by Paton, Chris
Chapter 2
There was no avoiding Beatrice. Bustling around the crew, Whistlefish's maid served a hearty breakfast of thick porridge, so thick I almost enjoyed the mug of tea she thrust into my hands. Beatrice patted my cheek, her fingers rasping on the stubble of whiskers I had neglected to shave since we arrived in Scotland. Guiding me to a seat at the makeshift table the crew had put together, she pushed a bowl in front of me and promised toast, although I would have to wait, she explained, as I was the last to arrive at the table.
“It pays to come first, laddie,” Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron. She cast a glance at the hatch leading below decks. “Perhaps, when you have finished eating, you would take a bowl of porridge to your friend? I have no heard a peep from her since we plucked you off the mountain.”
“I will,” I promised. I searched around the table for Bhàtair, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. I pressed my palm against my pocket and felt the stone, round, hard, pressing into my thigh. What was it Bhàtair had said? Something about being hollow?
The thought of Seffi, friendless, hurled the image of the Wallendorf factory and, strangely, Feld's bare feet dangling from the surgeon's table into my mind. I picked up the spoon beside my bowl of porridge, pushing the image of Feld, dead, further away with each claggy mouthful of oats.
“May I join you?”
I looked up as Whistlefish sat down beside me on the bench. “Of course.”
The Captain leaned in close. “This is the one meal,” he whispered, “that makes Beatrice's tea almost palatable.”
“I heard that, Master Whistlefish,” Beatrice snapped the cloth in her hand upon the table. The few crew still eating hunkered over their bowls, smirking at one another. “If you don't like my tea...”
“You can make it yourself,” the crew chorused.
“Steady lads,” Bhàtair emerged from below decks, his boots clomping upon the wood as he approached the table. “The Captain might be prone to teasing, but...”
“Captain?” Beatrice scoffed. “Why he's no but a scoundrel from the south.” Wringing the cloth in her hands, Beatrice's cheeks reddened.
“You've done it now, Captain,” Bhàtair shook his head. “It'll be hard scones and thin broth for the next week or more.”
“More if he doesn't apologise,” Beatrice folded her arms across her chest, the cloth snapping at her side.
“Dear Beatrice,” Whistlefish stood up, his palms outstretched. “I was out of line.”
“Aye,” Beatrice scowled.
“And I apologise.” Whistlefish bowed. Holding his head low, he winked at me.
“Well, all right then, Captain,” Beatrice took a long, slow breath. She stared at the men around the table. “But there'll be no haggis for a ten-day.” Spreading her lips into a thin smile, she nodded as the crew protested.
“Oh, come now, Beatrice...” Whistlefish looked up. “That is too harsh.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I have said my piece. And I'll be...” Beatrice paused. Her face softened with each gentle step tapping upon the deck behind me. I turned on the bench as Beatrice walked around the table, tossing the cloth at Whistlefish as she opened her arms. “Oh, sweet lassie. Are you sure you should be up and about? It's no warm enough yet. You should be in your cabin, cosy and snug.”
“I will be fine, Bea.” The woman's voice muffled in Beatrice's embrace. “Besides,” she pulled herself free, “I wanted to meet our guest. It is no fair that you should be keeping him to yourself.” The woman smiled at Whistlefish as she stepped around the maid and held out her delicate hand towards me. “Mr. Finsch? I am Abigail.”
“Abigail?” I stumbled onto my feet and took the woman's hand in my own. Her fingers, dry and cold, wrapped around my hand with a firmness that surprised me. “It is an honour,” I dipped my head.
“Such manners,” Abigail chuckled. She let go of my hand and I raised my head. “You did so impress me with your dancing mannequin. Is it safe?” She looked about the deck.
“The emissary is safe, Mrs. Whistlefish,” I nodded.
“Call me Abigail, and I shall call you Karl, if I may?”
“Yes.”
“And your friend? Is she well?”
“Seffi? Yes, she is well, I think.”
“You don't sound so sure?” Abigail nodded her thanks to her husband as Whistlefish wrapped a thick sheepskin around her shoulders. She sat down on the bench. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice took my bowl as I sat down. “The truth is, I haven't seen her since we came aboard last night.”
