A Midsummer Night's Steampunk

by Scott E. Tarbet

  And all painted up every color of the rainbow! Lordy, wasn’t she a grand sight! Long dangly ribbons all ripplin’ in the wind. And painted on the side in red and yellow curlicue letters taller than me, “The Great and Powerful Oz.”

  I’ll never forget my first sight of Ozzie Osmond. He was the pilot, of course. And the fireman. And the landing crew. And the showman. And the huckster of a patent medicine that would peel the paint off a plow. But accordin’ to him would cure the rheumatiz and gallstones and grow hair on a billiard ball. And all sorts of other whatnot.

  But there he hung out the window, hallooin’ and laughin’ and wavin’ at us.

  “Hey, boy!” he hollers. “Hay boy! Haystack boy!” He was so tickled with his own joke he like to bust a gut laughin’ like a dad-blame jackass. Thought he was gonna fall right out that window.

  Ozzie Osmond’s little blimp turned straight for the fairgrounds and had the wind behind her a little. And Big Red pulling the hay wagon never ever went at anything but a walk, no matter how much I clucked and shook the reins and cussed him. So by the time Sarah and me made the four miles from the hay field to the fairgrounds, most all the folks in town, and for miles around, were all gathered up to see the flyin’ machine.

  When I rolled up with that empty hay wagon and Sarah sitting by me, Osmond spotted me over the crowd and waved me over.

  “Hay Boy!” he hollers, pointin’ at me over the crowd. I must have gone all sorts of red, because he just laughed and laughed, head throwed back, big old belly laugh. Of course, everybody else thought he was just sayin’ “Hey boy!” and didn’t get the joke. But that’s just the kind of guy he was. From then on, until we parted company, he called me Hay Boy. What a comedian.

  “Hay Boy!” he says, “I’ll give you a silver quarter if you’ll take that wagon over to the train depot and fetch me a ton of their best boiler coal. Tell the station master to bring the account over and we’ll settle up.”

  Now twenty-five cents was more money than I had ever had in my pocket in all my born days. Sure I wanted to go, but I was already scared what would happen if Pa found out I took the mule and wagon to town. But right that very moment I look over the crowd and there sits Pa in his best buggy with the matched grays. He and Ma beat us to town by a good stretch.

  So I was all worried about nothin’—pretty much everybody from a couple of miles around was at the fair grounds that day, millin’ around, gogglin’ at Ozzie’s blimp and tellin’ everyone who would listen all sorts of stuff they didn’t know.

  So no worries about gettin’ a dressin’ down from Pa. Before he even caught my eye he was yellin’, “Go! Go!” You can bet I lit out of there like a cat with its tail on fire. Made record time to the train depot and back.

  Anyways, I was climbin’ out of the blimp’s coal bunker, just finishin’ up from shoveling that ton of coal all by myself, when here come Mr. Peterson.

  I yelled up to Ozzie, “Here’s the station master to collect for the coal.” He never said a word, but before I knew it, a ton of water ballast dumps on the ground, and that blimp jumps into the air like a pheasant out of a ditch bank, with me hangin’ off the bottom, half in and half out.

  You can bet I scrambled up into that coal bin quick as I could, and sat there with my mouth hangin’ open like a frog, watchin’ all the folks shrinkin’ to the size of mice. They was all drenched and muddy from the ballast water and yellin’ up at Ozzie to get his fancy butt back down here and yellin’ at me to jump, for glory’s sake!

  But I was frozen like a deer on the railroad tracks, just hangin’ on for dear life. Didn’t take long before we was up so high that jumpin’ would have busted every bone in my body.

  Then that good strong hot west wind that nearly always blows over that valley got hold of us, and the people and houses and trees and foothills got shootin’ past us faster and faster, all without a sound, and all the time us climbin’ higher and higher.

  The higher we climbed the faster we was travelin’. The ground was risin’ nearly as fast as we was, which meant it was rippin’ by at a terrible clip, rocks and trees and more rocks, and we was climbin’ better than a thousand feet per minute. But silently, because in a blimp without the propellers turnin’, the wind doesn’t rush past: it washes you along. You ride it.

  Then I got my breath, and the first thing that came out of my mouth was a squeal like a scalded hog. Startled Ozzie so bad he squealed too, me echoin’ in the half-full coal bin, him in the pilot car.

  The inside door to the coal bin slams open and there’s Ozzie’s face. Quick as a flash he reaches in there and grabs me by the collar and hauls me out to where I’m standing up in the little space between the bunker and the boiler. In his other hand he’s got this big ol’ coal shovel, worn down to a nubbin, but plenty left to brain me with. He sees it’s me, throws down that shovel with a clang, and stomps off.

  Now at this point I should tell you this about Ozzie Osmond: that man was one powerful cusser. He could cuss a cuss that would turn the air blue six feet around his head in every direction. He could cuss a cuss in rhythm and rhyme for a good ten minutes, whenever he was powerful worked up. Or whenever he wanted folks to think he was powerful worked up. He even had a version for when he was in polite society, or with religious folks, or just with folks that wanted other folks to think they were polite or religious. You can bet lots of it stuck in my head forever. Some things you can’t just unhear. I’ll give you the start of the polite society version. Goes like this:

  “Log jam! Log jam!

