Arachnodactyl

by Danny Knestaut

  Arachnodactyl

  Book One in the Arachnodactyl Series

  Danny Knestaut

  Contents

  Arachnodactyl

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Arachnodactyl

  Book one in the Arachnodactyl series

  by

  Danny Knestaut

  © 2016 Danny Knestaut

  Edited by Kathleen Kirvin

  Cover Illustration © 2016 Heather Ryerson

  Special thanks to Vickie Knestaut for her amazing support and incredible suggestions. This book would neither be, nor be as good without her.

  Created with Vellum

  To Mom

  Thank you for the love of reading

  And if you loved me only and altogether for pity … should I accept it less gladly?

  --Elizabeth Barrett

  Chapter One

  Mud squelched under several pairs of approaching boots—more boots than Ikey normally heard on his dad’s farm. He sat back on his heels. The toes of his own boots pressed further into the mud as he looked away from the boiler assembly in the tractor and peered over his shoulder at his uncle. Uncle Michael straightened his back and lifted his chin. His thin wattle stretched out as he stared over the tractor’s hood from his seat in a chair. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat and splashed on the pale fists in his lap.

  Ikey set a spanner aside and pushed himself into a crouch to peer over the hood of the tractor as well. His dad approached with two men behind him. One struggled up the hill, hampered by the bulk of his own weight. The shiny tops of his boots, the smartness of his greatcoat, and the coal-black top hat all spoke of inexperience at climbing hills of mud and grass in the rain. With each step, a puff of breath slid back into the face of the other man, who was obscured by his companions.

  “Ikey!” his dad called out. “Come down here.”

  The fat man stopped and clamped his hands to his knees. His breath rolled from his gaping mouth, and it looked out of place, as if it should pass from the smokestack of his top hat.

  Ikey glanced back at Uncle Michael, who dipped his chin in a nod.

  Before standing, Ikey reached for the spanner and screwdriver balanced on the tractor’s chassis.

  “Go,” Uncle Michael said. “You’ll be right back.”

  His hand hovered over the tools. They should be returned to the satchel, to the tool roll.

  “Go,” Uncle Michael repeated.

  “Ikey! Get down here now.”

  Ikey stood and looked back at his uncle. “I’ll be right back.”

  The ground sucked at Ikey’s boots as he descended the grade. His dad turned and spoke to the large man, and no longer did he block Ikey’s view of the man in the rear. The third man clenched a pipe in his teeth and shielded the bowl from the rain with the cup of his right hand. Smoke spilled across his face, then swept under the brim of his black top hat and out over the valley below. A double-breasted coat completed the coachman’s outfit.

  At the end of the coat’s left sleeve, several metallic fingers stuck out into the chill afternoon.

  Ikey stumbled a step, caught himself, and hurried down the hillside. He dared not risk a glance at Uncle Michael to see if he saw the mechanical features as well.

  As he approached, Ikey’s dad nodded in his direction. “Admiral, this is my son, Ikey. Ikey, this is Admiral Daughton.”

  “Retired,” the admiral puffed. He straightened his back and presented a hand. Once Ikey closed the distance between them, he took the admiral’s cold and clammy hand. He gave it a pump before releasing Ikey at the end of a warm and damp smile.

  “The admiral’s carriage broke down—“

  “The devil it did!” Admiral Daughton hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “He has one of those mechanical arms, and blast it if it didn’t break on us while heading back to Whitby. Smith here, caught off guard, drove the carriage into a ditch and buggered up the whole works.”

  Smith nodded. A puff of smoke leaked from his lips as if squeezed out by the action.

  “I told them you would fix it,” Ikey’s dad said.

  Admiral Daughton nodded. His jowl climbed up around his jaw as he did so. “We walked for at least an hour in the rain before we came across a pub in a village called Gunnerside. A man inside said you and your uncle have a reputation for fixing anything. Is that him up there?”

  Ikey glanced at the mud and grass trampled around their feet.

  “You’ll have to pardon him,” Ikey’s dad said. “He can’t walk any more.”

  “Pity,” Admiral Daughton said.

  “But Ikey here can fix it. He’ll have you on your way in no time.”

  “Smith’s arm, too? I dare say a mended steam carriage won’t do me much good without a mended coachman to drive it.”

  Ikey’s dad nodded, then looked the thin man over. “Smith, too.”

  In response, a puff of white smoke welled out from under his cupped hand.

  “Excellent. If you’d see to it now, I’d be most grateful. I’ve been away from my work for a week, and I’m eager to get back at it.” Admiral Daughton smacked his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.

  Ikey startled at the noise, flesh hard on flesh. It rang out across the hill.

  “He’ll get it done. Won’t you, lad?” Ikey’s dad turned to his son. Despite the bowler hat pressed low on his head, drops of rain collected on the ends of his curls and swelled like fruit until they dropped from steel-gray branches.

  Ikey looked down, nodded to the earth, the scuffed toes of his dad’s boots, the prints of men and sheep pressed into the mud.

  “What are you standing around here for, then? Get back to the barn.”

