The Sensaurum and the Lexis

by Richard Dee

  He looked around desperately for something to use against the knife. There was a pile of serving trays by his arm, he picked one up and held it in front of him. It was made of thin wood, cheap and flimsy, but it would serve as a shield. The crowd bayed. “Go, on Rastie, stick him,” one called.

  Jackson changed his grip on the tray, holding it flat and two-handed, he lunged with it, trying to knock the blade from Erastus’s grip. Erastus tried to swing outside the arc of the tray, but Jackson changed its direction and the blade stuck in the wood, half an inch of metal protruding through the board. He twisted the tray and Erastus cried out, letting go of his weapon as his wrist was bent back. Jackson dropped the tray to his side and advanced. Erastus backed away, until he was stopped by the press of boys.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Rastie,” Jackson said, surprised at how calm he sounded. The tray swung by his side.

  “Behind you,” a female voice called, Jackson jumped to one side as the other boy rushed at him. He felt a sting in his side, heard a gasp.

  “That’s enough.” Jessamine had come to stand by him; together they faced Erasmus and Morgan. Morgan waved his knife around threateningly. “I have no blade,” said Erastus. “He has it, stuck in that tray.”

  “Need my help do ya, Rastie?” sneered Morgan. “Want me to stick ’im for ya?”

  Jessamine pulled the knife from the tray. “Ohh,” said Morgan. “Lady has a knife. Careful, love, you might cut yourself. Jackson your new squeeze, is he?”

  Jessamine’s cheeks coloured. It was almost as if she flickered, she moved forward and back so quickly. Morgan howled and grabbed at his trousers, dropping the blade. Jessamine had sliced his braces in one movement; left and right, without touching his shirt. They fell to the floor, exposing shirt tails and spindly legs.

  “How?” he gasped, as gales of laughter erupted from the onlookers. Erastus had melted away, Morgan tried to depart and fell, legs tangled. Skies appeared, shouting, he grabbed at the boys closest him, who evaded his clutching fingers easily. Morgan tried to stand, Skies kicked his knife away from his reach.

  Jessamine looked at Jackson’s side, his shirt was cut and there was a thin trickle of blood. “He has cut you,” she said.

  Skies picked up the tray. “How did this happen?” he asked, looking at the hole. He saw the knife in Jessamine’s hand. “A little difference of opinion, Mr Skies,” she said. “I must take this one to the nurse.” Skies saw the blood and nodded.

  “Be quick,” he suggested, “before he stains the flooring.”

  Jessamine grabbed a serving cloth and wadded it. “Hold this tight against the wound,” she said, as she led him out of the room. Instead of crossing the yard to the infirmary, Jessamine took him back through the door to the classrooms and up a flight of stairs.

  “Where are we going?” asked Jackson.

  “These are our rooms,” she said, “and now yours too. The nurse will be full of cooking wine by now, more danger than Morgan or Erastus in her state. I will tend it myself.”

  “Alyious told me that I was to have Enoch’s room, but not yet.”

  “I suppose that you could sleep in Enoch’s room tonight; if you don’t mind his possessions being there. You cannot return to the dormitory; you would be dead before sunrise.”

  On the landing, there was a row of doors, each with a name tag, housed in a brass frame on the door. Boys names were on one side, girls on the other. He saw Alyious, Vyner, Capricia and Jessamine. They stopped at the one labelled Enoch. So this was to be his new home. The fact that he was training to replace Enoch suggested to him that Enoch would never recover fully enough to resume his role.

  Jessamine pushed the door open. “In you go. Remove your shirt,” she commanded, “and lie down on the bed.” Jackson did so. “Look away,” she said. He averted his eyes as once again Jessamine lifted her skirts. He thought it strange that he was permitted to see her legs when she was outside, but not in here. Perhaps she was not wearing the trousers?

  “You may turn back,” she said. She had removed her black belt. Jackson could see that it contained many pockets and she opened one and removed a packet. Inside it was a rectangle of what looked like thick parchment.

