Caller of Lightning

by Eytan Kollin

  A small wooden stand-up, eight feet on each side, awaited them in the middle of the field, far from the homes surrounding it. One wall was missing, giving the structure an open face. It was here that Ben put down his box and began preparations.

  William stopped beside his father and hurriedly rummaged through his own box. Practicing this in his father’s laboratory had been one thing; assembling the components of the experiment here in the open wind, even partly shielded by the walls of the stand-up, was quite another. He extracted a steel spike with a loop on the end and placed it on the ground just as his father tossed the silk rope to the back of the shed. Then he picked through his box and carefully pulled out a bundle of cut cloth, also silk.

  Thunder rumbled, closer now.

  Both generations of Franklin worked quickly and silently, unpacking the pieces of the kite and the Leyden jar with which they hoped to capture the electricity that Ben had theorized hid in the clouds above. Sporadic drops of rain blew into the stand-up, tickling them both. William crossed the two pieces of cedar, clamping them together, then tied off the cross-section. Next he stretched the silk diamond taut on the cedar cross, forming the body of the kite, and fastened it firmly in place. Then he began to attach a length of thick, straight, copper wire to the kite’s upper tip.

  Ben examined his son’s work and grunted. “I believe something isn’t right here,” he said, nudging the steel spike with his shoe tip. He then studied all the supplies at hand, frowning. “William, can you go ask Mr. Loxley for a smaller connector for the Leyden jar?”

  “I can, yes.” William jerked tight the knot tying the hemp string to the kite. “Is there a reason I may know that the spike we brought is no longer suitable? To better guide Mr. Loxley?”

  Ben scratched at his chin. “Ahhh. I’m not sure. But . . . ” He paused, carefully framing his thoughts before continuing. Thunder rumbled in the near distance and Ben glanced back, then continued hurriedly, “ . . . if I am correct about the nature of the electric fire above, I suspect—no, I fear—that use of a full rod will draw too much of the fire upon us. That would not have been a problem with my Christ Church plan, but as that structure remains sadly unfinished, we must look to the storm and a kite instead. I am sure, though, that proper application of thought will yield a safe manner for us. So . . . ”

  William pursed his lips momentarily as he propped the kite up inside the shed. “Are you sure a smaller connector will draw less electricity?”

  “I believe this to be the case. One wouldn’t wrestle a cask of brandy simply to quench a morning’s thirst. Rods of steel or iron like this one are used to draw the fire from the sky and safely divert lethal strikes. We only wish to test the properties of this fire, not kill ourselves in the process.”

  “That would be for the best, yes. I will be quick.” William set off jogging back to the Loxley house, while the elder Franklin continued to work.

  With the kite unpacked and assembled, and the hemp string attached, there was little left to do but apply the new modification he had conceived. Franklin unwound the silk cord and set about tying it to the hemp, a little above the terminus where a kite string would typically be held in the flyer’s grasp. Once that was complete, he carefully positioned the Leyden jar inside the shelter where it would be easy to access yet remain dry; an increasing worry as the rain pelting the stand-up grew heavier.

  Hearing steps approaching though the grass, Ben looked around the corner of the stand-up and saw his son and another man trotting towards him.

  “I say, Ben, today is the day?” shouted Benjamin Loxley, holding an oilcloth jacket over his head to stay dry.

  The elder Franklin grinned. “Indeed, Benjamin, it is! I could use one of your keen insights into a more suitable connection device, provided Mrs. Loxley isn’t too upset with you for abandoning her in a half-finished house with the storm overhead?” He waved to the woman watching them from the covered second-story balcony, and she waved back.

  Loxley stepped into the stand-up and put his jacket to one side, taking care not to dampen any of Franklin’s equipment. He was a solidly muscled man, his size attesting to his deftness with a hammer, but belying his equal skill with compass, pen, and rule. In Franklin’s estimation, Loxley had no equal in Pennsylvania as draftsman and artificer. It didn’t hurt that the two were close friends.

