“We’re going to have a real problem in about an hour and a half. It’ll be dark then, and there’s nearly a full moon tonight. When it comes on me—I’m not going to be able to control it.”
Why wouldn’t he just shut up? Everything was just fine.
“In about half an hour,” continued the faun, “I’m going to say goodbye to you. Then I’ll walk out into the forest, and by the time I change, you should be far enough away. With a bit of luck, I won’t come chasing after you.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” she said, trying to wipe a tear away from her eye.
It was all coming apart around her. The quest was becoming shattered, and the sharp shards would end up cutting her. Conscience was missing, Talbot was leaving, and she now had the responsibility of looking after Poppy. She didn’t think she could do it all on her own. She couldn’t look after Poppy, she couldn’t solve the box’s riddles, she couldn’t carry on to the Falls of Wanda—not without Talbot.
She was also growing more and more concerned about Conscience. Just where the flip was he? She didn’t trust Intuition. He felt wrong to her, like sugar put into a car’s petrol tank or a killer whale in a penguin pool. He was out of place and dangerous.
Ha, your faun is going to walk away, then you’ll be all alone, sang Intuition. Just you, in this wood, with no one to guide you. No personal guide, and no guiding spell—not that Conscience was any good to you anyway.
You keep quiet. Talbot’s going to be all right. You’ll see. I’ll get him to Grandma’s house, and she’ll know how to cure him.
Cure him? said Intuition. There are no cures for werewolf-bites. There is only silver, and you know what that does.
Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean no guiding spell? If you’re a replacement for Conscience, then shouldn’t you be a guiding spell? Just what are you? Where’s Conscience?
He is gone, Gayle. There is no coming back for him.
What have you done? she asked. She tried to form her mind into a weapon, a thought trident, to hold the voice to ransom.
I would not do that if I were you, snarled Intuition. I can get nasty when threatened.
Lucy felt a sudden stabbing pain in her temples as if she were wearing a crown of thorns. Needle pin pricks laid points of fire across her brow from the inside of her skull, jamming barbs of hot white heat scorched across her mind.
I could do something worse, said Intuition, in a tone like a man regarding a very small insect. How about a brain tumour?
The fire in her temples melted away like snow in spring. There was the merest second of relief, then a dull thudding ache began deep in her skull. Waves of angry pain sloshed up her brain and spread out into her sinuses. They surged across her head as if she were wearing a skull cap full of fire ants. Her blood felt too thick and too full of salt; she could feel it sluggishly push its way through the veins in her brain.
Or, maybe, I should just play with your perceptions?
The pain within her head ceased, and her eyes swam. The world blurred, and the directions reversed. Left became right, right became left, up became down. The world’s colours ran together into one bobbing amorphous mess of dark brown.
She collapsed to her knees, needing to throw up, sure she would very soon.
“Lucy! Are you all right?” Talbot asked, concern running through his voice.
He clutched at Poppy, trying to support the little girl as he took her whole weight. Lucy dragged herself on all fours to the path’s edge. Raising herself heavily to her feet, she heaved into the underbrush.
Do you concede?
She hurled her lunch in a green splash over a crop of brambles.
I have no desire to hurt you, Gayle. But I will not have you threaten me. You need to know where we stand. I am in command, and Conscience is gone. So, do you concede?
She gave him further steady silence.
The world spun crazily as everything became varying shades of pink and green, like a psychedelic nightmare. She threw up one final time.
Do you concede? asked Intuition.
Yes, I concede, she admitted.
The world returned to normal. Mucus, and strings of vomit hung from her nose and mouth in sticky strands. Talbot was by her side, holding her hair back, one supporting hand on her shoulder, steadying her shivering body.
“I’m fine,” she said, using the back of her hand to wipe the vomit and snot from her face.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Intuition, that’s what happened. He was playing with my perceptions, proving that he was in charge in my head.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, handing her a flask of water. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Who is Intuition? I thought the spell in your head was called Conscience?”
