A stone landed at his feet, tossed by one of the Tongs. Again, Baxter ignored them, knew better than to push those three idiots’ buttons.
A whistle filled the air above Baxter. He looked up and saw the stone, but it was too late, it hit him. His feet shambled backwards, fighting both rage and for balance. His head swelled in pain from the stone’s sudden impact. He lost his stability on the cobbled stone street, slipped and hit the ground. The wolf pelt broke some of the fall and the object rolled out from under it.
‘Leave the poor lad alone.’ Baxter could hear Tabitha’s voice. He wanted to stay under the pelt now, more than ever. He slowly pulled it back and sure enough, there she was, shouting back at the three boys. Her ginger curls bounced as she delivered a barrage of insults crude enough to turn any group of late teenagers scarlet. The boys ran off, still mocking, shouting names and empty juvenile death threats.
Tabitha reached down to him, before a word left her mouth Baxter smelt fresh clean cotton.
‘Let me see your eye.’ she said.
‘It’s fine look, no blood.’ Baxter prodded it and showed her his finger.
‘What are you doing out in the moor this late? And look at you, you’re covered in crap.’ She offered him a clean pale hand.
Baxter shrugged it off. ‘I can fight my own battles, thanks Tabs.’
‘Clearly,’ she said. ‘What’s…?’ She ran over to the metal object.
‘Don’t touch it.’ Baxter snapped. ‘Nothing for a pig farmer’s daughter to be concerned with.’ He got to his feet and stood over it. ‘Something my father wanted me to get.’
‘It could do with a clean.’
‘I know.’
‘As could you.’ She laughed. ‘What happened, were you hunting a wolf from a marsh?’
‘I was chased by a wolf and slipped.’
‘Oh.’ Her voice calmed.
Together they held a silence for a moment and Baxter wondered what she was going to say next.
‘Blood or no blood, quite the lump raising on your eye.’ She came in closer to inspect it.
‘I don’t feel it,’ he said.
‘If you want mother to have a look at it for you, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind–’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘ but, thank you.’ Baxter grabbed the rest of his things and headed up to his house.
She stayed there; he could tell she had not moved and decided instead to watch him walk away.
‘If you change your mind, you know where we are,’ she shouted behind him.
He thought about the offer. It might delay whatever punishments his uncle and father had prepared, return to the manor late enough for their anger to have slid into worry. He had the pelt, the wolf didn’t kill him, what more would they have wanted?
Past the square, Baxter walked between the VanBeaver and Dean small holdings and their noisy chicken coops, up the bank to the Beechcroft manor wall and gates of his mother’s ancestral home stood upright, stern in a way giving the rest of the buildings in the village a look of sycophants.
The rock wall enclosed the large house, stables, workshops, and fields. The gates’ coded entrance lock raised out like a mechanical splitter, wedged into a time which hadn’t caught up. Baxter arranged the letter blocks of the code and the gate opened. Inside the house, the entrance hall held various layers of dust from the fifteen years Baxter had called it home. A tall ceiling stretched to the rafters of the attic, framed by the landings of three quarters. Shadows where paintings had hung gave their ghostly glimpse to a past when another family had called it home. He closed his eyes. Rabbit stew again. On any other day, he’d complain but tonight Baxter didn’t care.
‘Is it you, wolf boy?’ his uncle shouted, from his quarters.
‘Yes, just got back.’ He propped the rifle behind the door and expected Nicholas to appear between the red curtains hanging from the staircase to their quarters.
A loud bang came from upstairs, in another part of the house. It reverberated off the wooden interior walls, they beat like the house were a moth trapped in a sealed cocoon, too weak to break free and take flight. He passed his uncle’s staircase and hoped he wouldn’t appear.
Baxter lit the extinguished nibs of candles inside his own quarters, savoured what little light they had left in them, but enough to illuminate a bed, two desks pushed together piled with papers, an upturned drum and contents of several violently torn, screwed-up sheets of blue paper, and clothes spread out across the floor. He kicked a few of them closer to the door as a reminder they needed washing. A woollen jumper and bundle of cord trousers lay heaped together at the bottom of his bed. He gave them both a shake, separated them and laid each neatly next to one another.