  Ikey glanced over his shoulder, up to the hulk of the rusted tractor and its half-scavenged engine. Uncle Michael’s hat remained visible over the bonnet. Its wet and dark felt blended together with the wet and dark metal until it looked like a part of the tractor, like nothing more than a fixture that had neglected to fall off in a fit of rust.

  “Oh.” Ikey’s dad slid his hands into his trouser pockets and tilted back on his heels. “Michael’s up there, eh? Well, Lord help us if he catches cold. I guess you best fetch him down, then. Meet us at the barn. These men ain’t got time to waste, so don’t be putting up with any of Michael’s bollocks.”

  Ikey nodded. He turned and lunged up the hillside, listening for signs of pursuit, boots in the mud, a parting hand parting the air.

  “My,” Uncle Michael said as Ikey crouched down behind the tractor and started snatching up tools. “Those two look like they think themselves important. Who are they?”

  Ikey slid the tools into their appropriate pockets in the roll, then slipped the tool roll into his satchel. “An admiral and his coachman. The coachman has a mechanical arm. It broke. He drove their c
arriage into a ditch. They want us to fix it.”

  Uncle Michael let out a low whistle. “A mechanical arm?”

  Ikey nodded as he flung the satchel’s strap over his shoulder. “I saw the fingers. His left hand. They look like tin.”

  “Tin?”

  Ikey lowered himself as if to sit in the man’s lap. Before he placed his weight on his uncle, however, Ikey threaded his arms back into a pair of reinforced canvas straps held out by Uncle Michael, who then slid them over Ikey’s shoulder.

  Ikey adjusted the straps with his thumbs. “Ready?”

  Uncle Michael leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Ikey’s shoulders.

  Ikey took a deep breath, rocked his weight forward, then pushed with his knees.

  Uncle Michael hissed with pain. A slight grunt accompanied him as his weight settled onto Ikey’s back. The cold made Uncle Michael’s pain worse. Ikey had hated to take him out of doors on a day like today, but he had insisted.

  “Got all the tools, right?” Uncle Michael asked.

  Ikey nodded. It was a private joke. He was supposed to comment on how now was a fine time to ask. Instead, he stared down at his dad, the admiral, and the coachman as they picked and jostled their ways down through the mud and rain-slicked heather. Admiral Daughton held his hands out at his sides like a fledgling bird ready to right himself should his feet slip out from beneath him. Smith, on the other hand, continued down the hill, smoke leaking from his pipe as if he were propelled by a steam engine.

  “Can you see his hand?” Ikey asked.

  “My eyes ain’t what they used to be, lad.”

  Ikey stepped forward. His feet slipped a couple of inches before the boot found purchase. The toe of Uncle Michael’s left boot butted against the back of Ikey’s lower calf as he negotiated the hillside. He tested each step as he transferred his weight. He held each breath a second as he waited to see if the hill would dump him backwards, send him crashing down onto his uncle’s frail body.

  Ikey should have refused to take Uncle Michael out, but work was easier with him around. It meant not having to run back to the house every hour to check on him. Regardless, he couldn’t tell his uncle no. Not once in 18 years had he ever told him no.

  As the others reached the bottom of the hill, Admiral Daughton stopped and looked back up the hill. His bulk stood before the coachman like a boulder, and so the coachman stopped as well. Smoke shrouded his head.

  Ikey paused a second, held up by the glare. How much he and his uncle must have looked like a two-headed monster, his uncle’s legs dangling behind Ikey like two limp, bedraggled tails. Ikey raised his face to the opposite side of the dale. Damp sheep dotted the green. Beyond, the gray sky hung low, ready to break and wash down on them all. A shiver prickled Ikey.

  The admiral turned and followed Ikey’s dad. The coachman continued on, a puff of smoke lifting up like a sack of unfinished thoughts.

  A damp breeze rolled down the hillside. Ikey stepped forward. His heel sank into the mud and took the weight, testing. He transferred his weight to his forward foot. As he lifted his left, the right foot slid away.

  Without thinking, Ikey twisted around. His hands gripped the straps over his shoulders to keep his uncle close.

  The ground rushed up. His shoulder and chest slammed into the mud. Uncle Michael’s weight wooshed the rest of the air from his Ikey’s lungs. His skull cracked off Ikey’s own.

  Ikey lifted his head. “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m so sorry, lad,” Uncle Michael said. “I had no bloody business asking you take me out in this.”

  Ikey pulled his hands out from under him and planted them into the mud. The damp coolness spread over them like a glove.

  “I needed your help with the tractor,” Ikey wheezed. He took in a deep breath. The earth pressed against him, smelled rich and possible.

  “Codswallop. You don’t need my help with any of this. Not anymore. It’s an old man’s pride—No, truth is I just wanted your company. Foolish of me. You might have broken your bloody neck on my account.”

  “I’m fine. Ready?”

  “No wallowing on my account.”

  Ikey pushed himself to his knees, then pulled his feet under him and into a crouch. Once assured he had footing, he stood. At the bottom of the hill, the other men continued on, oblivious as they approached the barn.

  “Nice of them to offer a hand, eh?” Uncle Michael asked.