  Brother trucking log jam!

  Horse clopping, runt bucking,

  Brother trucking log jam!”

  So he stomps around the cabin log jammin’ for a couple of minutes, then he turns to me all of a sudden with a pondering look on his face. “Well, Hay Boy,” he says, “this may work out good after all, since you’re stuck with me and me with you.”

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Find the complete story of “Ganesh” in Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology, available in paperback and Kindle.

  http://www.amazon.com/Terra-Mechanica-A-Steampunk-Anthology/dp/1940810175

  Sindisiwe

  By Scott E. Tarbet

  Sindisiwe sat cross-legged on the flat roof of the Stone Town Trading Company, three floors above the street, as she had since before dawn. She hunched over a pile of fragrant, pale green clove flowers. No breeze stirred the long strips of linen that shaded the rooftop work area from the blazing tropical sun. The breathtaking view of this island paradise was altogether lost on her—the twisting alleys and roofs of Stone Town, the sugar-white sand beaches studded with palm trees. She ignored even the sparkling turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean between Zanzibar and the African mainland. None held any allure at all. To her they were nothing but background for the soul-numbing drudgery that was her life.

  With a sigh, she wiped the sleeve of her simple shift across her high, dark forehead and delicate features. The rooftop on which she labored belonged to the building that was both the headquarters of the far-flung Stone Town Trading Company, and the home of the family of its owner, Charles Mwamba. On the floor below, her mother and Mwamba’s two other wives supervised the housekeeping slaves. Below that were two floors of offices and warehouses packed floor to ceiling with bales and barrels and boxes of a hundred different spices destined for customers around the world.

  One stem at a time, Sindisiwe carefully snapped off the buds, the fragrant little twigs raining down into a large raffia basket. The container filled steadily and the pile of flowers dwindled away. If she could get ahead of the slaves picking in the groves on the edge of town, she could stand up for a moment, spread the cloves to dry, and stretch. But, if her sisters caught her slacking, they would make trouble.

  In truth, it depended on how much they chose to delay their mile-long walk from the groves back to the Trading Company, little baskets of clove flowers balanced on their privileged heads. Unlike Sindisiwe, they had the run of the town as long as they s
tayed together. But they dawdled. She could never tell when they would choose to make their appearance.

  Oh, well . . . in her nearly eighteen years of life she had found it was just better to hurry, work hard, keep everyone happy, and earn an occasional moment to secret herself away in the depths of the family library.

  She was bent low, reaching for the last waiting bud, when a cascade of clove blossoms poured over her close-cropped, tight black curls, accompanied by matching gales of laughter. “Finally she has flowers in her hair!” Khadijah laughed to her twin sister, Adhra.

  Of Sindisiwe’s six stepsisters, she liked these two the very least. They were the youngest and most pampered of all Charles Mwamba’s children. And their mother was the youngest of his three wives. They were his little darlings, his obnoxious pets.

  “The only flowers she will ever have!” laughed Adhra.

  “Hurry with these, Mgeni,” Khadijah teased. “These are the last of the cloves for today. But you have to finish the nutmeg and black pepper before you make supper.”

  Sindisiwe gritted her teeth. “Don’t call me that!” she growled. “I’m not mgeni. I’m not a foreigner. I was born here, same as you.”

  “Hah!” sneered Adhra. “Your mother was pregnant with you when Father bought her and brought her here! Who knows who your father even was!”

  “My father was a great warrior!” exclaimed Sindisiwe. “He died fighting the English at Isandlwana. He was a great hero. Captain of the Inkwazi.”

  “That’s what your mother tells you,” Khadijah said with a malignant sneer. “Everybody knows the Inkwazi didn’t really exist. Flying warriors! Hah! Imaginary heroes. Fairy tales for mgeni whores like your mother to tell their bastard daughters.”

  Sindisiwe’s black eyes flashed dangerously. “Take it back!” She rose to her feet and turned on her tormenters. She stuck a finger in Khadijah’s face. “I’ll slap that smirk off your filthy pig snout.”

  Khadijah drew back, frightened at Sindisiwe’s unaccustomed anger, even more shocked at being called an animal so unclean. “Y-you wouldn’t dare touch me, Mgeni. Father would have you beaten to within an inch of your miserable life!”

  “Ugly, ugly Mgeni!” yelled Adhra, putting her twin between her and her angry stepsister. “Father will never find a husband for you!”

  This wouldn’t have stung so badly if it weren’t true. Hadn’t he said as much? Despite Mother’s pleadings, he would not spend a shilling on a dowry for a child not his own. She was destined to remain in the household, a menial, not much better than any of Mwamba’s slaves.