  “Not you, too! I’ll finish the house soon enough, but it is more than adequate cover for now. Jane will have none of the damp, I assure you.” Loxley laughed and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a stout metal key. “William explained your need, and I thought of this. Will it do?”

  Franklin examined the key closely, turning it over in his hands. It was a simple thing, unmarked and undecorated. “Perhaps,” he mused. “Interesting. Not iron or steel, at this weight, though by appearance it would seem otherwise. Is it a known alloy crafted for a purpose or simply a happenstance mixture?”

  Loxley smiled. “Clever as always, Ben. You hold the key to a shop I recently closed in London. In a moment of humor last year, I had it cast from the same batch of metal as the colony’s new Assembly Bell on order from Whitechapel Foundry. Just a little keepsake. Mr. Charles was kind enough to let me include it in one of his shipments from London. The copper content is near one-half—after the iron I had them add into the mix—and should be high enough to serve your purposes without overdoing it. It seems poetic, too, though some might disagree. I do hope it will serve, as I’m afraid I have nothing else on hand to offer. There certainly isn’t time enough for me to fashion anything new for you, and it should suit your purposes well.”

  “Poetic indeed, that we capture fire with the essence of our colony’s future bell, made to celebrate the past. This is perfect. Thank you, Benjamin.” Franklin handed the key to William, who passed a loop of hemp string through the circle of the key’s handle and knotted it in place firmly, just ahead of the attachment to the corded silk.

  “That’s my work done, then,” said Loxley. “I’ll be up on the balcony with Jane. Dry. As in not wet. Best of luck, my friend!” With that, he lifted his oilcloth coat back over his head and ran home, grinning madly with the intensifying rain nipping at his heels.

  William picked up the silk rope. “Now?”

  “Yes,” Ben said. “Stay in here and maintain a firm grasp. Do not step outside—we must keep the silk cord dry as an additional protective barrier from the electricity. I will get the kite aloft.” He took the kite and its tail in one hand and the coil of hemp in the other, then marched firmly away from the stand-up.

  Back turned to the wind, head lowered to avoid the pattering rain, Franklin played the hemp string out behind him as he walked. Once far enough, he stood still and looked up, lifting the kite to an advantageous position, while still holding its string taut. He stood for some time, growing increasingly wet, vision blurred by the drops of water running into his upturned eyes and gathering on his glasses.

  As a particularly brisk gust ruffled and whipped at Ben’s coat, he risked releasing the kite. The wind did its job, lofting the silk diamond and its copper-wire conductor upward. Ben controlled the climb carefully, easing the string through his fingers foot by foot, then yard by yard, until the kite was fully ascended and riding steadily in the heavens. When he finally let go, the arc of string lifted well above his head. Something primal happens, a universal thrill of childish delight, when a kite catches the wind. This emotion took hold of both Franklins and they whooped in delight. Back in the stand-up, the silk cord pulled tight in William’s excited grasp. Loxley’s high-dangling key, now exposed to the elements, danced on the line.

  “Nicely done, gentlemen!” Benjamin Loxley shouted to them through the rain, from the safe cover of his house’s balcony.

  “And pray do make sure that this endeavor stays under your control, Mr. Franklin!” Jane Loxley added, with a teasing smile.

  The two Franklins quickly regained their composure and focused on the experiment. William controlled t
he kite and Ben returned to the stand-up, soaked near to the skin but taking absolutely no heed of it; his attention was fully on the sky as the clouds turned black and the raindrops fell thicker and faster. “The time is almost upon us, William!”

  The rest of the world faded from Ben’s attention as he watched stray hemp fibers along the kite string slowly lift, then stand on end. A spark jumped off the end of the key, and his eyes widened. Carefully, tentatively, he stepped forward and reached out his hand, balled into a fist, with the second knuckle of his index finger jutting forward. Another spark jumped from the key, this time to his finger. The sting that came with it was familiar to him from years of laboratory experiments. God’s lightning and Man’s spark were one and the same, different in degree but not identity. Electricity! Ben gazed at the key in wonder.

  “Can we transfer it to the jar? Is this the moment we capture fire from the heavens?”

