Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality

by Travis I. Sivart

  “I don’t like that Elizabeth stayed with them,” Zachary said to Suykimo, as the vehicle lumbered along the road, swaying side to side with each step.

  “It was necessary,” Suykimo assured him again. “Women do not hunt, and if the villagers have her with them, they know we will do as we say.”

  Zachary looked at him with sharp blue eyes. “She is being used. She is a hostage.”

  “She is a guest, and she will keep them calm with her gifts. She was a nanny, and knows how to soothe people. Now, as the wise woman suggested, we go south to find this Baba Yaga and hope the witch’s reputation is exaggerated.”

  “I am not worried about her reputation. Why do you think she is not the source of the village’s problems?”

  “She is a symptom, but we must explore the symptoms to cure the illness.”

  They traveled for hours, and Suykimo navigated in ways Zachary did not understand. The younger man was not a tracker, but he knew how to find his way by the compass on his bracer, along with the timepiece and weather dials. What he did not have an instinct for doing, he had the tools to assist him instead.

  Just before sunset their vehicle stood in front of a cottage. It stood three times the height of a man on chicken-like legs made of rusted metal, which gave the look of dried blood in the waning light. The feet were clawed monstrosities that had clumps of mud in the gears and wires. The hut was a ramshackle affair with cracked timbers jutting out. A plume of black smoke rose from a short brick chimney. A rickety door made of sticks faced them. Orange light filtered through the slats of the door, as the chill autumn wind whistled, and dead leaves danced through the barren trees of the forest. The sun was concealed by storm clouds, and in the distance an owl hooted as it began its hunt.

  Like the village gossip woman said, a bone fence surrounded it and skulls decorated every post except one. Bits of dried meat still showed on most of the bones, and they were lashed together with sinew. The whole area had the stench of decay.

  Suykimo took the lead and Zachary followed, hand on sword. The two men circled the cabin, trying to find an entrance. No windows or doors could be seen. The smaller man led the way through the gate, which swung shut with an eerie groan behind them.

  “Hut, O Hut,” Suykimo intoned, “turn your back to the forest, your front to me.”

  Zachary didn’t question the man’s knowledge of such things, trusting him to know his business. The hut began to move, turning and squatting, till it came to rest a half meter off the ground. Zachary stepped protectively between Suykimo and the hut, moving forward to knock. The door creaked open before they could reach it. The younger man grasped his sword.

  “Stay your hand Zachary, we are being invited in as guests. Be wary, but let us not be hasty.”

  “Though you may be tasty,” said a voice from inside that sounded like leather scraping over a stone. “Come in and share my fire. You have no reason to fear me; you have not invoked my ire.”

  Zachary looked to his elder who had advised and trained him since he was a boy. Suykimo stepped forward, drawing back his hood, and entered the small dwelling.

  The interior space of the chicken-legged hut defied the confines of the exterior. It had the feel of a large hunting lodge that had been blended with a clockmaker’s workshop, if clock makers worked in foundries. The ceiling was hidden in shadows far above, the light that danced across the walls was cast by flickering gas lamps, and a huge open hearth made of copper plates welded together in an oven shape. A bellows stood at the mouth of the oven, and an iron arm which held a pot was swung away from it. Smoke crept over the edge of the kettle onto the floor, slithering to shadowed corners. The walls had mounted trophies decorating it. Some were animal heads, others were dried flowers, a beetle the size of a man’s chest, and various limbs of unidentified creatures. A ladder led to what appeared to be a sleeping loft in the rear of the room.

  Four long tables were in two rows, with half of their surfaces covered by various beakers and burners, which were bubbling and popping. One table had dried animal parts laid out in distinct patterns. The last had a sparse dinner for four laid out on it. Dark bread, dried fruits, unidentifiable meats, and wine waited. A wrinkled figure in a rocking chair sat at the head of this table. She was wrapped in a shawl, many sizes too large for her rotund frame, and smoking a long stemmed pipe. Her eyes were dark hollows, and her nose was a crooked jag. She smiled and showed a handful of teeth that matched the rest of her appearance, weathered and contorted.

  “Come in,” the figure said. “Join me for supper and tea. I have been expecting you three.”

