The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Their horses were led off to the stables, half open to grazing although only sand filled most of the space available, but Toby followed Symon and refused to be distracted. Beyond, well within the craters but at the side where neither holes nor tunnels had yet been built, were the stores and kitchens. A deep row of huts topped the quarry above the kitchen, looking similar to the stables, but more closed in, and the small doors appeared to carry locks.

  “Stables for the human horses?”

  Logon laughed. “Precisely. Huts for sleeping, for private dreaming and perhaps for wishing you were back home. The horses have more space.”

  “But I suppose we need only go off at night. Everything else is done in company?”

  “And no privies. Walk off into the sands, and piss where the sun makes it sizzle. When you shit, dig it in.”

  “And that applies to the miners too? How many are there?”

  “A hundred. Who knows?”

  The dining room, underground and directly beneath the kitchens, was large and smelled of everything a little burned. Three boys were cleaning and piling platters on the table. “So there might be a hundred of them, but we don’t work together,” said Jak. “We are a somewhat smaller group. You’ve three scullery boys, and, I presume, a cook. Three guards, and the two original inventors, I can even remember their names, they’re Jowk and Agront. Now you, me, Fraygard and his wife, and my man Symon.”

  “And two invaluable mechanics. Sixteen of us, unless I’ve forgotten how to count.” He pointed, “And sixteen little wooden huts sitting above. One spare in fact, since I am sure my dear Fraygard will wish to live with his wife.”

  “Don’t forget the dog.”

  “Toby sleeps wiv me,” Symon said.

  There was a deep voice from the darkness. “Now we’ll start the inspection of the more interesting part.”

  It was a larger room at the end of the tunnel, and bright. A large open fronted oven sprang flames up into a metal cauldron where water constantly boiled. This already brought light, both from the flames and from a small torch, powered by the same cauldron’s steam. The grinding wheels and the thump of pistons and levers increased the crackle and spit of the fire, and the bubble of water, but it seemed everyone had already learned the habit of shouting. Two flaming torches added to the light, fastened to their sconces on the opposite side of the room. There were no chairs, but a stack of stools stood tall in one corner, yet no one seemed to want them. There was too much to do and too much to look at and simply sitting was not a temptation.

  His fingers rubbing down a long metal tube, half of it coiled but both ends straight, Symon said, “Tis mighty hot. I reckon tis hot water, and even I knows hot water makes steam. Tis a steam engine, right? Bit like them trains?”

  One man looked up immediately at the words and walked over to where Symon examined what he had found fascinating. Jowk, an elderly man with a grey beard, grey sideburns and a bald head, smiled at once. “Remarkably astute, my friend,” Jowk said. “This is the power behind the men who have none.”

  Grinning, Symon continued to stroke the coil. “I reckoned I had power once. Helped a bit, often when I didn’t ort. Did stuff wot woulda bin better not done. It were power of a sort. But I reckons in the end it didna help nobody, including meself.”

  “Have you ever driven a train?” Jowk asked.

  Symon shook his head. “I thought I’d try one day. Fancied it, I did. But I ain’t sure no one’d have me.”

  “Which leaves me with a simple choice,” Jowk said, “and my choice is yes. Will you work with me, sir? I can teach you a great deal, but it seems you already enjoy understanding machinery.” Having never before been called sir in his life, Symon’s smile was half for that and half for the coil which still interested him. But Jowk beckoned. “This is the master of all things new,” he said, and cradled a small piece of red wood, cut thin and fashioned into a shape Symon did not understand. It was hollow in its centre, but at either side there were large stretched wooden flaps on hinges, as if copying the shape of a bird and its wings. Jowk showed it to Symon. “Could this fly, do you think?”

  Symon stretched out a hand to stroke the new toy, just as he so often stroked Toby, and now chuckled. “I reckon not. It ain’t got no muscles, nor brain and even if it sat on steam and whizzed up a bit. It wouldn’t know wot to do nor where to go.”

  “Come with me,” said Jowk softly.

  Seeing Jowk leave with Symon trotting closely, Logon called, “This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for, and me too. Come along my friends.”