She swilled out her mouth and spat the water in a greenish plume on the ground.
“Conscience is gone. Intuition was his replacement and now he’s in command.”
“Why did he make you throw up?”
“I, apparently, threatened him,” she said, taking another mouthful of water.
“Ah, I wouldn’t do that again,” said Talbot with a smile.
Lucy smiled back and unfortunately spilt her mouthful of water all down her chin.
His eyes sparkled. He reached into his waistcoat and retrieved a giant handkerchief. It was red with small white dots. It was a pattern Lucy knew very well. The handkerchief belonged to her grandfather. She had always associated it with the old man and his comforting ways before he’d become bedridden. Whenever she’d been hurt, bruised or cut, it invariably was Grandpa Will who had picked her up and stopped the bleeding. He would hold her until she stopped crying, wipe her face clean with this handkerchief, and then bandage any wound with a plaster, or a cloth, or on occasions, his handkerchief, this handkerchief.
The faun carefully dabbed at her face. She looked into his eyes and thought she could see something in there, something familiar. She couldn’t quite put her metaphorical finger on it, but she knew she recognised him from somewhere else. As Conscience had said, Talbot looked like someone, and she had to know who it was, it had to be within her memories.
Intuition’s voice cut through her mind, like a brick through a delicate spider-web.
Gayle, there is a house up ahead.
She saw over Talbot’s shoulder a chimney in the distance poking through the forest of dead and bare trees. It tottered in a rickety spire over the surrounding fingers of the branches. A thick pall of smoke rose from its cracked conical top. The chimney was made of large red bricks with a pale cement between them, so that they looked like layers of strawberry sponge cake separated by white icing.
“Do you think that’s Grandma’s house?”
Talbot shrugged, “I don’t see any other houses.”
They slung Poppy between them again and set off towards the homestead.
~
The house sat in the middle of a neat garden with chest high bushes sandwiched between it and a little white picket fence. The bushes ran up the garden forming a straight corridor to the front door. It was gravelled with tiny, sharp, multi-coloured stones that scrunched like breakfast cereal as Lucy and Talbot helped Poppy who was beginning to take her own weight on her feet again up the garden path. The house was a squat, one floor building with a thick thatched-roof ending in a spire and the jaunty chimney on one side. Two windows framed a sturdy front door which was bright green and had a circular brass knocker in the middle of it.
“How are you feeling now?” asked Lucy, relieved that the weight was lifting from her shoulder.
That is not a very nice attitude, is it? Intuition said.
Oh, push off, she snapped at the voice.
“Feel bit better,” said Poppy, in the disjointed way of the recovering.
“Look,” said Talbot, “we’ve brought you to your grandmother’s house.”
The little girl raised her head and then, looking quite confused, shook it.
“Not Grandma’s house,�
� she managed.
“What was that?” asked Lucy. “This isn’t your grandmother’s house?”
Poppy gazed appraisingly at the building again and shook her head.
“Well, never mind. We’re going in there anyway,” said Lucy.
Talbot threw a questioning look.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked. “This is a very dangerous wood, and we don’t know who lives in this house.”
“We’ve got to stop somewhere. We can’t carry her indefinitely, and I’ve got to have a look at your wounds.”
“They’re fine,” said the faun, his voice turning to granite.
They are not fine, and you know it, said Intuition.
I told you to push off.
She could hear Intuition’s cold laughter roll around her head’s interior like a distant thunderstorm.
The party trudged up the garden path with Poppy supported, but now walking, between them. The gravel shattered and splintered beneath their feet but Lucy barely noticed. She was too preoccupied with looking over the garden hedge at what she thought must be an ornament.
The thing stood upon a stone pedestal in the centre of the garden. It appeared to be made of metal rods and gears. It wore a large, flowing, cream-coloured robe, which came down to its knees and hid its slight, skeletal frame. The robe was trimmed in navy blue with white panels covered in hieroglyphs.