  So why was she still biting her tongue? A large part of her wanted nothing more than peace with these little brats. But she could only take so much. With a growl she twisted her face into a demented mask, threw her arms wide, and shrieked like a shetani demon from their worst nightmares. The twins’ screams echoed her own, and they fell over each other, scrambling to escape. In an instant they were back on their feet, screaming with terror, fleeing down the stairs as if they believed their stepsister were truly possessed.

  “That’s right!” she yelled after them. “Run tell Father! Tell him mean old Mgeni is trying to eat you alive!”

  Turning, she dealt the raffia basket a swift, angry kick, sending it and its pungent green cargo flying.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Doctor Lakshmi Malieux held out a finger and the humming micro-mechanical dragonfly hovered and touched down. Even to such superbly sensitive fingers as hers, the touch of Peaseblossom’s gleaming silver feet was so light she could barely feel it. The translucent, prismatic wings flexed slowly, scattering the salon with a rainbow of sparkles from the sunbeams that glanced from the azure surface of the harbor of Stone Town. A porthole of the doctor’s personal airship Ganesh stood open, and a warm, clove-scented breeze wafted through the cabin.

  “What news do you have for me, my friend?” she hummed to the dragonfly.

  Peaseblossom hummed back contentedly, “Oh, my Queen, what a joy it is to taste the air of such a delightful isle! So like home.”

  Dr. Malieux smiled. “True. After all our wanderings, it is wonderful to be so close. Scarcely two days to Bombay across the Bay of Bengal.”

  “It will be good to be home!”

  “I trust all the Friends are enjoying their time on the island?”

  “Oh yes! Everyone was anxious to join in the search of Zanzibar. Of all the places we have searched, this is the loveliest. And so many interesting people! Arabians, Persians, Indonesians, Malayans, Indians, Chinese, Europeans, at least a dozen tribes of Africans. Even Americans.”

  Lakshmi stood, the silken sea-green folds of her sari cascading around her. She stepped to the porthole and looked out over the host of moored yachts and tethered airships, large and small, that thronged the island’s harbor. “And besides all the people who live here, there are dignitaries in town from all over the world for the sultan’s celebration. What a lovely coincidence it would be if our search ended here and now.”

  Peaseblossom lifted, darted out the porthole, sipping the spice-laden air, and zipped back to hover near her sovereign’s ear. “More than three thousand flying Friends went out, Your Majesty. About a thousand have already reported their results—the closest, those who were once bees and butterflies. The ones that went furthest, all the way to the neighboring island, will be the longest returning. But they’re swallows. They’re fast.”

  “How long until they are back?”

  “Certainly within the hour, Majesty.”

  “I’m anxious to hear what they find. In the meantime,” she said, turning from the porthole, “Ganesh, would you please put me ashore? Shaka and I must pay our respects to the sultan and the British consul.”

  Although Lakshmi was alone in the salon, a pleasant baritone voice sounded from everywhere and nowhere at once, dripping with the drawl of the American West. “Want me to make fast to the quay a minute, or want I should land you on the HMAS Avalon? Their signal says the prince and his party are just about to go ashore to the Palace of Wonders for tea.”

  “I’ll ride with Bertie,” she exclaimed. “We’ve got some catching up to do. And he needs to help me with the sultan.”

  “Okee doke!” answered the largest of the doctor’s mechanized Friends. “Avalon it is.” Engines thrummed as the dirigible maneuvered himself nimbly up the side of the neighboring dreadnaught, past the three rows of shuttered cannon ports, setting down on her topmost deck. Clamps snapped closed on the warship’s mooring rails, bringing Ganesh to rest alongside a royal launch bearing the coat of arms of the Prince of Wales. “Dang!” said Ganesh. “That launch is bigger than me! And purdier too!”

  “I’ll wager you make better conversation,” laughed Lakshmi.

  “I better,” snorted Ganesh. “Unless somebody else has got mechanized into an airship. Ain’t heard of one.”

  “No, no,” answered the doctor. “You’re still the only one.”

  “Dern tootin’!” said the dirigible. “And that’s the way I like it.”

  “Is Shaka ready to go aboard?” she asked.

  “Ready whenever you are, Doctor,” came a low, thrumming basso. She turned. The towering black, half-metal form of the Zulu warrior filled the portal of the salon. His metallic half glittered in the tropical sunshine, and his flesh half flourished his muscular seven-foot frame in a formal bow. Ganesh’s gangway lowered itself silently onto the Avalon’s flight deck. “At your pleasure, Doctor,” Shaka rumbled.

  “Thank you, my Friends,” Lakshmi answered. “Now let’s have some tea and a pointed conversation with our hosts.”

  “Have fun, folks,” said Ganesh. “I’m gonna poke around a bit while you palaver. See what else me and the little Friends can sniff out.”

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Find the complete short story of “Sindisiwe” in Steel and Bone: Nine Steampunk Adventures, available in paperback and Kindle.

  http://www.amazon.com/Steel-Bone-Nine-Steampunk-Adventures/dp/194081040X