“I see,” Abigail smiled as Beatrice handed her a mug of tea. “Thank you, Bea.” She took a sip. “Just as I like it.”
Beatrice beamed. “See?” She turned to Whistlefish. “That's all it takes, Captain.”
“I give in, Beatrice. Really, I do,” Whistlefish held up his hands. “And now, I will attend to the matter of flying. We have a rendezvous, Mr. Finsch.”
“We do?”
“Yes,” Whistlefish nodded. “No matter how little I may trust your government, and that slippery fellow, Bremen, in particular, I intend to honour the original agreement. There is a ship waiting in Stornoway. It will take you and the emissary back to Germany. After which, who can say? But my crew and I will be free to venture south in search of warmer climes.” He smiled at Abigail, the brief flash of sadness in his eyes hidden from view as he bent down and kissed her cheek. “I'll leave you to get acquainted,” Whistlefish straightened. “Beatrice,” he nodded.
“Aye, Captain,” Beatrice smiled as she walked beside Whistlefish to the quarterdeck.
“I'll just sit and finish my breakfast, if you don't mind,” Bhàtair sat down at the end of the table. “I might listen, but I won't interrupt.”
Abigail smiled at Bhàtair as she cooled her tea with gentle wisps of breath. “You were telling me about Seffi,” she took a sip.
“Yes,” glancing at Bhàtair, I continued. “Seffi is my chaperone. She looks out for me. We are both in the employ of Wallendorf’s...”
“The German factory?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“Horatio was caught selling his designs to them some years ago. Have you no noticed his interest in your emissary? The early German prototypes were built from his plans.”
“He never said anything,” I leaned forwards. Opening my mouth to speak, I paused as Abigail laughed.
“Believe it or no, my husband is a very modest man. Isn't that right, Bhàtair?”
“Aye, lass. He is at that.” Bhàtair nodded, dipping his spoon into his porridge.
“I must speak to him about it.”
“You will, but now is no the time,” Abigail turned to wave at Whistlefish standing beside Archie at the wheel. She turned back to me. “It will no be long before we arrive in Stornoway. But I am sure there will be another chance to speak. Horatio does not forget people he likes so easily, and he likes you, Karl.” She smiled. “Horatio is a good friend to have.”
“And a good husband, I imagine,” I smiled back.
“Well,” Abigail's eyes twinkled, “he has his moments, to be sure. Now, tell me more about Seffi. She seems like the kind of gal I should like to have been, quick to act and full of energy. She is tough, no?”
“Aye,” I caught myself copying Abigail's speech. “I mean, yes.”
“Would you hear that, Bhàtair. Karl is picking up some Scots.” Abigail laughed.
“No very convincing, lad,” Bhàtair shook his head.
“Excuse me, Abigail, but Bhàtair started to tell me something earlier,” I fingered the stone in my pocket. “Something about Şteamƙin?”
“Şteamƙin?” Abigail warmed her hands around the mug of tea. “You don't know about them?” She glanced at Bhàtair.
“Go on, lass. You know as much as I. You tell him.” Bhàtair stood up. “I will find some tea to wash down Beatrice's porridge.” He walked over to the tea urn secured with a rope to a stool beside the hatch.
“Şteamƙin,” began Abigail, “are spirits, like faeries.”
“Faeries?”
“Aye, but smaller. You can't see Şteamƙin. They inhabit the steam inside engine pipes and boilers. You might have heard engineers call them gremlins?”
“No,” I shook my head.
“But you work in a factory?”
“I was only there for a short while. Before that, I did all my engineering at the University of Frankfurt.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Abigail took a sip of tea. “Academics don't believe in faeries, and they certainly don't believe in Şteamƙin.”
“But what do they do?” I waited as Abigail pulled the sheepskin tighter around her shoulders. The beginnings of an idea, a reflection of sorts, began to form in my mind. Each time the emissary had reacted to my commands with an unprompted nod of its brass head, the time it had remonstrated Seffi when she had me by the throat outside the factory walls in Frankfurt, and when the emissary had carried me to safety up the mountain; I could explain none of this. I looked up as Bhàtair placed his mug on the table, removed his jacket and draped it around Abigail's shoulders.