It was the general shape of a man, but it possessed six arms frozen into various poses. Two were human-like and sprouted from its shoulders. The other four came from behind its shoulder blades and clawed around its head as if the figure had a huge automaton spider on its back. The robot’s head was covered in a navy cowl which obscured its face.
Lucy let go of Poppy and vaulted over the hedge to investigate the figure.
Oh, I do not think you want to go near it, said Intuition.
That made up her mind on the entire subject. Everything Intuition suggested had been bad. He’d suggested killing the Snippets and Nids. He had laughed at Talbot’s injuries. He’d caused her to throw up with his attack. She didn’t like the voice inside her head, and she wasn’t going to follow his advice any further.
Besides, she felt drawn to this robot on the pedestal. The feeling was very like the compulsion spell in her chest, which had forced her to start this whole stupid quest. She needed to talk to the robot.
“Hey!” yelled Talbot, still supporting Poppy. “What are you doing?”
“Stay there. I’ll be back in a moment,” Lucy replied.
She reached forward. The mechanical man’s torso was plastered in mud and lichen. She scraped it away with her nails revealing a brass plate drilled onto the robot’s upper body.
THE TIN WOODSMAN: read the plate.
“What is it?” Talbot shouted.
“It’s a robot,” she shouted back.
She examined its sides, searching for a way to turn it on, and found a large triangular key on its hip. It creaked and turned with all the ease of rusty iron, and then a clockwork sound whirred inside him.
The clanking and spuzzing grew louder and lights sprang to life on the robot’s chest. The spider arms shook into in a wild frenzy, cutting through the air in front of the machine.
“Lucy!” said Talbot in alarm.
Lucy ducked backwards to avoid being decapitated by an arm with knives instead of fingers. She sprawled upon the ground at the thing’s feet as it jerked to life.
“I’m fine, Talbot,” she said. “Stay there.”
The robot’s head rose in a lurching arc. Where its face should have been there was a smooth reflective surface like glass—devoid of any feature. Lucy squeaked in surprise, and the head snapped in her direction.
A voice, screeching like an ancient hinge, came from the robot’s head. “Who are you?” it crackled.
“I…I am Lucy Gayle,” she stammered back.
“Good! My name is Coppélia. Shall we be friends? I think we should,” said the robot. Its voice was high-pitched and feminine, but it was also clearly robotic and without any inflections.
“What?” asked Lucy, taken back.
“I said, shall we be friends?” it repeated. Its head snapped to one side and then jerked back. “Who are you?” it asked again, this time in a deeper, more masculine voice.
“I told you, I’m Lucy Gayle,” she repeated.
Coppélia’s head once again snapped to one side and jerkily returned. “Ah, yes. You did say. I think I am a little rusty. I used to dance, you know? I am confused. Perhaps I am broken? I used to dance. Why can’t I move?” it asked in its girl voice.
“I think you’ve been standing here for a long time. I wound you up with the key on your side. I guess your joints have rusted.”
“I think you are right,” giggled the robot. “Dr Coppelius didn’t build me to dance in the rain.”
Are you confused yet, Gayle? said Intuition.
Yes. Why does he have two voices? And why is one of them a girl’s voice?
Firstly: it is not a he, it is an it. You would do well not to forget that. Secondly: it would appear to have two identities, one male and one female. Thirdly: you will not be able to make friends with either of them. It is not human. It is not like you. It is crazy.
“You’re a robot, aren’t you?” Lucy asked, ignoring the warning.
Again, Coppélia’s head snapped to one side and then corrected itself.
“I am a dancing doll, an automaton. I was built by Dr. Coppelius. I danced. Then one day, a boy fell in love with me, but he became angry when Dr. Coppelius said I was only wires and metal and springs. The boy smashed me into tiny pieces—I was all broken,” the robot said. Its arms fell dejectedly. “Dr. Coppelius built me again, and I danced once more, but I never understood about that boy. So one day, many years later, after Dr. Coppelius had wound down, I decided to see what made people fall in love. I thought it would help with my dancing. Even so, I could not find anything in their insides. Now, I am here. Will you be my friend?”