He rinsed and scraped his hands clean of dried blood and noticed his reflection. The cut on his eye, was a speckled array of blooded blisters surrounding an emerald bruise. His cheekbones dominated his features like Moorland Tors, both easy targets for rocks and fists. He placed the pelt in the sink and began clearing away the grime.
A level below him, beneath his feet, he heard his uncle’s muffled voice ask, ‘How long did it take you?’
Baxter’s pocket watch lay on the sink’s marble side. How fortunate to not come along with them this morning, he tapped the oyster shell and cracked it open, The Roman numerals read half past seven.
‘About two hours, uncle,’ he said, down at the floorboards.
‘Not bad, I did my last one in...’ His uncles voice was too muffled to make out his boast. ‘Soon you’ll be faster than me.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ Baxter gave himself a quick check. Bloodshot eye, swelling socket, he dabbed it with a wet towel, while his mind busied spinning the yarn. He decided, falling in the marsh and hitting his head on a rock should do it.
The object’s mud casing had dried, creating a thin crust resembling a barren landscape. He held it under the dull candlelight. A machine builder’s perfection was clear. Heat was an expected by-product of the devices function. Baxter rolled it under his bed, knowing the evening promised answers.
He finished cleaning himself, dressed and ran downstairs to join his family for dinner.
‘Have you cleaned the kennels?’ Nicholas asked as he placed a hot pan full of rabbit stew on the dining room table.
‘I’ve already done them both, last week.’ Baxter pulled out a chair.
‘They need doing again, your father keeps feeding Parkin pork to Butler.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Baxter tucked in closer to the table.
‘Nothing, just rather rich.’
‘Why me?’ Baxter asked.
‘Your father’s busy, besides, I think his arm’s been...’
Baxter noticed his uncle hold his thought as though he wanted to say something else.
‘Malfunctioning.’ Nicholas whispered.
‘Uncle? He won’t hear us.’ Baxter spooned the stew.
‘Wait for him,’ Nicholas snapped.
‘He won’t come down.’ Baxter studied Nicholas, the regretful, almost fearful expression switching fast to one soberer. But his uncle didn’t say anything. Instead they shared a silence and the dining room clock chimed gently.
‘You can do it in the morrow,’ Nicholas said, at last. ‘Until then, go and fetch three glasses of milk. I’ll tell your father dinner’s ready.’
III
Upstairs in the tower, Alfred stood half hunched over gears, springs and cracked dials reflected his moonlight complexion. His oil-stained shirt hung from his body like a rabid’s rags, button less with a torn left sleeve freed his clockwork arm. He opened its metal hand to a claw and it squealed a beg for grease. The sound sent a quiver of sharp shots to his human arm and peppered it in gooseflesh.
The old attic brimmed with his broken ideas, weathered parts with mileage meters clouded by time far beyond any recognition of their former functions – he kept them the closest. He heard the faint sound of his family’s dinning formalities but he ignored them, instead he pondered repairing th
e awkward and defiant arm. Under the gaslight, the spokes, gears and various pistons showed early signs of corrosion, and it was as he feared.
The Moorland humidity got into all his machines, clogged up their springs, clouded their dials, even with Alfred’s purpose-built extractors, it somehow beat them. It all needed replacing.
He jerked his arm in a stiff thrust. It hit the bench, rattled his Winchester rifle. The barrel flashed green like sunken sea treasure. A half drank bottle of Parisian Absinthe was at the far end of the bench, it gave the murky illusion and offered him the other council. He wrenched the cork between teeth and downed a mouthful. The drink’s blissful journey stroked his insides.
There was a knock at the door.
‘What do you want?’ His voice cracked.
‘Dinner, come join us,’ Nicholas nagged from behind the wood.
Alfred closed his eyes. ‘I’m working–’
‘I’ve prepared supper,’ his younger brother proclaimed. ‘Your lot for the dogs again?’