  It was later that Symon stood out on the dunes, gazing up at the sky. It was ablaze. No clouds drifted in the black warmth, nor ruffled the vivid amazement of clarity as night fell. A million stars streamed like milk spilled from a giant sack, blown into the vast eternity above. There was a rich scent of fresh excitement and the call of adventure. Toby lay at his feet, enjoying the soft warmth beneath him while licking his master’s solid ankles.

  Symon turned, looking towards the eastern horizon where the larger moon was peeping above the endless golden sands. It seemed as if he could reach out and touch it, and as if he had thought this so many times over his life even though he had always known he could not. A thousand times he had called himself a fool for wanting the impossible, and once had dreamed of floating high, hands outstretched, adoring the sensation, but then had woken with a headache and the faint accusation of stupidity in his head, alongside the slump of disappointment. The dream had never come again.

  But now he could dream it awake.

  For here now was something that one day would fly. And it would fly with him driving the handmade bird into the heavens, learning what was there, understanding flight, and being the first man to aim into the stars.

  Jowl had showed them the inner chamber which he had kept secret. In the centre, tall as a man, was the same bird shape, its wings rigid, with an opening in the main body where a man might sit, with another behind him. Beneath was a cavity, and here, empty and cold, sat an oven, a mighty closed cauldron, a coil and tubes, a chest of coke, and a space for someone to sit, shovel the coal and maintain the flight.

  “It’s proved,” Jowk said. “And this is the proof.” He walked around explaining and tapping, laughing and examining. “This has flown. Not outside, since I was afraid of the winds. But it’s flown in here, and Don, the best mechanic in Eden sat in the belly and tipped coke into the oven. Up and up it flew, hovering high. Look, you can see the handprint on the roof of the cave. That was Don, his hand thick in coal dust.”

  “And when it fell?” asked Fraygard.

  “Never,” Jowk grinned. “Came down like a feather and landed right here where it is now, not a scratch nor a dent. One day something like this will fly to Shamm and the Eastern Islands. And my new friend Symon will fly it.”

  Almost in tears, Symon nodded, and thanked him. “I don’t reckon I can sleep tonight,” he confessed. “But sleepings nor wakings, I reckons I gonna dream o’ them stars.”

  “I dream of them every night,” Jowk said. “And when you fly high, my friend, I shall be sitting behind you.”

  “And I expect you’ll both be crying your eyes out,” Logon laughed, “though neither of you will ever admit to it afterwards.”

  For living quarters, the huts were not welcoming but no one cared. Jak surveyed his quarters and laughed. He’d known worse, but rarely. The south, it seemed, was the home of the unexpected as it was also in the south where he had slept in a railway station, and in the trains themselves where you could not even lie down. Strange, he decided, since it was in the south that the land stretched forever, where no cities and few towns grew large, and where anyone could walk for a year across the dunes and never see a single soul to ask directions.

  Here there was a bed, just wide enough for his shoulders, and the pillow was wider than the bed. Here he found a good sheet, good blankets, but hardly enough space to get undressed. There were two latrines behind the huts, but wandering
out into the sands seemed to be the popular route. No rug warmed the floor, and it creaked as loudly as the wind. A tiny wooden stool stood beside the bed, serving as both seat and table, and pushed beneath those three straddling wooden legs was a chest for clothes and anything of value. Jak had money, which he kept under his pillow, but nothing else which mattered to him except his hopes, his fears, and his friends. Symon, housed in the next hut, thumped on the wall.

  “You reckon tis gonna work, m’lord Jak?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Jak answered through the wobbling slatted wall. “And I can promise that you will be the first man to fly beyond these walls. But it might take years. I have no way of knowing.”

  “Mayhaps a year.” Symon sounded much like bubbling water in the giant cauldron. “I don’t reckon that clever gent Jowl’s gonna need more’n a year.”