  “What is that?” he asked, as she held it over the wound, which had almost stopped bleeding. The serving cloth was stained red, he must have lost a lot of blood, he felt no pain, a little sore but that was all.

  “This is one of Oswald’s inventions; it’s a dressing for wounds, made from a tree resin. It’s held between two pieces of parchment.” She ripped the parchment in half and peeled away a layer of material covering one side. Underneath was a green coloured paste. “When this touches skin, the moisture in your body causes a chemical reaction and it sets hard, sealing the wound and preventing infection. It also contains a chemical based on allium bulbs and honey, which promotes healing.” She pressed it to Jackson’s side, her touch gentle. Then she removed the parchment, the green paste stayed, stuck to the skin.

  Jackson looked up and their eyes met. There was a sudden tension. Close up, her lips were red and inviting, as bright and glossy as the tomato that he had enjoyed at lunchtime. He felt an almost irresistible urge to touch them with his. As he leant forward, Jessamine pulled away. “No,” she said, standing up. “Do not look at me in that way. I’m just helping you.”

  Jackson did not understand what had happened, at first, he had merely been smiling in gratitude. Then he had felt something, a sort of attraction between them. He was sure that her eyes had revealed the same feeling, just for a second.

  To break the spell, he glanced down, his wound was covered with the green paste, as he watched it changed colour, becoming clear. He could feel it stiffening and pulling the cut edges of skin together. Jessamine folded the remainder of the parchment and replaced it in her belt. “Thank you,” he said. “I have already asked Alyious but he would not say. Who is Oswald?”

  She laughed, “Oswald is, well, it would be easier if you saw him for yourself. He is just Oswald. Imagine a man who is probably the cleverest in the world, yet one who is also unable to live in that world.” She thought for a moment, still smiling as if at some secret joke. “No, that sounds harsh, he is a genius yet shy and unworldly, that describes him better. I think you will like him; we all do.”

  Her attitude was now business-like. “The wound is nothing, the cut will heal, the resin will protect it while you bathe, or exert yourself. It will fall off in a day or so. And don’t fret at the sight of the serving cloth. Blood always looks more on the outside of the body. I must go now; there will be clean bedding and some sundries in the store at the end of the corridor. Put all of Enoch’s possessions in the corner. Goodnight.”

  She swept out of the room, leaving Jackson alone to wonder at the emotions coursing through his head and the vagaries of the female mind. He was not overly experienced with women and their emotions; while he had engaged in fumbling encounters with two of the girls in the orphanage, they had been emotionless and instinctive, neither had developed into anything more.

  In a daze and aching all over, he stripped the bed and fetched clean linen and towels from the store, together with a cake of cresylic soap and a brush for cleaning his teeth. All of Enoch’s clothes and possessions were taken from the drawers and cupboards and placed in a neat pile in front of the window, beside a heavy iron radiator that actually issued heat into the room.

  He was careful not to stretch the resin on his cut, but it seemed to be firmly affixed. He looked forward to meeting this Oswald; if he could do such a thing with tree bark, perhaps the Lexiograph was real after all.

  Jackson now explored his new home. The door could be locked from the inside; that meant his possessions would be secure, a novel experience for him. He bounced on the bed, it felt soft and comfortable. A window offered a view of the outer wall of the orphanage, at least six feet away. There were heavy curtains and he drew them, blotting out the view of the bricks. Now, he could almost pretend he was in some o
ther world, one where he was the master of his own destiny. There was a cupboard and a wardrobe, but he had nothing to put in them save what he stood in.

  He could return to the dormitory for his possessions, but that would mean facing Erastus and Morgan. In all likelihood, his things would by now have been divided up between the boys and nothing would remain. There was another door and he found a washroom behind it. Surely it could not be for his own use? There was another radiator in there, as well as a white enamelled bath and all the things that he had been required to share previously.

  There was a knock at the door. Jackson opened it; Mrs Grimble was stood outside, carrying two large bags.

