Annie shook her head. “There used to be, but Grandad, Jim’s dad, one day not long after we were married he did a big clear out. He didn’t bother with the things you’ve been finding, because none of us ever used the crawl space under the kitchen. And I saved those two because I like pictures. But everything else went.”
She must have seen Bill and me subside in our chairs, because she shook her head and said, “Now then, I’ve been talking my fool head off, and never given you any afters. It’s apple pie and cheese.”
As she rose from her place and went to the pantry, and Jim Trevelyan followed her out of the kitchen, Bill turned to me. “Can you believe it, I never thought to ask? I mean, I did ask Jim Trevelyan about things that used to be in Little House, and he said his father threw everything out but what’s there now. But I left it at that. I never asked Annie.”
“No harm done. We know now, don’t we? Luke Derwent, he’s the artist, and Louisa, she’s the mathematician and engineer.”
“And the programmer—a century before computer programming was supposed to exist.” Bill stopped. We were not supposed to be discussing this until I had examined the rest of the materials. But we were saved from more talk by the return of Jim Trevelyan. He was holding a huge book, the size of a small suitcase, with a black embossed cover and brass-bound corners.
“I told you Dad chucked everything,” he said. “And he did, near enough, threw it out or burned it. But he were a religious man, and he knew better than to destroy a Bible.” He dropped it on the table, with a thump that shook the solid wood. “This comes from Little House. If you want to take a look at it, even take it on back there with you, you’re very welcome.”
I pulled the book across to me and unhooked the thick metal clasp that held it shut. I knew, from the way that some of the pages did not lie fully closed at their edges, that there must be inserts. The room went silent, as I nervously leafed through to find them.
The disappointment that followed left me as hollow as though I had eaten nothing all day. There were inserts, sure enough: dried wildflowers, gathered long, long ago, and pressed between the pages of the Bible. I examined every one, and riffled through the rest of the book to make sure nothing else lay between the pages. At last I took a deep breath and pushed the Bible away from me.
Bill reached out and pulled it in front of him. “There’s one other possibility,” he said. “If their family happened to be anything like mine.…”
He turned to the very last page of the Bible. The flyleaf was of thick, yellowed paper. On it, in faded multi-colored inks, a careful hand had traced the Derwent family tree.
Apple pie and cheese were forgotten, while Bill and I, with the willing assistance of Jim and Annie Trevelyan, examined every name of the generations shown, and made a more readable copy as we went.
At the time it finally seemed like more disappointment. Not one of us recognized a single name, except for those of Luke and Louisa Derwent, and those we already knew. The one fact added by the family tree was they were half-brother and sister, with a common father. There were no dates, and Luke and Louisa were the last generation shown.
Bill and I admitted that we were at a dead end. Annie served a belated dessert, and after it the two of us wrapped the two pictures in waterproof covers (though it was not raining) and headed back up the hill to Little House, promising Annie that we would certainly be back for breakfast.
We were walking in silence, until halfway up the hill Bill said suddenly, “I’m sorry. I saw it, too, the resemblance to Eileen. I knew it would hit you. But I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“It was the expression, more than anything,” I said. “That tilt to the chin, and the look in her eyes. But it was just coincidence, they’re not really alike. That sort of thing is bound to happen.”
“Hard on you, though.”
“I’m fine.”
“Great.” Bill’s voice showed his relief. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I had to be sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine.”
Fine, except that no more than a month ago a well-meaning friend of many years had asked me, “Do you think of Eileen as the love of your life?”
And my heart had dropped through a hole in the middle of my chest, and lodged like a cold rock in the pit of my belly.
When we reached Little House I pleaded residual travel fatigue and went straight to bed. With so much of Jim Trevelyan’s powerful home-brew inside me, my sleep should have been deep and dreamless. But the dead, once roused, do not lie still so easy.
Images of Eileen and the happy past rose before me, to mingle and merge with the Derwent picture. Even in sleep, I felt a terrible sadness. And the old impotence came back, telling me that I had been unable to change in any way the only event in my life that really mattered.
* * *
With my head still half a world away in a different time zone, I woke long before dawn. The fire, well damped by Bill before he went to bed, was still glowing under the ash, and a handful of firewood and more coal was all it needed to bring it back to full life.
Bill was still asleep when I turned on the two oil lamps, pulled the three books within easy reach, and settled down to read. I was determined to be in a position to talk to him by the time we went down to Big House for breakfast, but it was harder than I expected. Yesterday I had been overtired, now I had to go back and reread some of the letters before I was ready to press on.
I had been in the spring of 1855, with some sort of Analytical Engine finished and working. But now, when I was desperate to hear more details, Luke Derwent frustrated me. He vanished for four months from the ledger, and returned at last not to report on Louisa’s doings, but brimming over with wonder at his own.
21 September, 1855. Glory to Almighty God, and let me pray that I never again have doubts. L. and I have wondered, so many times, about our decision to come here. We have never regretted it, but we have asked if it was done for selfish reasons. Now, at last, it is clear that we are fulfilling a higher purpose.