IV
Baxter ruffled Butler’s coat. His uncle returned and walked around him, picking up the large bowl of stew. He wore the same expression he always did after talking with Baxter’s father.
‘Is he still busy?’ Baxter asked.
‘No, he’s still working.’ Nicholas took a seat at the table. ‘Grab a bowl, before any of this goes cold.’
They loaded up the rabbit stew and tore both corners off the bread. Baxter baptised half his piece in the broth.
‘Am I going to have to wait all evening for you to tell about what happened?’ Nicholas pointed his spoon at his nephew.
‘I skinned it, just as you asked.’
‘Yes, I know, I mean what happened to your eye?’
Baxter sat back from the light. ‘I fell in a marsh, bashed it on a rock.’
Nicholas spooned a large pool of rabbit stew and blew on it. ‘Were you chased by his friends?’
‘Who?’
‘The wolves,’ Nicholas shook his head in disbelief, ‘who else?’
‘No, I slipped. The pelt had fleas, a few of them bit me.’
‘How unfortunate,’ his uncle snickered. ‘I sincerely hope you bit the buggers back.’ Nicholas leant closer, took another slice of bread. ‘A nasty cut you have, looks like you hit your head with some force. Come more into the light.’
Baxter hesitated and finally, slowly moved closer to his uncle.
‘Disgusting, must have been some fall.’
Baxter sat back, shrugged, and carried on at his stew.
‘So, the truth now,’ Nicholas said, ‘which one of the three little pigs was it?’
Baxter didn’t answer.
‘Do you want me to have a word with their father? You must take me for an idiot, Baxter.’
‘I’ve told you, it was a rock.’
‘Shaped like a fist, was it?’
The door to the dining room creaked open. Alfred’s frame appeared and stepped into the light.
‘Good evening Father.’ Baxter stood. ‘Shall I prepare a plate for you?’
‘No, I can manage.’ Alfred’s mechanical hand shook as he tried to help himself.
Baxter hesitated to aid him.
‘How was your day?’
Surprised by the question, Baxter struggled to find the words to respond.
‘Your boy killed one of those wolves, from the mountains. The pelt’s in his room.’ Nicholas sat upright. ‘I’ve not inspected it thoroughly yet. Nevertheless, Alfred, from what I’ve seen, he did an excellent job skinning it.’
A snigger left Alfred’s mouth. Baxter noticed it and sat upright in his chair.
‘Well done.’ Alfred held his plate down to the dog, gave away half the contents, patted the dog on the head and disappeared back upstairs.
Nicholas slammed his spoon, got up, stormed over to the food and seized a second helping.
Baxter clutched his spoon as hard as he could. ‘Thank you, uncle, for telling father–’
‘Enough, Baxter. Carry on eating, then your chores, please. And on the marrow, clean out those bloody kennels. I’m getting sick from asking you.’
Baxter got up.
‘Not now,’ said Nicholas. ‘Finish your food–’
‘I’m done,’ said Baxter.
V
The yellow glow of the City extended above the village walls to the veil of the night as though it pulled down the evening darkness. Baxter could not see the city, just its nightly glow in the distance. After building each of his compasses, he always needed to triangulate for the levels of magnetism coming from that direction. Tall fantastic structures made from iron, steel and god only knew what else. He would dream about what they rendered. Stories from traders about large flying machines hovering between buildings, relaying communications, tall chimneys towering above buildings, sucking smoke from the factories’ industrial machines, pumping the steam away from the street levels, it all fascinated him.
He sped up the washing, eager to get back to his quarters. He let the dog back out, cleaned his kennel and threw the left-over rabbit carcass in the bowl, grabbed several shovels full of firewood from the outhouse and placed them on the fire. He rushed the pyramid structure of coal, kindling and wood. Lit it with flint and the flames came to life. They cut into their fuel and embraced one another.
Baxter’s mind calmed as he sat and watched the flames; slowly they grew into a delight, akin to their heat.
‘Baxter, get up.’
His uncle startled him. ‘I was just finishing off my chores.’
