gull's breast in the moonlight, flopping in front of his eyes. Staring between the strands, he fixed his eye on Archie.

  “Good lad,” Bhàtair patted the young man's arm. “Now,” he turned to Seffi and I. “Let's be getting you on up to the house. Master Whistlefish is anxious to meet you.”

  “Excuse me,” I frowned at the old man. “Herr Bhàtair. I thought Whistlefish was a,” I glanced at Seffi, “a laird.”

  “Aye, that he is,” Bhàtair laughed. “But not so big in his britches that an old gent such as myself can't bring him down a peg or two. Laird he might be, but he is still as impatient as a young buck,” Bhàtair waved at Archie as he beckoned for us to follow him. The pebbles ground into the sand beneath the old man's boots. “Now then, tell me as to who you are while we walk.”

  “What about our cargo?” I thought of the emissary nestled in a bed of straw within its crate.

  “Archie will see to that. As soon as the sea has stopped showing off.” Bhàtair wiped a strand of hair from his eyes. “Your box and belongings will be up at the house by breakfast.”

  “All right,” I fell into step alongside Bhàtair, my clothes chafing at my skin as we walked. “My name is Karl Finsch. I’m an engineer and a scientist.”

  “A scholar, eh?” Bhàtair nodded. Glancing at Seffi walking behind us, he continued, “Is that how you came to speak such good English, now? Being a scholar and all?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I frowned as Bhàtair shuffled to a stop. I paused beside him, following his gaze as Seffi walked past us. “Herr Bhàtair?”

  “Wait, lad,” Bhàtair lifted his finger. “Listen.”

  “To what?” I turned to look up and down the beach. “The waves?”

  “No,” Bhàtair pointed at Seffi. “Your friend. She makes no noise across the sand.”

  Leaning forwards I strained to listen, but could hear nothing but the breaking of the waves upon the beach.

  “The way she walks...” Bhàtair shook his head. “Come on,” he pulled my arm as he started walking. “Your friend is almost at the ponies.”

  Bhàtair helped me onto a pony, wrapping a thick tartan shawl around my shoulders as I settled into the saddle. He tied the pony's halter to the pommel of his saddle, tossing a second tartan up to Seffi as she clicked her mount past his, waiting at the side of the track as she tied the shawl around her neck. The few lights still flickering in the village blinked out as we passed the rough stone houses on our way up the track.

  What little heat I had generated on the walk across the beach, seeped out of my body, freezing me to the saddle as I shivered upon the pony's back. The sound of river water shooshing by the side of the track numbed my senses, my eyes drooping as the pony picked its way between the stones and around the boulders all the way to the shores of Fionn Loch.

  I jolted awake at the rough prod of Bhàtair's fingers. The Inverkirkaig Estate house, lights blazing in each of the four granite and sandstone corner towers, stretched along the shore before me, dipping long-fingered wooden jetties between the outhouses and stables into the lake.

  “You'll get a warm bath and plenty to eat inside, lad.” Bhàtair helped me out of the saddle. “Just what you need, eh?”

  “Yes,” I shivered by the side of the pony. I looked around the courtyard in front of the estate house. “Where is Seffi?”

  “Seffi? That's your friend's name, eh?” Bhàtair nodded at the warm light spilling out of a heavy wooden door onto the courtyard. “Already inside. On you go,” Bhàtair pushed me towards the door. “I'll see to the ponies.”

  I willed my legs up the tall stone steps where an elderly maid met me at the door, her grey hair bobbed above a thick woollen shawl.

  “Inside, now, young master.” She bustled me inside, closing the door with her shoulder. “There's neaps and tatties in the broth. I made it myself. It's very good.” I shivered as the maid pulled the tartan from around my shoulders and thrust a heavy glass into my hand, lifting it to my lips. “First, a wee dram, and then the bath. After that,” she waited until I had swallowed and finished coughing. “Broth and bread.”

  “What was that?” I let go of the glass as the maid took it from my hand.

  “Whisky from Speyside,” she winked. “The master thinks it is from the islands. But he likes it all the same. Come on now, into the bath.”

  Pulling at
my jacket, the maid stripped the wet clothes from my body as she guided me into the bathroom by the side of the kitchen. The whisky smouldered in my stomach and I began to spin, slowing as the maid wrestled my trousers over my knees.

  “Hey,” I wobbled as I reached for my long underwear.