Yesterday I returned from my latest journey to Macquarie Island. They were there! The “cold-loving people,” just as my native friends assured me. In truth, they find the weather of the island too warm in all but the southern winter months of May to August, and were almost ready to depart again when our ship made landfall. For they are migrant visitors, and spend the bulk of the year in a more remote location.
The natives term them “people,” and I must do the same, for although they do not hold the remotest outward aspect of humans, they are without doubt intelligent. They are able to speak to the natives, with the aid of a box that they carry from place to place. They possess amazing tools, able to fabricate the necessities of life with great speed. According to my native translators, although they have their more permanent base elsewhere in this hemisphere, they come originally from “far, far off.” This to the Maori natives means from far across the seas, although I am less sure of this conclusion.
And they have wonderful powers in medical matters. The Maori natives swear that one of their own number, so close to death from gangrenous wounds that death was no more than a day away, was brought to full recovery within hours. Another woman was held, frozen but alive, for a whole winter, until she could be treated and restored to health by the wonderful medical treatment brought from their permanent home by the “cold-loving people” (for whom in truth it is now incumbent upon me to find a better name). I should add that they are friendly, and readily humored me in my desire to make detailed drawings of their form. They asked me through my Maori interpreter to speak English, and assured me that upon my next visit they would be able to talk to me in my own language.
All this is fascinating. But it pales to nothing beside the one central question: Do these beings possess immortal souls? We are in no position to make a final decision on such a matter, but L. and I agree that in our actions we must assume that the answer is yes. For if we are in a position to bring to Christ even one of the
se beings who would otherwise have died unblessed, then it is our clear duty to do so.
It was a digression from the whole subject of the Analytical Engine, one so odd that I sat and stared at the page for a long time. And the next entry, with its great outburst of emotion, seemed to take me even farther afield.
Dear J.G., I have the worst news in the world. How can I tell you this—L.’s old disease is returned, and, alas, much worse than before. She said nothing to me, but yesterday I discovered bright blood on her handkerchief, and such evidence she could not deny. At my insistence she has visited a physician, and the prognosis is desperate indeed. She is amazingly calm about the future, but I cannot remain so sanguine. Pray for her, my dear friend, as I pray constantly.
The letter was dated 25 September, just a few days after his return from his travels. Immediately following, as though Luke could not contain his thoughts, the diary ran on:
Louisa insists what I cannot believe: that her disease is no more than God’s just punishment, paid for the sin of both of us. Her calm and courage are beyond belief. She is delighted that I remain well, and she seems resigned to the prospect of her death, as I can never be resigned. But what can I do? What? I cannot sit idly, and watch her slowly decline. Except that it will not be slow. Six months, no more.
His travels among the colony of the “cold-loving people” were forgotten. The Analytical Engine was of no interest to him. But that brief diary entry told me a great deal. I pulled out the picture of Luke and Louisa Derwent, and was staring at it when Bill emerged rumple-haired from the bedroom.
This time, I was the one desperate to talk. “I know! I know why they came all the way to New Zealand.”
He stared, at me and at the picture I was holding. “How can you?”
“We ought to have seen it last night. Remember the family tree in the Bible? It showed they’re half-brother and half-sister. And this.” I held the painting out towards him.
He rubbed his eyes, and peered at it. “I saw. What about it?”
“Bill, it’s a wedding picture. See the bouquet, and the ring on her finger? They couldn’t possibly have married back in England, the scandal would have been too great. But here, where nobody knew them, they could make a fresh start and live as man and wife.”
He was glancing across to the open ledger, and nodding. “Damn it, you’re right. It explains everything. Their sin, he said. You got to that?”
“I was just there.”
“Then you’re almost at the end. Read the last few pages, then let’s head down to Big House for breakfast. We can talk on the way.”
He turned and disappeared back into the bedroom. I riffled through the ledger. As he said, I was close to the place where the entries gave way to blank pages.
There was just one more letter, to the same far-off friend. It was dated 6 October, 1855, and it was calm, even clinical.
Dear J.G., L. and I will in a few days be embarking upon a long journey to a distant island, where dwell a certain pagan native people; these are the Heteromorphs (to employ L.’s preferred term for them, since they are very different in appearance from other men, although apparently sharing our rational powers). To these beings we greatly wish to carry the blessings of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. It will be a dangerous voyage. Therefore, if you hear nothing from us within four years, please dispose of our estate according to my earlier instructions. I hope that this is not my last letter to you; however, should that prove to be the case, be assured that we talk of you constantly, and you are always in our thoughts. In the shared love of our savior, L.D.
It was followed by the scribbled personal notes.
I may be able to deceive Louisa, and the world, but I do not deceive myself. God forgive me, when I confess that the conversion of the Heteromorphs is not my main goal. For while the message of Christ might wait until they return to their winter base on Macquarie Island, other matters cannot wait. My poor Louisa. Six months, at most. Already she is weakening, and the hectic blush sits on her cheek. Next May would be too late. I must take Louisa now, and pray that the Maori report of powerful Heteromorph medical skills is not mere fable.
