Lessons From Underground

by Bryan Methods

  However, in New Rush, everybody had an enemy. Smile at one man and you make an enemy of another. Some of them thought I was too clever. Some of them thought I should only associate with other whites. And some of them had been beaten by Hunter. They resented him but found him a difficult target. It wasn’t uncommon to notice some hostile party following me during an errand. I learned to walk silently, to listen for the footsteps behind me, but that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes they cornered me and beat me just to laugh at me.

  Hunter soon caught wind of this, but I refused his help. I thought it was shameful, to be pitied. That changed at breakfast one day, when Miss Handle asked me about my future plans. I told her that I was obliged to join the navy upon my return to England.

  ‘The military?’ Hunter said. ‘You’re going to get eaten alive.’

  ‘I hope to focus on science there,’ I said.

  ‘Always science with you,’ he replied. ‘You still have to get through basic training. You’re gonna die.’

  ‘You almost sound as though you’d like to help me,’ I said.

  ‘Just a warning,’ he said. He knew that if he offered, I would be too proud to accept. ‘I guess I could use you as a sparring partner. But that’s for my benefit.’

  Hunter was what we call a vigilante. In his heart he wanted a peaceful world, free of danger, but his way toward that was violence. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you I didn’t believe in violence then. But I came to believe that the threat of force might really be all that keeps bad people from making victims of the weak. So I joined Hunter on his patrols.

  When there was nothing to do, he trained me. Trained me to be fit, to be fast. Lessons that stuck with me for life. I would follow him, but where he liked to be loud and brash, I liked to be silent. He called me ‘Gray Owl’ because of how quietly I could move. We would stop robberies, break up fights, protect the vulnerable new arrivals, rescue cats from trees—that sort of thing. Small works, but we were proud. And I worked hard, wanting to be as good as him. Maybe even better.

  The more we did it, the more we believed in ourselves. If I was a gray owl, he was a bald eagle. He loved spectacle and bombast—very American—whereas I took advantage of his distractions. We even took to fighting with claws on our hands. Hunter had read about warrior monks fighting in the style of animals. Though we had no inkling of how those monks actually fought, as an eagle and an owl, we found it a fine inspiration.

  He made me teach him to make firecrackers and smoke bombs, until at times I worried our peacekeeping had become a show. Magic—he was always a fan of magic. Of course, illusion is just science plus deception, but for him the deception was crucial and the science more of a shameful secret. We fought over that many a time, though never seriously. The kind of fight that lets you know you have a true friend. Of course, our little imaginary world couldn’t last forever. One day we found some men beating the owner of a small mine—a place, or claim, where only one diamond had ever been found, months earlier. Hunter and I intervened, and afterward, the owner tried to reward us with the deed to his mine. Out of gratitude, though I suspect he was also growing tired of the dangers of New Rush.

  ‘I can’t accept it,’ Hunter said, ‘but you can give it to the school.’

  A noble gesture, but that was the beginning of the end for us. I was happy because the deed gave me a direct connection to the diamonds, allowing me to write my papers. For Hunter, it was more than that. A group of black and mixed-race business owners had helped Miss Handle found her school. To own a mine as well—this was a symbol of progress, of their growing influence.

  But the diamond business was cutthroat. Certain men wanted a monopoly. They were angry at those of us who pushed back against the coercion, the beatings. They were angry because they couldn’t beat us, and the Hero of New Rush was becoming too popular for them to slander. And so they took the children from us. Four of them, in the night, from their beds in the school. They offered us a simple deal—sign over the rights to the mines or they would end the children’s lives.

  Such was life in New Rush. Still, we were fighters, and we were flush with arrogance. We thought we were invincible, and honestly, there was nobody who would compare to us in a fair fight. But that’s why nobody pictured a fair fight.