  “Indeed, William. We are, together, a modern Prometheus, stealing electric fire from the gods.” He spoke with a raised voice to be heard through the rain pelting against the stand-up.

  “That sounds rather grandiose.” William grinned at his father. “If you won’t mention my torn legging at the alehouse, I won’t tell anyone of your muddy shoes.”

  “My word on that, as parent and gentleman.”

  Ben picked up the Leyden jar, one of his own modified designs, then stepped back into the storm and held the jar’s projecting metal rod to the sparking key. Though invisible to sight, the jar quickly charged until the tip sparked over. Grinning like a child, Ben stepped back into the shelter and placed the jar, with great care, in the box it had come from. “We’ve done it, my boy. We’ve captured electricity without spires made of iron. With just hemp and silk.”

  “And Mr. Loxley’s key.”

  “And Benjamin’s key, yes, but that was needed only to transfer the electric fire to the phial. You saw the hemp strands rise, lifting as the fire in the kite string grew. Wet hemp, dry silk, and a bit of copper in the sky were sufficient to our proof.”

  “I am amazed. Pray do not think otherwise. Though I have a question . . . ” William caught Franklin’s eye, then tugged on the silk cord he was still tightly holding. “If we are keeping this portion dry in order to remain safe, how do we bring in the kite without danger, and without waiting for the storm to pass?”

  The question caught Ben by surprise. He held up a finger and opened his mouth, then closed it and scratched at his chin, thinking. William had seen this process often enough while assisting his father in the laboratory and knew better than to interrupt.

  “You’re right,” the elder Franklin finally said. “While spooling it in, of course the soaked string will carry fire with it. We would be exposed at every touch. Allow me a moment, please.”

  “Of course,” William replied wryly. “I have nowhere else to be.”

  “You could simply let go, I suppose. No, that is a bad idea. Hmmph.” Ben studied the hemp string and saw that it was rapidly building up a charge again, as the kite bobbed and danced in the electrical fire’s airy home. Light flashed behind the clouds, a sign that powerful strikes of lightning might at any moment cut through this portion of the storm. Even one such bolt striking the kite could be disastrous.

  “Hurry, please, sirrah,” said William. “The water dripping down the hemp has begun to dampen the silk in turn, and I most definitely feel the wet.”

  “The solution is simple,” Ben assured his son. “We will not have to wait out the storm. But I shall need your coat.”

  “My coat?”

  “Mine is soaked. Yours is comparatively dry—dry enough, certainly, to provide a barrier against the fire for as long as it takes to reel the kite in.”

  “I understand.”

  Holding the silk cord tight in his right hand, William let go with his left and sought to shrug that arm and shoulder free from his coat’s embrace. The effort was both comical and almost entirely ineffective, giving William momentary reason to regret his fondness for good tailoring.

  Ben reached out to assist his son, and the world flashed bright.

  Franklin’s heart seemed to stop in his chest as the evening suddenly stilled. Every detail of the storm was clear, in vivid relief, as if he had lifetimes to idly examine them. A thousand hovering drops of rain fell, each one a clear crystal pearl with its own small reflection of the vast spark in the sky. Most importantly, he could see the electrical fire itself, the one moving thing in an otherwise unmoving world—a spectral force clawing inexorably downward along the kite string toward the pale white hand at its end, below.

  In that instant, Franklin understood William was about to die.

  It had been sixteen years since Ben’s first son, Francis, had been taken by smallpox at the age of four. Time had done nothing to heal that wound. Nothing. Not William, too . . .

  “STOP!”

  Ben threw his left hand up, fingers splayed against the force of the descending electrical fire. He felt the weight of it pushing him, and instinctively pushed back with every ounce of stubbornness in his soul. To his surprise, the dangling key began to glow with a color he could not name. Points of the same impossible shade danced like will-o’-the-wisps around his fingers.

  Above him, the electrical fire slowed in its course down the burning string, then stopped. Ben squeezed his fist tight . . . and watched the fire leap from the string and flee back into the clouds. Lightning, striking in reverse, opened the sky and leapt from the silk and copper.