  “Baba Yaga, I presume,” Suykimo said as he stepped inside. Zachary stepped inside and the door shut with a click and whirr, assisted by gear works.

  “That is what you assume. You are missing one?” the woman moaned. “Three. You should be three riders, red for the sun, white for the day, and black for the night. Where is the white rider of light?”

  “Is she mad?” Zachary whispered.

  “No,” Suykimo answered with a shake of his head, and then spoke to the woman, “Elizabeth could not join us. She was otherwise detained.”

  “A woman?” She cackled. “Of course, why not a woman? A man of mysticism, and a fighter I see,” she petted a ragged squirrel, the size of a dog, on her lap. It did not move and appeared to be long dead but well preserved. “So the night speaks for the riders three?”

  Suykimo nodded as he took a seat on the bench, leaving space between the hag and himself. He reached out and broke some bread from the rough loaf and placed it on the wooden trencher in front of him. He added fruit and poured a bit of wine into a crystal chalice from the cracked clay urn on the table. He smiled at her, as he sprinkled herbs from a small packet he had drawn from his satchel.

  “I would not poison my guests or any such fuss, though it is a surprise that a fellow alchemist sits at my table. Will the red rider join us?” she asked, pointing at Zachary with her wart covered chin.

  “I will stand.” Zachary said, as he watched the shadows at the edge of the room move with a purpose of their own.

  “My friend is cautious. Usually that is my role, but this time I am the bold one. Do you know the purpose of us seeking you out?” Suykimo asked and Baba Yaga nodded, but said nothing. “The villagers are of the mind that you may be causing mischief.”

  She hooted. “They know nothing. They are sheep for the slaughter and jump at shadows in the brush when they should be looking to the sky,” Suykimo raised an eyebrow as the woman continued, “and you know this, I think. You are not like the others. You are much less, human, and much less likely to die.”

  “I am what I am, nothing more,” the foreigner answered, “but I am curious, what troubles the people we agreed to help?”

  “There is a singular price for knowledge, always a cost. Are you willing to pay that price for what I have lost?”

  “What is the price?” Zachary interrupted. The woman looked at the warrior as she drew on her pipe and stroked the animal on her lap. It moved, with jerking motions, to a more comfortable position. She blew smoke outward and it formed a shadow beast, which lunged across the table and dissipated.

  “Why, just a few flowers, nothing sinister. Women love flowers. We have a weakness for them. They renew us and work magic with our souls. I like roses, blue roses and their powers.”

  “We can find those for you,” Suykimo said, and looked at Zachary with a meaningful glance, “and you will tell us what haunts the people that sent us?”

  “I think when you discover one, you shall discover the other. What fun!”

  “How do we find your rose?” Zachary asked.

  “With blood and knowledge. One of you shall pay former; the other shall pay the latter with prose.”

  “We agree to the price,” Suykimo said.

  “You must both agree!” The woman stood. The animal in her lap fell to the floor and disappeared under the table without a sound. She reached for her gnarled walking stick.
“Do you also agree Zachary?”

  “How did you know my name?” the warrior asked, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “I know what I need to know,” she said, as she came towards him. “Tell me you agree and we shall begin the show.” Once beside him, she looked up into his face. Her breath reeked of decay. She smiled.

  “I agree.”

  “I see. Then let us seal our accord.” She held out a twisted hand to him. He reached for it, and she screeched and scratched him, drawing blood. Cackling madly, she moved with a speed that belayed her form to another table. Zachary began to draw his sword, but stopped at a shake of Suykimo’s head.

  “I have been around for many years,” she said, in a sing-song voice, “and seen many things. I know what you ask. I saw the fall of ancient cities, witnessed sermons that changed the world and became legend, and I have cheered at the death of martyrs that have changed the world. This is a simple task.”

  She lifted a glass beaker from a gas burner, her hand sizzled as she hung a clawed nail over the opening, and a single drop of Zachary’s blood fell into the vessel with a hiss. Swirling the liquid, she moved to a parchment. With the utmost care she poured the viscous potion onto the leathery skin. As she did, words and images began to appear.

  “It’s a map,” Zachary muttered.

  She cackled. “Yes, a map to your fortune, or your doom. As it is always in these cases, I also give a caveat: you must seek it alone in the dark and gloom.”