“The Captain will send you below before long, lass.”
“I know, Bhàtair,” Abigail sighed.
“Don't worry. I won't let him interrupt your story,” he glanced at the wheel. “But don't be too long about it.”
“Thank you, Bhàtair,” Abigail patted the old man's hand as he picked up his mug and walked towards the quarterdeck. She turned to face me, “Sorry, Karl.”
“You have nothing to apologise for,” I started.
“I know, but,” she paused. “It's so beautiful out here. I do hate being cooped up in the house, or,” she glanced down at the deck, “our cabin.”
“I saw the plans,” I smiled.
“He showed them to you?” Abigail stifled a cough with her hand. “Oh, it's coming now. I can only cope with so much fresh air. Let me tell you a little more about Şteamƙin. Bhàtair can tell you the rest. Although...”
“Yes?”
“From the look on your face a moment ago, I think you have some ideas of your own?”
“Yes,” I took a breath before blurting out, “I think my emissary is alive, waking up as it were.” I shook my head. “It sounds silly, but there have been times when...”
“It has done something unexpected?” Abigail set her mug on the table. “Something you didn't command it to do?”
“Yes,” I looked up. A breath of cool wind brushed my hair from my forehead. “Is that the Şteamƙin? Are they inhabiting my emissary?”
“Aye,” Abigail chuckled. Her chuckle became a cough and I waited as she fought for control of her lungs. “I wish,” she coughed, “the Şteamƙin might inhabit my pipes.” She pressed her hand upon her chest, pulled the jacket and sheepskin closed.
“But what do they do? And do they inhabit all steam engines?”
“No, not all. No one knows how how or why they might choose one machine and no another. But no matter what machine the Şteamƙin might inhabit, they will control it, to a degree, sometimes causing all kinds of problems – hence the reason engineers call them gremlins. Up to no good.”
“But the emissary saved me. Seffi swears she had nothing to do with it.”
“Aye,” Abigail smiled. “They have their own will, once they have control of the machine. I remember Horatio complaining about a steampress that would only press shirts and not trousers,” she laughed. “He stripped it down and cleaned the pipes. It worked for a week before the Şteamƙin moved back in and he had to abandon it.” I waited as another bout of coughing took hold of Abigail. “But Horatio refuses to believe in Şteamƙin. It is simply not scientific, he would say.” Abigail paused to look at me. “But I doubt even my dear Horatio could explain how your emissary carried you to safety. They must have an interest in you, Karl, and that is no a little thing to wonder about. Does it no make you wonder?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “But I have no idea as to why.”
“Given time, perhaps,” Abigail turned at the sound of Whistlefish approaching.
“Abigail?”
“Aye?” she turned back to me.
“May I ask you one thing more?”
“Aye.”
“When the boiler is empty and there is no steam...”
“What happens to the Şteamƙin?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she looked up as Whistlefish placed his hands gently upon her shoulders, “they hibernate. Waiting until it is warm again before becoming active.”
“As should you, dearest Abigail,” Whistlefish bent down to kiss his wife.
“Aye,” Abigail sighed. “Time for me to hibernate.” She stood up, hooking her arm within her husband's.
“Are there many Şteamƙin?” I stood up, bumping the bench in my haste. “In each machine, that is.”
“Şteamƙin?” Whistlefish started. “Is that what you are talking about?”
“Hush,” Abigail placed a finger upon his lips. She turned to me. “Aye, a whole community, like bees you can't see, busy, working in the hive. Ask Bhàtair if you want to know more.” She tugged at Whistlefish's chin to kiss him on the lips. “It was nice talking to you, Karl. But now,” she took a step towards the main hatch. “My dungeon awaits.”
I watched as Abigail led her husband across the deck, my mind afire with the thought of steam faeries, Şteamƙin, lying dormant inside the emissary’s brass pipes. What would they do next, I wondered, when brought out of hibernation.
