‘Beechcroft thinks he’s off to meet the king dressed in those bright green velvets.’ said Percy.
‘Looks like a set of my mother’s curtains.’ said another.
On the occasions, his uncle sparked conversations beyond, ‘how much for this?’ and ‘get your filthy hands off me’, past the slurs and rudeness, he’d take little in acknowledgement. Instead, Baxter took it in forms of plump fists trying to cut his skin with the harsh reminder his blood tasted like iron.
The nasty comments were nothing compared to the looks they gave his father’s mechanised arm, back when he accompanied them out of the house.
Baxter allowed his mind to wander again. He felt the tiredness from reading, his eyes ready to close and give away the precious hours between jobs. He climbed out of the cove and stretched, back cracking, eyes closed tight as he let out a howl. His quarter’s clock was minutes away from calling in the late morning hour of eleven – could it be enough? He doubted.
Two days ago, he’d given up trying to crack the object open and instead decided it needed a clean. As Baxter applied the polish to the steel core body of the unit, a bright shine revealed a scratched surface of mirror-like silver.
Excited by the discovery, he decided this morning was going to be a succession of breakthroughs, he was certain of it.
He slid under his bed, removed the wooden planks from the floor and reached in. There wrapped in cloth, the round object waited for him. He rolled it out from under the bed and lifted it onto his workbench. He unwrapped the fabric and inspected the orb’s metal casing, rubbing his hands lightly over it. Cold, as you’d expect from any metal. Each section felt different to the last, the copper had the warmest feel, thin yet durable, the brass solid, but the silver felt soft enough to cut with his fingernails. Rivets ran along each of the metals seams, hand built. Only one of the rivets stood out among the rest; the others were of a rose gold but this one, silver, and slightly off-centre by a fraction. Baxter’s eye twitched at such an imperfection, enough to plague any engineer. Had the inventor run out of rivets and patience? Water still washed around inside, afflicting Baxter with images of rusted wonders.
He held the object up with one hand and rotated it as far as his wrist permitted. Light reflected off the surface in distinct oranges, reds and pinks, they cast out brighter than the village beacon.
He cleared his desk and grabbed a stack of nearby books. He wedged the object in the corner of the wall and rested a magnifying glass in front, then secured it. The orb was an abstract scaled-down version of Terra with brass landmasses, silver oceans and copper ice caps. For a moment, he wondered if the engineer who built it had intended it to look this way.
Inside his workbench drawer, he removed the hammer and largest of five chisels. He knew each of them well, rarely had he made use of the fifth, and although handed down from his father it appeared he hadn’t made use for it either.
The clock at the far end of the room readied to strike the final hour of the morning. Baxter double knotted his boots then rubbed them back and forth on the wood. Each one squeaked into the varnished wooden floorboards giving him a solid grip. He grounded himself firmly in the boots’ tread, legs spread, weight forwards, rigid, ready to strike, and lined the chisel in the slight groove from an attempt he’d already made a day prior and held it there in position. His hand twitched. He held it too tight. He loosened his grip and raised the hammer over his head. Tensed his muscles. Locked his elbow. Then unlocked it, quickly remembering a lesson from his Uncle Nicholas.
‘Be a whip Baxter, strength can come through a man’s dexterity.’
He relaxed the arm, and calmed his breathing, closed his eyes and located his core muscles. He did his best to relax them, to prepare for the sudden burst of energy to spring out of him pouncing fast, like a wolf.
In the rest of the house, all the clocks’ minute hands also readied themselves. Their springs energy moved the cogs within, as the pendulums strained their final tick. All of them – twenty-three wall clocks and the mahogany grandfather in the ground floor hallway with its brass bell and iron hammer – with minuscule precision, struck together. The village bell rang out and the symphony had begun.
Baxter smacked down hard. The chisel slipped, the orb span off the desk and crashed into his mirror’s frame, the glass cracked. He chased after the orb, grabbed it, and locked it between his knees.
At the second strike, the orb shot off, hit the wall. Baxter grabbed it, tried again.
The third, fourth and fifth strikes didn’t even scratch the surface.
He picked it up, missed the seventh, eighth and ninth. He jammed the orb between the wall and his bookcase, struck it a tenth time, nothing.