  Ikey drew a deep breath through his nose. At least his dad didn’t have another reason to be annoyed with him. He looked to the ground once again and began to pick his way to the bottom of the hill, eager to see more of the coachman’s mechanical arm. He had heard of such things, knew that people sported them in cities like Manchester and London. If he studied one, he might he be able to make a mechanism that would help his uncle stand, perhaps even walk.

  Uncle Michael’s grip tightened around Ikey’s neck as his pace picked up.

  Chapter Two

  At the bottom of the hill, Ikey hustled across the yard, past the two-room house they lived in, and on to the weathered barn where he and his uncle had a small workshop.

  As they passed through the door, Ikey’s dad looked up from a mug he was filling from a small barrel of beer. “What the hell happened to you? Fall into a pit, did you?”

  “My word,” Admiral Daughton said from the bench at the work table. He lifted his mug of beer to Ikey. “Is that how you get him around?”

  Ikey carried his uncle over the hard-packed earth of the barn floor, then settled him into a chair fixed with wheels.

  Ikey’s dad handed a mug to Smith, who accepted the drink with a nod and a fresh puff of smoke. “We make do out here,” Ikey’s dad said.

  Once Ikey secured Uncle Michael in the chair, he pushed it towards the workbench. Uncle Michael held his hand out to Admiral Daughton. Ikey steered him in that direction. “Michael Lynch, at your service, sir.”

  “Admiral Richard Daughton, retired. This here is my coachman Smith.”

  Smith stood, gave a nod and a puff of smoke, then sat back down.

  “You’re the gentleman with the mechanical arm, are ya?” Michael asked as he leaned forward.

  Smith nodded again.

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  Smith clenched the pipe between his teeth and stood. While the mechanical hand hung limp, his remaining hand unbuttoned his coat.

  “Blasted thing gave out on him,” Admiral Daughton said after a swallow of beer. “Flaccid as can be. Damn near turned the coach over when he ran it into a ditch, he did.”

  Smith began to shrug out of his greatcoat. Ikey stepped over to help him.

  “Watch yourself,” his dad said. “Don’t get any mud on his coat. For the Lord’s sake, did you two roll down the bloody hill?”

  Ikey flushed and took Smith’s coat. Holding it away from himself, he carried it across the barn and hung it on a hook next to several shelf cases filled with Uncle Michael’s books.

  “We were on our way back to Whitby,” Admiral Daughton continued.

  “Whitby?” Ikey’s dad interrupted. “From where?”

  “I met with some gentlemen in Kendal.”

  “Kendal? What the hell are you doing out here, then? Should have stayed south, gone through Leyburn.”

  With a jerk of his head, Admiral Daughton insisted Smith knew where he was going.

  Ikey’s dad took a swig from his mug, then shook his head. “Bah! You should have stayed south. Gone through Leyburn. Could have picked up the highway on the other side of Northallerton.”

  While Ikey’s dad and Admiral Daughton discussed the best way to get to Whitby, Ikey helped unbutton Smith’s waistcoat and shirt. As Ikey pulled the shirtsleeve down the length of the mechanical arm, he stared, transfixed. Tin plating covered it. A fine scroll work of trailing vines, leaves, and blooming roses decorated the plating like a tattoo.

  A series of straps held the arm to a canvas yoke that encircled Smith’s chest. A metal b
ar rested on his shoulder like an epaulet. At the end of the bar, a hook secured the arm to his shoulder. Ikey glanced at Uncle Michael to make sure he was watching.

  Smith’s fingers tugged at the straps and buckles that crisscrossed the right side of his chest. Once he had them free, he grabbed the tin wrist and lifted the arm up. Ikey gripped the cool metal and joined him in lifting. He saw where an eyelet rested over the hook. His hands reported back a slight upward movement as the arm slid along a track. From there, it lifted off the shoulder and exposed a metal plate studded with holes, out of which poked a series of hooks.

  “That’s an interesting contraption,” Uncle Michael said.

  “Careful,” Ikey’s dad added. “Don’t you dare drop that.”

  Ikey laid the arm on the table with all the care deserved by delicate glass.

  “Cost a mint,” Admiral Daughton said. “The whole package. He had it done down in Kerryford.”

  Uncle Michael let out a low whistle.

  “Kerryford?” Ikey’s dad asked. “Where’s that?”

  “East of London.”

  Ikey sat at the workbench, unslung the satchel from his shoulder, and laid it on the table. After a quick examination, he located the small collection of screws that held the plating on at the shoulder, and again at the elbow. Ikey reached into the satchel. His fingers landed on the handle of the appropriate screwdriver, then pulled it out of the tool roll.

  “How does the arm work?” Uncle Michael asked.

  Smith sat down opposite Ikey and puffed at his pipe, though the volume of smoke and the aroma of tobacco had begun to thin out.

  “It’s a rather ingenious solution,” Admiral Daughton said. He pointed at the hooks poking through the plate that hung where Smith’s arm used to be. It made the coachman appear artificial, like an automaton. “There’s a type of surgery in which wires are planted among the muscles of his chest. As he manipulates the associated muscles, the wires transmit the intended action to the machinery inside the arm. By flexing various muscles and rolling his shoulder, he can control the mechanical arm nearly as well as his other. When it works, that is.”