Chapter 3
With a bowl of porridge in one hand and a mug of peat-black tea in the other, I made my way down below decks. The balsa stairs softened my footfalls to the rhythm of The Suilven Star. I could hear the creak of the shrouds tightening as Whistlefish steered the airship into denser air as he started the descent to Stornoway. I made my way along the deck towards Seffi's cabin, tapping the door with my toe before pushing it open with my shoulder.
The sight of Seffi, knees bent to her chest, her body hidden beneath a thick quilted duvet, caught my breath. Her wild black hair lay still and flat upon her shoulders, an errant strand or two stretched across her cheeks, caught between her lips. It struck me that I had never seen her so vulnerable. She looked up as I entered, watched me as I crossed the floor and sat at the end of her cot.
“Breakfast,” I handed her the bowl of porridge. She shook her head at the proffered tea. “We've started our descent. Whistlefish says we're to meet a boat bound for Germany.” I paused. “We're going back to the factory, Seffi.”
Seffi pushed the spoon around the porridge for a moment before setting the bowl on the small wooden shelf next to the cot. I sipped the tea, grimacing for effect.
“You don't have to drink it, Karl.”
“I know,” I lowered the mug. “But I think I am getting a taste for it.”
“Really?” Seffi sighed and looked out of the porthole.
“What's wrong? Are you worried about going back to Wallendorf’s?”
“No,” she pressed a finger against the thick glass. “I am just tired, Karl. Tired and confused,” she whispered.
“Confused?” I leaned forwards. “What about?”
“I don't want to talk about it. Not now.”
I studied Seffi's face, her reflection in the glass as we descended through the clouds. “Bhàtair asked about you.” She turned. “Talked about you, actually.”
“Did you learn something new, Karl?”
“Maybe,” I rested the mug on my thigh and felt for the stone in my pocket.
“Bhàtair is just an old man. Strange, with strange ways.” She leaned back against the bulkhead. “I wouldn't take anything he says too seriously.”
“You have strange ways, too, Seffi.” I grasped the stone between my fingers and turned it in the light.
“What's that you have there?” Seffi held out her hand. Placing the stone in her palm, the tips of my fingers tingled as they brushed her dry skin. “A thimblestone,”
Seffi smiled as she turned the stone in her fingers. “He gave you this?” The light from the window caught in her eyes, smoothing her dark hazel irises with a chocolate veneer.
“Yes. It was light when he gave it to me. Now it is...” The words stalled on my lips as Seffi placed the stone to her lips and sucked at the tiny hole in the top. Reaching for my hand, she grasped it in hers and placed the stone in my palm.
“Light as a feather,” she smiled, and I was lost, again.
“You say Bhàtair is strange, and yet perform the same magic.”
“It is not magic, Karl. It is a question of framing. I performed the action you expected, thus framing your mind to think the stone was light. Bhàtair prepared you to think the stone was heavy. It is a mind trick, nothing more, Karl.” Seffi let go of my hand, tugged her legs from beneath the heavy quilt and turned on the cot. Pressing her bare feet upon the deck she nodded at the window. “I can see land. I had better get ready. Do you mind?” She teased the strands of hair free from her lips and flicked her fingers towards the cabin door. “I need to get dressed.”
“Of course,” I stood. Turning the stone in my fingers, I placed it on the shelf by the bowl.
“No, Karl. You must keep it.”
“It is just a trick.”
“Yes,” Seffi nodded. “And no. Still, Bhàtair gave it you for a reason. Trick or no, he wanted you to have it. He might be strange, but strange old men have their reasons.” She picked up the stone and threw it to me. “Keep it.”
Fumbling for the stone, I slopped tea onto the deck. I licked at the spots of dark liquid on my thumb, pausing at the flash of cream skin as Seffi slipped out from beneath the quilt, her legs bare all the way to the tails of the crumpled cotton shirt she flattened about her thighs.
“Out, Karl.” She pushed me to to the cabin door. “I'll see you on deck.” Grabbing her boots from the corridor, Seffi retreated inside the cabin and closed the door with a soft thud.