Finally, this was it. He held his breath, closed his eyes and opened them slowly. The line of the seam gleamed up him. It wanted to hatch, it wanted to show him its wonders and mysteries. ‘Be a whip, not a hammer, be a whip, not a hammer.’
Images of a wave, the transfer of motion shuddered through Baxter’s mind as he unleashed the strike down faster than he’d ever hit anything before.
It splintered. Air hissed from a fresh hole amongst the dongs of the clocks. He hit it one final time, the rivets burst, the orb hatched open – and revealed a highly organised system of cogs, chambers, copper piping and pistons. Baxter held it up to the light and tipped out a pool of brown marsh water. He wedged a magnifier in his eye socket and inspected the metal internals for signs of rust, there were none he could find inside the new universe looking back at him. The craftsmanship rivalled his father’s, the intricate piping smaller than he’d ever seen. It bent and twisted around the internal cogs, all of which still moved against one another with only a few nudged out of position.
Picking out a screwdriver, he cracked open the shaft belonging to the largest of the three chambers. The seal snapped and a tiny amount of gas came rushing out. Baxter coughed, a higher pitch than normal – hydrogen gas? He looked at his chisel, a lucky escape he thought. Several scorch marks painted the components with blackened carbon scoring. Many of the stains appeared caused by an intense temperature with areas of the metal case bubbled by heat. Behind them, he dug in his screwdriver and discovered, just as he suspected, two cold silver canisters.
‘No wonder it was so light to carry,’ he said to himself.
He removed the free components, held the rest in place; and tipped the marsh water on to his floorboards. A vision of the murky water seeping through, dripping onto his uncle’s forehead as he sat eyes closed, waving a finger around while listening to some of his Mozart records, tickled Baxter. He placed the orb down on his workbench, opened a drawer and removed a notebook. He jotted the following:
Inspection of the gyros and the rotational relay of the magnets in correlation to the weights, show this device creates its propulsion.
Roving? Possible, due to the shape, however no sign of any grip needed for the moorland terrain, could suggest why it ended up in a swamp, not worth ruling out.
Seafaring? The presence of water but gas? It didn’t make sense.
A flying device? Hard to say at this stage, no sign of it having been part of another mechanism, an airship part broke away from a ship’s hull? The use of hydrogen gas suggests it as a power source for the rotation of the internals, a rocketed, gas powered version of piston steam power?
At the far edge of Baxter’s workbench, stacked together, were a collection of engineering books, The Britannic Clockwork Guide, Official Turbines Guild Manual and several of his father’s early notebooks, dishevelled, worn-out and useless. He’d spent the morning checking their indexes and found nothing, not one entry under gas propulsion. As he skimmed through his father’s notes he discovered pencilled diagrams of relays, springs and guidelines in turning a clock’s kinetic energy into power. But nothing about gas, not even a side note.
On his dresser, another pile of borrowed titles roused his thoughts to downstairs and his uncles’ vast collection. Baxter pondered over the thought. He did
have many books down there, but the correct one? Baxter gathered up the titles in a hurry and ran down to his uncle’s level.
Stood outside his chamber door, a draft tickled at Baxter’s neck. It was a quarter past one on a Monday. Baxter pressed an ear to the door and listened for signs of his uncle. Nicholas would either be outside feeding the larger animals or somewhere pottering about on the farm chewing on one of his preferred lunchtime chicken drumsticks.
The doorknob wouldn’t give. Baxter pinched the two needles he had in his trouser, stared at the lock, guilt quivered his lungs as he stood still, drawing the cold hallway air. He knocked twice, nothing. He tried again hoping Nicholas would answer, hoping the temptation to pick the lock would pass.
A fly buzzed past Baxter’s ear. He swiped away at it. It buzzed back at him. Baxter waved his free hand about to shoo the tiny creature. The fly, unfazed by the thrashing human, landed on the wall behind him.
The door to his uncle’s chamber groaned open. Nicholas stood broad over his nephew in a cloud of invisible amber scented cologne, his size matched the smile across his face – not a happy to see you smile, but more in the way middle aged men do at someone they wish would swiftly leave their vicinity. Then Nicholas noticed the fly. In a rapid motion, he snatched the top book from the pile his nephew held and squashed the bug instantly.