  “Here are your things from the dormitory,” she said. “I had to persuade their new owners to relinquish them to me, I hope everything is there. Also, I have some of the tools of your new trade.” She eyed the pile of belongings by the window. “Help me get those bundled up. I can take them down to the infirmary and reunite them with their owner.”

  Jack exchanged the items in her bags, Enoch’s for his own. “I heard about your altercation in the servery,” she said. “Sir Mortimer is concerned; he will not have his agents put in danger in their own dwelling. From tomorrow, all agents will be fed separately, in the classroom.” Jackson was relieved to hear it, the last thing he wanted was to be injured before he had the chance to get outside. Mrs Grimble left with a cheery, ‘Goodnight, Jackson, sleep well and be ready for the morrow.’

  Jack was suddenly tired, he was interested in the ‘tools of the trade’, as she had described them, but too much had happened for him to take any more information this day. He removed his boots, locked the door and enjoyed a deep, warm bath, washing his hair with liquid soap, drying himself with the thick towels that he had collected from the store. Then he donned a new flannel sleeping suit of blue and white stripes that he had also found. He laid out on the bed, within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  In his dreams, he went again to his parents’ house and his youth. He saw the rows of poorly constructed houses, built back to back, the smoke from the myriad chimneys settling in the natural hollow of ground that gave the place its name. And towering over it all, The Prosthesium Works, surrounded by its high walls.

  It was the place where everyone local laboured, assembling artificial limbs for men and women ruined by war or industrial accident. Rudimentary they might have been, with fixed joints and fingers, a different one for each task, the more expensive ones had rotatable and lockable elbows, ankles and wrists, and fingers that could be bent. They attached to the stumps with leather harnesses, taking hours and several people to fix properly. In every way, they were useful but no substitute for the original. His parents had both worked there, his mother moulding and assembling arms and his father, inspecting the finished pieces for quality.

  He remembered the lessons he had been forced to endure, at the school attached to the works, when he would rather have been out in the world. Once he had learned to read and write and calculate, the rest of it had seemed pointless. It was the learning of things for the sake of it that frustrated him. When would he ever need to speak in the tongue of the Western Isles, or have to talk of the lives of heroes of the past, men like Maloney and Horis Strongman? And who cared of Drogans? They too were a thing of the past, rarely seen in the city, keeping far away from man and his intolerance.

  Then, after he had exhausted dreams of his past, he dreamed of his future, a future that now included Jessamine. In this life to come, they were both happy and away from the orphanage, sharing a life together in some sort of domestic idyll.

  Jackson was awoken from this dream by a knocking on his door. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” shouted a voice he knew, the tones harsher than in his reverie. “It’s near time for fast-breaker, then your real work will start.”

  “I will be there,” he replied, swinging his legs from the bed, the muscles protesting at the movement. What would happen today? he wondered as he washed and dressed. Would his tormenters return, did he even care?

  Chapter 4

  Over the next few weeks, Jackson’s life became a blur of action, with all too brief periods of rest. Every time he awoke in his new room he found it a struggle to persuade his limbs to move. His muscles screamed for mercy from the exertions they were put through. Mrs Grimble provided him with some sort of salts, for his daily hot bath. They helped relieve the aches, at least enough so that he could sleep. It was still a novelty to have a whole room to himself; once he had arranged his meagre possessions, he was proud of his quarters and even though he was tired, he still spent time in cleaning and tidying.

  Every day, as he exercised more, his frame filled out. The good food he ate gave him strength; repetition of the exercises nightly gave him stamina. Gradually, as his fitness improved, the aches lessened, he noticed in the mirror that his shape had altered dramatically. There was a distinct broadening of his shoulders and shrinking of his waist. Outlines of muscle appeared on his abdomen. When tested, he could climb the wall in the yard as fast as anyone, and not be out of breath at the top. Along with the others, he used the bathing pool and exercising machines daily. They all competed on the various machines, to be the fastest, last the longest, or do the most of any exercise. His knife wound had healed practically overnight; when the resin fell away there was a small scar, little more than a ridge in the skin.