“Ummm, possibly. So, you’re some kind of dancing doll?” asked Lucy, totally confused. Surely, the thing had the word woodsman on its chest, not dancing doll.
“Lucy? What’s going on?” asked Talbot from the path.
“It’s fine, Talbot. I’ve got this,” she said back.
Coppélia lurched forward on the plinth. “Who is that?” it asked.
“That’s Talbot. He’s my friend.”
Coppélia’s head snapped, again, to one side and returned. In its male voice, it said, “I do not have any friends. When the tinsmith rebuilt me, he forgot to give me a heart.”
“I thought you said you were built by Dr. Coppelius, not a tinsmith?” Lucy asked.
“Dr. Coppelius built me, but I became more than just a dancing doll,” said the robot, in its female voice. It snapped its head to one side and returned to the male voice. “The tinsmith forgot my heart. He remembered everything else, my liver, my lungs, my voice—but not my heart. And then I forgot all about that Munchkin girl. I guess she’s all gone now. She’ll have forgotten about me.”
Come on, Gayle, you cannot trust this thing. It is insane. I think you should just leave it alone. Come on, forward to Grandma’s house, said Intuition.
That put Lucy on guard. Any advice from Intuition was very suspect. Why did he want her to ignore this robot? Was he trying to rush her—to force her into making a mistake?
Earlier, she had felt that she needed something else to happen. She needed another companion, someone who could solve the box’s riddles. Could this robot, with its mechanical brain, solve those the box’s riddles? Could this be her new companion? She felt drawn to it.
The machine was still chattering to itself, repeating in its male voice, “He forgot to give me a heart—a heart—no heart.” Its head kept jerking to one side, like a skipping record.
“The man who built you forgot to give you a heart,” she said, rhetorically. The blank face of Coppélia snapped up and stared, questioningly c
ocked to one side.
“You are wrong, Lucy Gayle,” said the feminine voice. “I was built by Dr Coppelius. I know about men, though. I have made a study of all of humanity, trying to improve my dancing. However, I could not find the reason why people fall in love and so my dancing is still without passion. I have no heart, no soul, and therefore, no passion. Shall we be friends? If we are friends, I will show you my studies, and you can help me find my passion.”
Oh, you are not going to like this, said Intuition, not one little bit. Do not trust this thing, Lucy, it is dangerous. You really do not want to see its studies.
I might do it, she replied to Intuition, more out of contrariness than anything else. I’m interested in all sorts of things. A logical study of passion sounds very interesting.
Trust me, you do not want to see these studies.
Well, that’s the point isn’t it? she spat at him. I don’t trust you. Every piece of advice you have given me has been wrong. So, no, I’m not taking your advice anymore. I’ll decide what I do and don’t like.
Very well, but do not say I did not warn you, said Intuition, as if it were a curse.
“Coppélia?” Lucy asked, taking a hesitant step towards the robot. “I’d like to see some of your studies.”
“You would?” squeaked the robot. “Oh, yes, yes do. We shall be friends, and you can help me find my passion, and I shall dance again! I shall put my studies on my face. Please watch.” The face of the robot flowed like water. Quiet, liquid ripples moved across its surface and then an image began to develop. The photographic studies scrawled across Coppélia’s face in a slide show.
A little germ of horror grew as Lucy recognised the images on the flowing metal face. Coppélia’s voice whirled around her as it described the studies.
“After Dr Coppelius had rebuilt me, I began my studies. I knew that he had a passion because he was passionate about me, about my inner workings: cogs and wheels and springs,” said Coppélia, pointing to several of its cogs with one of the spider limbs. “So I tried to find the part of him that was passionate. When he was asleep, I examined him. I removed his coverings and cracked my way through his inner structure. Some of his red oil leaked out, and he made a gurgling sound. This is the image I have of that study.”
Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy Page 30