‘Detestable things.’ Nicholas wiped the guts off the book and on the opposite wall. ‘Returning these lot, are you? Rather quick.’
‘I’ve read all of them.’ Baxter smiled back.
The lines on his uncle’s forehead gathered together. ‘You’ve read three books in two weeks? Did you know, it took me a year to read my first book.’
‘You must have been somewhat occupied.’
‘It was a spy novel. Full of suspense. Made me flustered. How it took me a year I’ll never truly know. I do remember how I kept losing my page, until I realised I could just fold in the corner, which upset your father of course, it was his book. Anyway, what’s next then, huh? I suppose you’ll be wanting to pick a few others?’
‘Only if I’m not disturbing you?’
Nicholas opened the door wider. ‘Come on, but be quick. I was only just picking another one for myself. Be sure to close the door behind you. No, not fully closed you need to give it a good bash, with your foot, yes, better. Sit down and let’s begin our assessment. No, you’re heading toward my chair.’ Nicholas stepped between Baxter and the black leather armchair and offered his hand outward, gesturing his nephew takes the green fabric chair next to him.
Nicholas’ quarters were the cleanest rooms in the manor. Green plants outnumbered the furniture, and their leaves licked at even greener sections of what little wall space separated the many bookshelves. Nicholas had travelled far seeking rare editions to add to his collection. Cookery guides, classical poetry, conditioning text books and obscure religious titles from far beyond the Eurasia, written in languages neither Baxter nor Nicholas could understand. ‘What will it be this time?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Another set of adventure stories? How about some Parisian detectives to whet your whistle, they always do good at delivering pages packed with punches and there’s plenty of totty laced about in them to boot, not to mention government conspiracy.’ He waggled his eyebrows.
Baxter scratched his head. ‘I’m struggling.’
‘Yes, a lot to choose from, isn’t there.’
‘No, not from the choice, it’s a project I’m working on.’
‘A new project?’ said his uncle. ‘It’s always good to get your head in ideas.’ He lit the tip of his ivory pipe. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘No. It’s your chambers, uncle.’
‘It would be rude of me not to ask my guest, Baxter. Especially as you yourself don’t smoke.’
Baxter gave his uncle a wave to continue.
‘It’s called manners, Baxter, manners. And may I suggest you get some?’ He looked down at Baxter’s boots.
‘My boots?’ said Baxter, surprised. ‘Gosh I’m so sorry, I didn’t think to take them off.’
‘I gather you have at the least cleaned them since our hunt?’
‘Yes. Of course, I have.’
‘As clean as outdoor boots can be I bet? No doubt my chamber floors will now stink of wolf guts and whatever else you’ve been trampling around in as late.’ He tossed a towel down to his nephew’s feet. ‘Take them off and place them outside. You don’t see me gallivanting about the manor in my outdoor wellies.’
Baxter untied both boots and placed them outside the door, struggling again to close it behind him.
‘Use your foot, better, you see? It’s all this moorland humidity. Wooden doors enlarge themselves. So…’ Nicholas clapped his hands together, his pipe hanging from between his teeth like a close-to-snapping tree branch. ‘Which genre? Tell you what, how about we both pick each other a book to read from the same genre? We can take notes and share them together.’
Baxter spotted his uncle notice his toes sticking out from the holes in his socks. ‘I don’t suppose you have any engineering books?’
‘Engineering?’ Nicholas opened a dresser drawer and tossed over a folded-together pair of deep black woollen socks.
Baxter caught them.
‘You’re in the wrong quarters, it’s your father’s department. I have some engineering stories, fiction titles, they might be of interest–’
‘No, thank you, Uncle. I need to solve a few problems. Father’s notebooks don’t cover them.’
‘Have you tried asking him?’
Baxter didn’t answer. Instead he exchanged a look to which Nicholas knew why he might have decided not to. ‘Do you not have anything on engineering?’ he asked.
‘Well, yes, I will have, but you need to be a little more specific.’
‘Gas propulsion. Or perhaps gas turbines?’