  “I imagine you’ll gladly stay here,” Jak added. “With your dog in your bed and your stars watching through the window, you’ll be at home. I’ve no desire to live here, but I’ll come back as often as possible. Indeed, there’s no room for me, and no place for me. If I need to watch our friend Kallivan, then it will mean travelling here and there, to the city and to other places. He’s been to the south many times over the past month or more. But he has no home here and returns to court.”

  “Kill the bugger,” mumbled Symon from beneath his blanket. “Clear as me snot up me nose, beggin’ pardon fer the language, m’lord.” Jak could hear Toby snoring and smiled to himself.

  “I may do that,” Jak answered, his voice sleepy. “But first I need to know what he knows, who else knows whatever it is, and who else is in partnership with him.”

  Jak slept, but did not dream of flying, nor floating in the winds, not of riding an eagle, nor of watching as Symon, blissfully happy at last, flew the first steam airship. Instead he dreamed of Kallivan running, terrified, screaming and flailing, one handed, over the sands. And the dream ended with the airship’s descent. It landed quickly with a screech of steam billowing up, and Kallivan below, cursing and howling as the weight of the machine broke his bones and pounded him into a crushing death.

  It was two days later when he returned to the city. It was a far smaller group that left than had arrived. Chia accompanied Jak, knowing she had no position in the quarry, and knowing that she would enjoy the greater comfort back at court. “I shall be back soon,” she told her husband.

  “No doubt I’ll be coming home myself,” Fraygard told her. “I’m not needed here. But I’ll stay until I miss you too much to stay any longer.”

  One of the guards travelled with Jak and Chia, and it was a party of three which left the quarry and headed north into the sands.

  Nobody knew. People stared, shaking their heads, and denying any knowledge of a slave trade in the southern plains.

  Either they know, but they don’t want to admit it,” Pod said under his breath. “Or they really don’t know.”

  “Some of each,” Freya nodded. “I bet a few are either buying or selling, and prosper themselves from the trade. But we’ll never find out this way.”

  No one had been interested in mounting an attack, nor even an investigation.

  “I suspect the quarry,” Freya said. “That’s the place where loads of workers are needed, and maybe men who have to work themselves to death. It must be a horrible job.”

  “And a horrible trade.”

  “Working underground. Is it in the dark? Or do they have torches? But that would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? Fires underground. Falling roofs and cascading sand. Get trapped under that, and you’d die. You couldn’t breathe and the sand would pour into your mouth and down your throat.”

  Pod sighed and felt like breathing very deeply for some time. “I know,” he said. “I almost did it. I was lucky to get myself free.”

  She smiled and blew a kiss. “I’d hug you, but the camels don’t walk close enough.”

  “I’ll consider myself kissed,” he grinned. “Anyway, I don’t know anything about working underground, but we can check the quarry when we get near enough. They say it’s really huge. And I’d agree, it’s my guess too. That’s where they buy the slaves, who have to work like slaves and get paid nothing, being slaves.”

  Freya was leaning forwards over her camel’s neck, rubbing her face against its ears. “Even though we can’t do much about it. Like you said before, there’s only two of us. I know I’m not strong, but I can fight.”

  “I know, I’ve seen you,” Pod said. “But even if we were giants, we can’t win a battle of two against a hundred. And I bet they’ve got something like a hundred workers.”

  “But if loads of them are slaves, they wouldn’t fight us.”

  “They might, if their guards ordered them to.”

  The large wayside inn at the entrance to Morse, was as comfortable as any they had previously known, and having stabled their camels, Pod and Freya sat to eat. They had coin. They had four mounts for riding and carrying their belongings. And now they had delicious food and overnight comfort. But, finding no help regarding the slave-trade, they stayed only days, but sighed as they left. It was, however, only minutes from one gate leaving Morse to the next gateway entering the larger town of Volliney, once home to the present king and proudly claimed as a city by the citizens.

  Here there were more comfortable beds, delicious food, interesting shops, markets and even boating on the Corn, but no answers regarding the slave trade.

  “Not here, lass. We’d have nothing to do with that sort of wickedness. Besides, folk here do their own business and make their own profit.”