  Hunter and I went to the mine where the children were being held, armed with our fireworks and our smoke, convinced nobody could stop up. And of course we came up against a hired mob armed with knives, guns, clubs. There were more of them than there were of us, and yet we thought it was all a bluff. No one would hurt the children. Not really. ‘Just you try it,’ I remember Hunter saying. ‘See what happens if you harm one hair on their heads.’

  Only this man, Hubert Fields, he wasn’t bluffing. He was what you might call genuinely evil. One of the Englishmen who believe that a drop of black blood makes you somehow less human. Less worthy of life. There were, and still are, many of those.

  Hubert enjoyed showing off his wealth, and inside his mine he had a large combustion engine. A great machine with a furnace that drove great big wheels around and around. It was meant to move large belts that pulled things out of the mine. And he had one student, this lad named Samson, with his wrists tied to the belt. All he had to do was pull down a lever and it would draw the boy into the machine, into these great big wheels. The three other children were tied in the same way, their wrists tied to Samson’s so that they would follow one by one. All for show, I thought. A grand gesture.

  ‘I’ll deal with Fields,’ I said to Hunter. ‘You keep his men off me.’

  I truly thought it would be that simple. Well, Hubert saw me coming for him and shot at me, but he took so long about it that I had no trouble finding some cover. But that’s where I made my mistake.

  ‘Let the children go, Hubert,’ I called out to him. ‘You’re not a monster, you’re an Englishman. It’s not in you to hurt another human being.’

  I really believed that would be the end of it. Only Hubert was more monster than I could have ever guessed. As if to prove me wrong, he pulled down that lever and set the machine in motion. Perhaps he assumed I would be able to stop it. I can’t be certain. But that machine moved so very fast, it was only a second, maybe two, before the boy’s hands would be crushed between the two wheels.

  The only thing I could think to do was jam something metal between those moving parts, to stop up the wheels. And the only metal object within reach was the claw on my left hand, made of kitchen knives and broken mining tools I’d put together. There wasn’t time for anything else.

  It didn’t work exactly as I’d hoped. The claw was crushed around my hand, taking most of the skin with it. But the machine stopped long enough for me to pull loose one of the blades in my other hand and cut loose the ropes, freeing young Samson. By then my left hand was being pulled ever more into the machine, and I had to pull myself free with the right. In the end I lost most of the skin from both hands in the effort.

  I’m not sure exactly what happened after that. My memories are confused. The fighting stopped, presumably when hired hands realized this was more than they had been paid for. I remember at the end it was only me and Hunter and the crying children. Alone with the results of our arrogance.

  In the days afterward, I poured myself into writing my papers. I refused to see Hunter when he came to talk. It’s the only time I turned my back on someone in need. But I was too frightened we might put the children in danger again.

  Hunter seemed to abandon his hero idea, or at least the idea of being a vigilante. I always imagined him continuing his fight through a thing like politics. If he did, he was on the losing side.

  Nobody arrested Hubert. Though a few years later, he went wandering around Lake Nyasa and was one day found dead from a bullet wound. They called it a shooting accident. I never cared to investigate.

  But Hubert’s brother, Basil, became a rich and powerful man. Basil Fields always worked to take away the rights of people like Hunter, to take away
all the freedoms that had attracted Hunter in the first place. I regret not staying to help, but in a way, I no longer believed I could. I left New Rush without saying goodbye to its fallen hero. I never thought I would see him again.

  I completed my basic training with the Royal Navy, thanks in no small part to what I learned from Hunter, and was a junior science officer for about five years, from 1874 on. But when I heard a new war might be coming in South Africa, I pictured being sent there on a combat ship and I couldn’t abide the idea. I retired from the navy to attend university, and never set foot in the Cape Colony again.”

  XIII

  A Note to the Headmaster

  he next day was a Sunday. I half-expected Mr. Jackdaw to be waiting for us at church, but the day passed uneventfully. I thought about going to talk to Mr. Scant again, but he kept his distance from me, and I could sense that telling me that story had exhausted him. It rained all day, so I mostly stayed indoors, reading my detective novel and watching the rain fall on the twisted thorny twigs that would soon transform into Mother’s roses.