‘Gas you say?’ Nicholas unleashed a cloud of smoke, but to Baxter, he looked more like he’d deflated.
‘Yes, especially gas propulsion.’
Nicholas gave his bookcases a relaxed, lazy stare which held thoughts too distant for Baxter to decipher. ‘I’m sorry Baxter, I don’t believe I have such titles.’
Baxter stood and pointed to the top of the bookcase sitting between two of the rooms largest plants. ‘There’s one.’
‘Where?’ Nicholas studied the bookshelves, followed his nephew’s ridged point.
‘Between those leaves.’ Baxter walked over and removed the glossy black covered book with gold lettering.
‘How you could spot it when you couldn’t even spot the bloody wolf, there’s certainly a mystery, if ever there was one.’
‘Gas Is Our Nation’s Future by Lucian Augustus Seagrave. Quite the mouthful.’
Nicholas rushed forwards. ‘You can’t borrow it.’
‘Why not?’ Baxter flicked through a few of the pages, many of which had drawn diagrams of chambers, gas pipes and systems, metal casing. ‘This is exactly what I need.’ He flicked back to the first few pages. ‘There’s an inscription, To Alfred, my greatest enemy and greatest friend, gas is the Future! Lucian. Father knows the author?’
‘Knew.’ Nicholas snatched the book from him. ‘I can’t lend this one.’
‘For Mother’s sake, I’m not going to blow up the house. I thought you and father trust me?’
‘We do. This book is different, it’s not about the engineering. It’s to do with your father, it’s his copy, and he won’t be happy with you reading it.’
‘I’ll just have to ask him?’
‘You can’t, it’s complicated.’ Nicholas said.
‘Why? Is he going to get upset with me borrowing it?’
‘He will be, yes.’
‘Uncle, you’re being awfully mealy-mouthed.’
Nicholas returned the book to its place. ‘Any other books you’d want to borrow?’
Baxter slouched. ‘It’s the one, like you said there aren’t any others, I need it. I’m sure father wouldn’t mind, besides if he treasures it so
, why do you have it?’
Nicholas’ face riddled with twitches, if Baxter didn’t know his uncle better, he’d go as far to say they were nerves. ‘You promise not to say anything to him?’
‘Of course.’ Baxter smiled while realising he was right, his uncle was nervous.
‘Go upstairs, get your note book. I’ll give you one hour in here to copy whatever it is you want from it, then you’re to return it to the shelf.’
‘You can’t expect me to scribe down everything in an hour? Look at it, look how thick it is, it’ll take me at least a week to finish.’
Nicholas ran a hand through his hair and Baxter noticed it shake as he did so. ‘You can have it for a day.’
‘A day? Uncle, I need at least a week.’
‘Impossible.’ Nicholas let out a long-drawn sigh and took a deep pull on his pipe. ‘Fine,’ he said inside the exhaled smoke, ‘I’ll give you until Wednesday.’
‘Wednesday? Only two days?’
‘Three, counting today.’
‘Uncle, please.’
‘Enough, it’s all you’re getting. Your father would murder me if he found out I lent this to you.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t find out.’
‘He better not, or both our heads will be on the block.’
VII
Baxter sat alone in his chambers and flicked through each of his newly loaned books. Two days of cross referencing, note taking and surprises. Whomever this Lucian was, Baxter could already tell by his diagrams the author cared for details and even had a knack at writing. Every other page held some lavish description, from the importance of metal choice, which mine was best to extract them and how to prepare the metal. It even held a breakdown of the best vendors in the districts. The publishing page claimed the book had printed in 1946 – two decades prior. Baxter looked over at the pile of his father’s notebooks. His scribbly drawings and angular handwriting made the Lucian book appear a masterpiece in comparison.
Outside, Baxter heard his father and uncle’s voices, too distant to make out. Baxter folded the book over and placed it carefully next to the cracked orb, then opened his own notebook and studied his recent drawing. The side diagram spread over several of the pages with a sign of where each of the new clockwork components would correlate. The gas-powered motor, although functional, appeared crude to Baxter. He set out his other schematics for the engines replacement on the opposite side, carefully placed all the components inside and arranged his tools around it, chisel and hammer on the left, screwdriver on the right.
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