  Jackson was amazed by their camaraderie, the sense that they were a family. There was no animosity, no boasting or ill-feeling if bested at any activity. Jackson began to feel a part of the group, although he had never participated in any real work. Occasionally, one or more of them would be absent for a day; or longer, when they returned all they would say was, ‘it went well,’ or ‘sadly we failed.’ No details of what they did were ever discussed, but he saw lots of written notes passed through to the secretaries.

  Not only did he exercise, he also sparred with all the others in turn, whoever was available. To his surprise, both Jessamine and Capricia, both his height but slighter of build, were his equal in strength. The other women, being shorter were only slightly less so, but that lack was made up with clever tricks they had learnt to reduce any disadvantage. As time went on, he suffered less and less defeat at any hand, until one day Patching said, “I can teach you no more, you are as ready as you’ll ever be.”

  His muscles were not the only casualty of this new regime, while he recovered his breath between bouts of physical exercise, his mind was assaulted; more and more information was imparted till his head ached with the strain of packing it all in. The difference between this and the schooling he had hated was striking. There he had failed to see the reason for the knowledge; here the lessons were in things that he needed to know, interesting things that he could apply in his life. Because it was relevant, it stuck in his head.

  He learned how to watch unnoticed, how to follow one man in a crowd and tricks of memory, how to remember faces and long lists of items. He also learned how enemies might try to turn his head with promises of money and how to resist interrogation by focusing on trivialities and talking in riddles. He learnt codes and how to leave messages by marking symbols on walls, street corners and other special places. He was given a story to tell, about his past life and learned how to embellish it and weave a fiction around it. Some of the advice was so obvious and so simple, other parts showed deviousness on the part of Langdon and Fairview.

  But the thing he loved the most was when they were taught practical tasks, by Patching and others who never gave their names. Things such as opening locks with a set of special tools, how engines worked and how to control or sabotage them.

  Jessamine had become distant; although friendly, she no longer seemed to show Jackson as much attention as she had. He wondered what he had done to upset her, remembering the awkwardness in his room, had he been too forward in some way? There were several days when she did not appear at all, on those she must have been working on some task for Langdon, perhaps it was distracting her.

&n
bsp; The other women in the group paid him attention though, he was unused to it and slightly embarrassed by their worldly-wise attitudes and coarse humour. Jackson was far from an innocent, but quieter and more reserved than they. He was also aware of his status and feared to do anything that might jeopardise his chances of getting outside. Despite everything, he still had hopes of making his escape.

  Somehow, Capricia and Winifred always seemed to be in the vicinity when he had removed his shirt or was clad only in a towel or bathing shorts. They chattered away behind their hands, obviously talking about him and giggling. He wondered what they were saying, the attention made him squirm. It seemed that the redder and more flustered he got, the better they liked it.

  Patching taught him far better ways of defence and attack, with his fists and boots, with knife and gas-gun and how to disable an opponent with the Watchmen’s weapons. There was the innocent looking truncheon that extended into a stave, just by pushing a button and flicking the wrist. One was worn on each thigh, ready for instant action. When wielding both, they made a formidable weapon. Then there was the hobble ball, a sphere that worked on the same principle. When thrown, it released two metal pins on contact with the ground, thrown between a runner’s legs; it tripped him and sent him sprawling.

  These items, and others, were secreted about his person by the same means as they were on the Watchmen. A leather belt with many pockets and clips, called a quip-belt, fitted around his waist. He had already seen it worn by Jessamine, now he looked forward to getting his own. The special pockets were sewn into his trousers to hold the truncheons. The hobble balls were kept in his backpack. Once he had completed training, he would receive his own issue, until then, he had to return the training versions at the end of every day.

  There were also lectures on the politics of the modern world. The principal country was Norlandia, its major adversary the Western Isles. However, things were never that simple. The Isles provided a lot of the produce that Norlandians took for granted, Cofé, Char leaves and fine fabrics, all that Norlandia could not produce. In return, they were sold manufactured goods. Trade was, as ever, the cause of many of the wars and skirmishes.