  On Monday, the results of the fencing trial were posted on the Judner’s School notice board. My name was there, but not where I’d been hoping for. I found it under Team Reserve Members. In fact, the main team hadn’t changed at all.

  Chudley clapped his hands on my shoulders. “You made it!”

  “Onto the reserves,” I said. “Reserves never do anything.”

  “You only started a few months ago!” Chudley said, incredulous. “And we’re second years. All these, they’re all fourth and fifth years. What, did you expect to be team captain already?”

  “Not captain,” I mumbled.

  “Cheer up,” he said. “Tell you what, I’ll get you something from the tuck shop. How does an iced bun sound?”

  “It’s only nine in the morning,” I said.

  “That’s why it’s a treat.”

  “We don’t have time before morning assembly.”

  “So we’ll sneak them in.”

  “Will they even have iced buns in the morning?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  So that’s what we did. There were no cakes on display at the tuck shop, but when we asked the shopkeeper—whose real name nobody knew—she said they had been delivered but she hadn’t got them out yet. Chudley pleaded with her, saying we had a special event to celebrate, and she eventually conceded.

  This is how we found ourselves smuggling buns into assembly. We waited until the headmaster began his droning morning talk before we started to sneak our first mouthfuls, and within moments we were drawing envious looks from all around us. Soon both Chudley and I were trying to stop ourselves from laughing, our fingers covered in sticky icing.

  Of course, one of the prefects stopped us outside assembly, hurling accusations, but I said, “Can you prove it?” Flustered, he told us not to do it again.

  After a week of escaping a burning building, failing to prevent the theft of a priceless diamond, and hearing Mr. Scant tell a harrowing story from his past, a day at school learning about Pythagoras or vocative plurals felt like a holiday.

  At lunchtime, Chudley and I found ourselves staring at our lunchboxes without much enthusiasm.

  “I’m still full from the iced bun,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Chudley. “Though I quite fancy another bun, actually.”

  We met one another’s eye, and no more needed to be said. The shop’s lady gave us a disapproving look when we bought our third and fourth iced buns of the day, but she made no comment.

  We returned to our seats in the dining hall to discover someone had stolen the fruits from our lunchboxes, which suited us just fine.

  “Good riddance, banana,” said Chudley.

  “Good riddance, Granny Smith,” I said. “Wait, isn’t your family business something to do with fruit?”

  “Imports. That’s why I’ve had more than enough of it for one lifetime,” Chudley said, regarding his iced bun as though it were a bar of solid gold. “The worst part is when there’s a whole crate of stuff that wouldn’t sell. We have to eat it before it goes rotten.”

  “Where does the company buy the fruit from?” I asked. “Anything from Africa?”

  “Africa, India, Brazil. All sorts of places,” he said.

  “Have you ever met someone from Africa?”

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I met someone the other day,” I said. “Oh, actually, no, that’s wrong. He was from America, but he lives in Africa. And I suppose his family came from Africa. His ancestors, I mean.”

  “One of my great aunts married a doctor from Morocco,” Chudley said. “He’s so funny. He always has a joke for anything you can think of. Though I remember he got angry once because he was reading an article in the newspaper. It called people from Africa ‘barbarians.’ He said the people around the Mediterranean Sea have more in common with each other than they do with people from England. So Rome’s more like Casablanca than London. Hadn’t thought of that. We know people from England and Scotland are different, so why do we think all of Africa is just the same? I don’t suppose all of Morocco is the same, even.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “My tutor is from Lithuania. It’s part of Russia, but he gets angry if you say, ‘Lithuania, in Russia.’ He wants it to become its own country again. Even in one place, you get a lot of different history.”

  That gave me more to think about. I kept picturing the face of Mr. Hunter. I wondered what Aurelian had told him, to make him attack Mr. Scant, his old friend. Despite all that Mr. Scant had told me, I could think only of how much I didn’t know.