Nicholas held out a pair of green leather boxing gloves. Stitched below the knuckles on both was the embroidery of an emerald Nightingale, taking flight. ‘Put these on.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? I’m going to teach you to fight, why else?’
Baxter rolled his eyes and got to his feet. ‘I’ve completed my chores.’
‘Including the kennels?’
‘Yes, and the kennels.’ Baxter slipped by him and headed down to the hallway.
‘Good, so you’ll be warmed up already,’ Nicholas said. ‘First lesson is blocking punches so you don’t get any further scars.’
Baxter touched his swollen eye. ‘I’m not a numbskull; fists don’t solve problems.’
He left his uncle’s gesture and locked the downstairs doors. Baxter looked back and watched Nicholas clap both the dusty gloves together and return slowly upstairs.
VI
Baxter’s window frame offered a sleeping cove. Rounded off masonry, small to most people, but to Baxter it was large enough to get comfortable and formulate his dreams. The village lanterns went out one by one, starting at the square and working their way toward the Beechcroft manor. Baxter gathered together all his chamber’s cushions and created a nest in the window’s frame. He stared up at the heavens and welcomed the feeling of insignificance. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Baxter worked every day. He was his uncle’s hand. His father occasionally appeared from the tower to do the less taxing mechanical graft like fault check the plumbing, the gas central heating, the pipes, the house gas lights, the clocks. On his back Alfred unscrewed and screwed, wiped away old grease on cogs he’d hold under light sources to get a better look at them. He replaced rusted rivets, panels, springs and cables. He’d fix gears, fix doors, fix windows, fix himself a drink – he always left a mess and always complained. Uncle Nicholas was the farmer. He milked the cow, replaced the hay, rode the horses, chopped the wood, walked the dogs, hunted food, set up traps, slaughtered the livestock, cooked the food, sheared the flock, and took care of his family. Baxter also rode the horses, fed the animals, washed the windows, washed the pots, did the laundry, cleaned the floors, sinks, toilets, oven, stove, stables, barns, coops, outhouse and kennels, collected rivets, screws, nails, big gears, small gears, magnets, springs, coils, wire and whatever else his father left behind from his half-completed jobs; Baxter often finished them for him. He’d watch his father try to fix, tr
y to screw, try to see, try to stand, try to give up. The man muttered in a drunken madness to ghosts distracting him, he would waddle up to his tower to drink, to crash, to bang, and dream about god knows what. The banging from his father’s chamber would always alert uncle Nicholas, he’d stare at the sound, as though it vibrated hard enough to form a ghastly material. His uncle’s eyes concealed his thoughts.
Baxter shot awake. Another bang from his father’s side of the house. Was there even a bang? He looked at his bedroom door, it had opened slightly. Baxter got up and closed it.
On weekends, Baxter escaped back to his out-cove and returned to the pages of the forgotten writers, the ones who perished in the world’s great fires.
His Uncle’s book collection had specific guidelines, all of them issued with a firm tone. If returned creased or cover scuffed, dog-ears were exchanged for thick ears, but the rules didn’t stop the internal narration by his uncle, he had such a marvellous voice for the tales of high adventure. The chirping birds and hustle of the weekend market supplied the background music, a setting for the pacier titles. And the clatter of storekeepers, desperate for a sale gave a bleak backdrop for the darker thrillers. On any day, his mind refused to focus on lengthy sentences, the village became Baxter’s private narrative.
Today was the most distracting, fathers with sons back from a successful shoot gloated together up the square to the other less fortunate hunters. The Tong family clutched birds, gripping around their sorry legs. They’d kill pigeons, doves, magpies and even ravens. The filthy men set up their market stall on Fridays and Saturdays selling pies. Certain villagers bought them, under the impression they’d seized a deal for cheap beef. His uncle always told him to avoid the village fetes, especially come the harvest, and to never eat anything made by the Tong family.
Even the Tong boy’s father, Percy Tong, scowled over Nicholas’ attire, laughing at him with the other men from the market.
Dark Age Page 3