  Thunder rolled away in echoes. The blazing kite fell towards the earth as the rain once more poured from the heavens. Motion resumed as a frozen world stuttered back to life, and a cold wind danced across Franklin’s face.

  William stopped struggling with his coat and dropped the dampened silken cord, laughing. “There’s that, then. Not a problem after all, though we’ll have to get a new kite.”

  “How fortunate,” Ben said. The most intense hunger and exhaustion he had ever felt overcame him, and he collapsed.

  The

  Stevenson Home

  Craven Street

  London, England

  June 10th

  2

  Laws of Motion

  House by house and yard by yard London yawned, turning away from daytime commerce towards nighttime and warmly lit hearths. Smells of cooking stews and sweet breads mixed in the evening air with leftover traces of soot and horse manure along the walkways of Craven Street. The buildings here were dark red brick, with white-painted first-floor siding. Tall windows at the front of each home allowed occupants a view of pedestrians and other goings-on, while interior curtains of varying quality, neither too rich nor too poor but comfortably between, softened the ebbing light and shielded the owners from passing view.

  The façade of the Craven Street house numbered 7—but receiving mail at 27, because it was the Stevenson home, the 27th inhabitants of the street—was one of the brightest and cheeriest on the block, despite the oddly confusing numbering system used by the Spur Alley post. Rumors of dark undertakings inside its walls were popularly whispered among the neighborhood’s other inhabitants, who, like most London gossips, showed more imagination than sense when confronted with a family that did not readily mingle—and offered rooms to boarders to boot. None of these bandied tales were true, of course; though other mysteries, unguessed and unsuspected, did hold residence there.

  On the second floor of the Stevenson home was a room filled with books, few of which could be found among the sellers’ stalls in St. Paul’s Churchyard. In that room, a girl of thirteen received her lessons—lessons few knew existed, and even fewer received, unless they were young noblemen of very particular families.

  The girl wore a white dress with a yellow ribbon and sat primly on a stool next to a table. Her feet kicked idly and ceaselessly back and forth as she read carefully from an old handwritten journal. Her tutor waited for her without concern, filling the time by writing in a booklet of his own. On
the table between them were several stacks of leather-bound books, a folio of unlined paper, some yarn-wrapped square pencils, and a small, elaborately engineered orrery.

  When the girl finally put the journal aside, the man paused his notetaking and looked up.

  “And so, Polly, on review. According to the works of Myrddin Emræs, separate from the study of religion or the mystical, precisely what is natural philosophy?”

  “Umm. The study of all things known in the physical world?”

  Her tutor, a clean shaven, very angular man who somehow still managed to seem warm and soft, raised an eyebrow at his pupil.

  “In nature, rather,” she corrected herself, “and how that study is both organized for human understanding, and determined in effect, by certain functional laws and taxonomies. That’s not quite how it’s written, but I believe that I conveyed the essence. Right?”

  The girl’s voice wavered only a little. Young Mary Stevenson encouraged people calling her by the nickname “Polly,” as she felt it gave a more innocent impression, and adults were clearly more forgiving of children than young women. A sharp and calculating mind hid cheerfully behind her careful mask of precocious charm. With Mr. Overton, however, she felt no great reason to hide, so apart from occasional accidents of habit, by and large, she did not.

  “Very good. And which taxonomies are part of Myrddin’s natural philosophy, then?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Well, all of them. And none of them. Context matters here. He describes philosophy as a process of questioning, not just a collection of facts—as a means to fuse mind and spirit with observation of the worlds around us.”

  “Exactly! It is only through the exacting discipline of questioning nature that we form a better understanding of it. Now attend,” Mr. Overton lifted the orrery with one hand and turned a key in its base with the other, then put the machine back down. Six sphere-tipped wire arms began to move at their own geared pace around a larger central sphere of polished brass, modeling the solar system. “Through the tension of an inner spring, I set this device, alike to Lord Boyle’s, in motion. By what law is it moving?”