  Sitting on the wide fleece bed upstairs in the inn’s best bedchamber, Freya lifted her skirts and smiled appreciatively at her calves. “Look. I’m putting on flesh.” Pod smiled and nodded but turned away in silence. Freya waved an ankle at him. “I was skinny as a crow when I left the stewe over the river.” She hurried on, with no wish to relive the gloomiest change to spring into her life. From happy virginity to whore, whipped and drugged with the poppy in the worst brothel Eden had seen, had been a shock of such profound misery, she had planned suicide so many times, she couldn’t remember them all. Only the poppy and Hawisa had saved her. Quite suddenly she burst into tears, and Pod came rushing over, bending at her feet and clasping her knees.

  “Oh my love, forgive me. I wasn’t, truly I wasn’t insulting your beauty. I adore your – legs. But if I look at you without your legs covered by skirts, I might start to want what I have never wanted so far.”

  She wiped her eyes and caressed his cheek. “That’s not why I cried. It was Hawisa. I suddenly remembered Hawisa. She did – everything for me. She should never have given me the poppy, but if she hadn’t, I would have died in Sal’s Stewe, I know I would. Life’s cruel to good people.”

  “That’s true.” Pod lay his head on Freya’s lap. You’re the best person I know, but you’ve suffered more than anyone.”

  “Everyone suffers such cruelty,” Freya said, her hand on his hair. “Small boys put into Molly Houses when they’re still little more than babies. I was lucky when Tom rescued me from Sal’s. The Bridge was so much better. I started putting on lots of weight. I loved it. Plump legs, plump arms.” She sniffed but didn’t cry. “Then the mill. That was even worse, I think. It’s hard to say. But you rescued me, my darling Pod. I was even skinnier. I was just spindly sticks and I hated myself. There weren’t any mirrors there anyway, but I could look at my arms and legs.”

  “Your arms and legs are so beautiful.”

  “Because now at last I’m gaining flesh. Look, nice and firm around my arm.”

  “You need new clothes.” Pod sat up at once. “Why didn’t I think of it in Morse? I’m so used to seeing you in that horrid tunic. But tomorrow we’ll buy clothes – for both of us – and then travel on to the quarry.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Looking up as her majesty floated past in green gossamer and scarlet silk, the five-month-old flung out both arms, his smile eager
. He couldn’t yet say anything resembling “mother”.Indeed, “Coooo,” was about the only sound he made, except for a high pitched scream and a howl of raging hunger, frustration, or disappointment.

  But Laxman’s attempts to attract his mother’s notice were squashed. The king had a firm hold, both arms around the plump unswaddled middle, and he wasn’t letting go.

  Without releasing the child, Frink called after his wife. “I’ve been thinking. Come here, Denda.”

  Somewhat reluctantly she sat beside her husband on the padded settle and began playing with Laxman’s little pink fingers. The baby chuckled. “What?” Denda demanded. “I was busy.”

  “Various questions,” said Frink slowly and with care, choosing the words he hoped would keep the peace, “have been popping in and out of my mind lately, my dear. Some of them, I must admit, have concerned your dear self.”

  The extravagance of spoken affection immediately made Denda suspicious. “Oh yes?” she said. “So just ask.”

  “A few things,” muttered the king. “But nothing too – important. Kallivan, for instance. Logon, the fellow I let out of prison some months back. Then, umm, well, that fellow you brought back with you when you did a charity visit to the hospital. His name was Thribb. I see him sometimes. I see him with Kallivan. I don’t trust either of them, although Kallivan’s my grandson. So where did you find this Thribb, and why bring him here?”

  “Oh, him?” Denda looked at her son, and not at her husband. “Well, he’s no one, really. He was sick at the hospital. Said he knew Kallivan. The nurses said he’d recovered. I gave permission for him to join my travelling party, simply in order to come safely to the city and find the man he said was a friend. I haven’t seen him since. I presume he stays with Kallivan. Who, by the way, I also distrust. But I avoid him.”

  There wasn’t much the king could argue with so he chewed his tongue, and finally said, “Umm, so what about the female who’s supposed to be Laxman’s mother?”