  “Ach,” the maid shook her head. “”You're so wet and cold, there can't be more than a minnow hiding in there,” she pressed me onto a wooden stool by the side of the bath. “But if you're sure you can manage, then I have plenty to get on with in the kitchen. Never mind the hour,” she tutted.

  “I can manage.” I hugged my arms to my bare chest.

  “Well then, laddie,” the maid flicked her head at the door opposite the one we had entered by. “Your friend is in there.” She lifted her finger and tapped me on the nose. “But there'll be no funny business in ma hoose. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I looked down my nose at the maid's finger.

  “Good then,” she nodded. Gathering my wet clothes in her arms, she waddled out of the bathroom, looking over her shoulder for an errant sock that I did not recall her tugging from my body. “There you are,” she kicked the sock out of the bathroom. “There's fresh clothes warming by the fireside. Be quick now, laddie, before your friend eats all the broth.”

  I waited until the maid closed the door behind her before peeling my underwear down my legs and slipping into the bath. The warm water blushed my skin as I lowered myself into it, the fire crackling as I sighed and sank beneath the water.

  Chapter 2

  The feeling that I was at sea, slipping beneath the waves, caused me to splutter as I clawed at the smooth metal sides of the bathtub, gulping at the warm air circulating within the bathroom. I rested my chin on the side of the tub, panting as I cleared my senses and took in the room. Someone had added another log to the fire. The flames licked at the bark, crisping the hardwood black. I turned in the tub, the water sloshing around my knees as I searched for my clothes and a towel.

  “Time to get out then.” I reached for the towel draped over the back of the wooden chair with my new clothes. I admired the rough boiled wool trousers and the heavy wool sweater, pinching the sleeve between my fingers and thumb and nodding at the thickness. I smiled at the thought of never being cold again.

  “The clothes are of good quality,” Seffi's voice startled me. I tugged the corners of the towel around my waist as she walked over to the fire and added another log from the pile she carried in her arms. “You should hurry. There is little broth left.”

  “Did you eat all of it?” I stepped out of the bath and retreated behind the chair.

  “No, but the household staff are coming in for their supper.” Seffi dumped the logs into the wicker basket by the fireplace. “They work long hours, but seem to be happy enough to do so.”

  “Whistlefish must be a good master,” I tied the towel at my waist and pulled on the white cotton shirt tucked beneath the trousers on the chair.

  “”Must be,” Seffi sighed as she crossed to the stool on the opposite side of the bath and sat down.

  “What's wrong, Seffi?” I sat on the stool and tugged the long underwear over my feet. “Are you still thinking of Schleiermacher?”

  “Of course,” the skin on Seffi's forehead wrinkled beneath her shoulder-length black hair. Seffi paused, her eyes lingering on my face until I nodded at my feet and the underwear in my hands. She looked away. “I don't think you understand the predicament we are in.”

  “Predicament?” I tugged the underwear up over my thighs and around my waist, pulling the towel out from inside the waistband.

  “The situation we are in. If your machine doesn't perform, we don't go home. Ever.”

  “I understood perfectly,” I brushed the tails of the shirt flat over the underwear. “I also have more faith in the emissary than you do. Obviously.”

  “Then you are a fool, Karl Finsch.” Seffi stood up. “The trials start in the morning. Enjoy your broth.”

  I watched as Seffi walked out of the bathroom, padding across the floor, placing her feet like a panther. Effortless. Efficient. Silent. Pulling the trousers from the chair, I stepped into them, fastening them at the waist with the leather belt I uncovered beneath the sweater. I found a thick pair of socks by the side of my boots underneath the chair. I tugged them on and tied the laces.

  Bunching the sweater under one arm, I wandered out of the bathroom and made my way to the kitchen, following sounds not dissimilar to those of the Wallendorf canteen. I pushed the door open and paused as the heads of each member of the Inverkirkaig Estate turned to appraise me. I felt altogether naked again.

  “Oh, let him be and finish your broth,” the maid dashed the two men sitting at the head of the table with a cloth as she skirted around them to greet me. “Did ye have a fine bath now? Was the water warm enough? Here,” she pushed one of the workers to one side on the bench, squeezing me into the space he vacated. The man dragged his metal bowl across the surface of the table as I sat down.

  “Good evening,” I held out my hand in greeting. The man took it, his skin scratching at my palm as he shook my hand.