We will carry with us the word of Christ. Louisa is filled with confidence that this is enough for every purpose, while I, rank apostate, am possessed by doubts. Suppose that they remain, rejecting divine truth, a nation of traders? I know exactly what I want from them. But what do I have to offer in return?
Perhaps this is truly a miracle of God’s bounty. For I can provide what no man has ever seen before, a marvel for this and every age: Louisa’s great Engine, which, in insensate mechanic operation, appears to mimic the thought of rational, breathing beings. This, surely, must be of inestimable value and interest, to any beings, no matter how advanced.
Then came a final entry, the writing of a man in frantic haste.
Louisa has at last completed the transformations of the information that I received from the Heteromorphs. We finally have the precise destination, and leave tomorrow on the morning tide. We are amply provisioned, and our native crew is ready and far more confident than I. Like Rabelais, “Je m’en vais chercher un grand peut-être.” God grant that I find it.
I go to seek a “great perhaps.” I shivered, stood up and went through to the bedroom, where Bill was pulling on a sweater.
“The Analytical Engine. They took it with them when they left.”
“I agree.” His expression was a strange blend of satisfaction and frustration. “But now tell me this. Where did they go?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“We have to. Take a look at this.” Bill headed past me to the kitchen, his arms still halfway into the sleeves. He picked up the folder of drawings that we had brought from the crawl space. “You’ve hardly glanced at these, but I’ve spent as much time on them as on the letters. Here.”
He passed me a pen-and-ink drawing that showed one of the creatures seen from the front. There was an abundance of spindly legs—I counted fourteen, plus four thin, whiskery antennae—and what I took to be two pairs of eyes and delicate protruding eyestalks.
Those were the obvious features. What took the closer second look were the little pouches on each side of the body, not part of the animal and apparently strapped in position. Held in four of the legs was a straight object with numbers marked along its length.
“That’s a scale bar,” said Bill, when I touched a finger to it. “If it’s accurate, and I’ve no reason to think Luke Derwent would have drawn it wrong, his ‘Heteromorphs’ were about three feet tall.”
“And those side pouches are for tools.”
“Tools, food, communications equipment—they could be anything. See, now, why I told you I thought for the past couple of weeks I was going mad? To have this hanging in front of me, and have no idea how to handle it.”
“That place he mentioned. Macquarie Island?”
“Real enough. About seven hundred miles south and west of here. But I can promise you, there’s nothing there relating to this. It’s too small, it’s been visited too often. Anything like the Heteromorphs would have been reported, over and over. And it’s not where Derwent said he was going. He was heading somewhere else, to their more permanent base. Wherever that was.” Bill’s eyes were gleaming, and his mouth was quivering. He had been living with this for too long, and now he was walking the edge. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re heading down to Big House, so Annie can feed us. And we’re going to talk this through.” I took his arm. “Come on.”
The cold morning air cut into us as soon as we stepped outside the door. As I had hoped, it braced Bill and brought him down.
“Maybe we’ve gone as far as we can go,” he said, in a quieter voice. “Maybe we ought to go public with everything, and just tell the world what we’ve found.”
“We could. But it wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because when you get right down to it, we haven’t found anything. Bill, if it hadn’t bee
n you who sent me that letter and package of stuff, do you know what I would have said?”
“Yeah. Here’s another damned kook.”
“Or a fraud. I realized something else when I was reading those letters. If Jim and Annie Trevelyan had found everything in the crawl space, and shipped it to Christchurch, it would have been plausible. You can tell in a minute they know nothing about Babbage, or computers, or programming. But if you wanted two people who could have engineered a big fat hoax, you’d have to go a long way to find someone better qualified than the two of us. People would say, ah, they’re computer nuts, and they’re science history nuts, and they planned a fake to fool everybody.”
“But we didn’t!”
“Who knows that, Bill, other than me and you? We have nothing to show. What do we do, stand up and say, oh, yes, there really was an Analytical Engine, but it was taken away to show to these aliens? And unfortunately we don’t know where they are, either.”
Bill sighed. “Right on. We’d be better off saying it was stolen by fairies.”
We had reached Big House. When we went inside, Annie Trevelyan took one look at our faces and said, “Ay, you’ve had bad news then.” And as we sat down at the table and she began to serve hot cakes and sausage, “Well, no matter what it is, remember this: you are both young, and you’ve got your health. Whatever it is, it’s not the end of the world.”
It only seemed like it. But I think we both realized that Annie Trevelyan was smarter than both of us.
“I’ll say it again,” said Bill, after a moment or two. “What do we do now?”
“We have breakfast, and then we go back to Little House, and we go over everything, together. Maybe we’re missing something.”
“Yeah. So far, it’s a month of my life.” But Bill was starting to dig in to a pile of beef sausage, and that was a good sign. He and I are both normally what Annie called “good eaters,” and others, less kind, would call gluttons.
The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993 Page 57