  After school, Mr. Jackdaw was waiting for me. He looked a little less polished than usual, with his moustache a little disheveled and dark circles under his eyes. He kept his practiced smile, though, as he doffed his hat to me.

  “Who’s that?” said Chudley. “He looks suspicious.”

  “Oh, uh—he’s a Diplexito Engineering associate,” I said. “Father must have sent him to pick me up. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Mr. Jackdaw led me to a rather ostentatious motorcar, and we climbed into the back. After telling the driver to drive on, he let out a deep sigh.

  “This is a pickle we’re in and no mistaking it,” he said. “We’re on our own, Ollie, my boy. We have to get the Star back. It’s imperative. I’m not up in front of the firing squad just yet, but if we fail to find the diamond, it won’t be long. I’ve been speaking with Mr. Scant, and he wants nothing to do with this. Do you think you can convince him?”

  “Don’t you think this has gone far enough, Mr. Jackdaw?” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to just come clean about the whole thing? Then you can have all the police officers you want to help catch Aurelian.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said. “And I can’t promise there will be no consequences for you, either.”

  “Me? What have I done?”

  Mr. Jackdaw took out a small metal flask and took a drink from it. “Well, it was you who allowed the Binns boy to get his hands on the Star. You and Mr. Scant took it from where it belonged. Probably I can ensure that the blame falls solely on my head, but that’s only a probably. I’m not in a position to give guarantees.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He looked away immediately.

  After a time, I asked, “What exactly has Mr. Scant said?”

  “He doesn’t want to see me,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “All he told me is that he doesn’t think he can help me. That he can’t fight at all any more. Do you know why? Because I certainly don’t.”

  “Not completely, but one of the men we saw at the Tower, he was . . . I think someone Mr. Scant knew when he was young. A friend or a kind of teacher. And now Mr. Scant’s not himself.”

  “It’s a problem. We need your mentor’s talents.”

  “If I go, he’ll come too. But I don’t think he can fight like he usually does. Not now.”

  “You can,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “Y
ou’ve learned a lot from him, Ollie.”

  “But I’m not like him. I’m just learning. I wasn’t even good enough to get on the fencing team. I want to say I’m strong, but I’m not strong like Mr. Scant. Not even close.”

  Mr. Jackdaw sat back in frustration. “If only we had someone else on hand who could fight like that. I’d feel a lot better about our chances.”

  A thought came to my mind. “There is someone I know. Someone strong like Mr. Scant. Here in Tunbridge Wells.”

  “You mean it? Who?”

  “I’ll show you.” I tapped on the glass that separated us from the driver, and Mr. Jackdaw turned a handle that wound it down. “Can you take us to Monson Road?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the driver. “What number?”

  “I don’t know the number,” I said. “But it’s a butcher’s shop. Troughton’s Butchers.”

  XIV

  Matilda Troughton

  elcome to Trought-wurgh!”

  The Valkyrie looked at me aghast. I nodded and gave her a little smile. Mr. Jackdaw stepped into the little butcher’s shop after me and grabbed my arm, squeezing it tight. He stopped a moment later, pretending nothing had happened.

  “Can we talk?” I asked her.

  “I, er—is it something important?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, then, I’ll get Pa to cover for me and, erm, I suppose I had better change. One moment.”

  When she had slipped away though the door behind the counter, I turned to Mr. Jackdaw, but he continued staring forward, shaking his head.

  “I know she’s a bit terrifying,” I said, “but—”

  He looked at me with his eyes wide. “Who is that angel? I must say, that’s the finest woman upon whom I’ve ever had the privilege to gaze.”

  “The Valkyrie?” I said. Matilda Troughton had clever eyes and a handsome sort of face, but she was so tall and muscular that I couldn’t imagine any sculptor including her in his heavenly choir.

  “She’s the Valkyrie?” said Mr. Jackdaw. “I’ve read many reports about her. But I had no idea she was such a vision. And from everything I’ve read, she’s a bright one too. Whatever is she doing in a place like this?”