  “This is Mr. Finsch,” the maid gestured at me from where she stood at the head of the table.

  I counted five men on each of the two benches. The man beside me removed his hand from mine and studied my face with weasel eyes.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he isn't dangerous, he's German.”

  “Is he now?” the man sitting opposite me on the other side of the table raised his eyebrows as he spoke. “We know what that means, don't we lads?”

  “Aye,” the men nodded and murmured.

  “He's no English,” the man smiled.

  “Aye,” smiles broke out amongst the men and I shuddered under the claps of heavy palms upon my shoulders. The maid beamed at me from the end of the table. Ladelling a generous portion of broth into a clay bowl, she passed it down the line of men until it was placed before me.

  “Give him a spoon then, Wilbur, ye great goat,” the maid pressed her knuckles on the table.

  The man sitting on my right wiped his spoon in the sleeve of his shirt, shining it with his elbow. He slipped it into my hand and gestured at the bowl.

  “Eat it, before someone else does.”

  “Thank you,” I nodded.

  The men wiped at the remains of broth in their bowls with hunks of white bread, the murmur of conversation passing down the table together with the breadbasket.

  “Whistlefish is English,” one of the younger men, not much older than a boy, broke off a piece of bread, holding it poised above his bowl as he waited for one of his elders to respond.

  “Aye, that he is,” Wilbur leaned forwards as he spoke. “But he has no love for his countrymen, and that's the difference.” He turned to me. “Whistlefish was banished from someplace south of the border...”

  “Cornwall, I heard it was,” the boy dipped his bread in his bowl.

  “Aye, perhaps,” Wilbur beckoned for the bread and broke a piece off the loaf for me. Placing it by the side of my bowl, he continued, “But what's important is that he was sent up here, to get him away from England. Too important to punish, mind you, but banish him they could, and he was sent here to Inverkirkaig.”

  “Whatever for?” I picked up the bread, mopping up the broth while Wilbur formed his answer.

  “He was one of those makers – a well-to-do maker at that – and that was his undoing. He sold plans for one of his inventions to a factory from another country. Germany, I believe...”

  I stopped eating to listen, the broth dripping from my bread onto the table.

  “And they banished him for it. Stripped him of his titles in England and forced him to settle up here.” Wilbur leaned in close to me, beckoning with his finger for me to do the same. “They told him he couldn't invent things no more, but I know for a fact that he has a workshop hidden somewhere on the estate.” Wilbur tapped his finger to his nose as he straightened his back and reached for one of t
he mugs hanging from an antler nailed into the table at its base. “Spends hours there. Every night since he arrived.”

  “And there’s the place over the mountain,” the boy whispered over the table.

  “Hush now, Patrick,” the maid took the boy’s bowl. “Find your mug for your tea.”

  Pushing their bowls into the centre of the table, the men reached for their own mugs, holding them steady as the maid filled them to the brim with tea as dark as peat bogs.

  “Now don't go speculating too much on what old Wilbur has to say,” the maid smiled as she poured me a mug of tea. “Master Whistlefish is as fine a laird as any of these men deserve.”

  “Aye,” Wilbur agreed.

  “And,” the maid took a step back from the table, wiping the spout of the teapot with a cloth, “he married into the community and whisked young Abigail Montrose of her feet.” She sighed, her eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “I'd say a lack of steam and engines is a small price to pay for happiness.”

  “Tell that to the ponies,” Wilbur whispered as he lifted his mug to his mouth.

  “I heard that,” the maid whipped the cloth around Wilbur's head.

  Spluttering tea onto his shirt, Wilbur wiped his mouth as the men laughed around the table.

  “Now, Master Finsch, you can take your tea into the study. Your friend is waiting for you in there. The Master will join you shortly, as soon as has put poor Abigail to bed.”

  “Poor Abigail?” I looked up at the maid.

  “Aye,” she nodded. “Abigail is sick. 'Tis true. And no matter how much the Master cares for her, she is no getting any better.”

  I stood up as the maid took my mug out of my hands to top it up. She handed it to me as I waved at the men around the table.

  “Here, take another mug for your friend.” The maid pinched Wilbur's empty mug from his hands and filled it with the last of the tea. “I have a notion she is thirsty. Wetting her whistle might open her up a bit, don't you think, laddie?”

  “It might,” I took Seffi's mug in my free hand and followed the maid around the table to yet another door, this one leading down a dimly lit corridor.