by S. E. Grove
The dark hills grew more pronounced, and they climbed out of the forest to overlook a valley. She stood before Sophia, hands outstretched. “You have not yet met fear,” she said, smiling sweetly, and her eyes filled with tears.
Then she placed her right hand on her heart and lifted her palm, as she had the first time she appeared in Boston. The luminous figure that seemed made of crumpled paper faded slightly and then brightened. “You have not yet met fear.” Then she was gone.
“Mother!” Sophia exclaimed, rushing forward. She grasped at the air. “Where are you?” she cried, her own eyes filling with tears. “Come back!”
She looked around wildly for the pale figure, and as her eyes scanned the middle distance she saw the valley before her. Stopping, dazed, she felt herself emerging from the phantom’s spell.
She was at the top of a hill. The forest moss carpeted the ground under her feet and the slope before her. At the hill’s base, the black moss met green grass in a vivid boundary. Beyond it the grass grew tall and lush, dotted by wildflowers that turned expectant faces toward the yellow moon. Spruces, cypresses, and pine trees clustered in the valley. Birches and maples lined a dirt path leading to a stone wall, where a gated entrance stood open. The city of Ausentinia shone in the moonlight, its copper roofs gleaming like dozens of white flames.
“Ausentinia,” Sophia whispered. With trembling fingers, she pulled the map from her pocket. “Defend the illusion, taking the Path of the Chimera. Along it, you may lose yourself, but you will find Ausentinia. When the wind rises, let the old one dwell in your memories, as you have dwelled in the memories of others. Give up the clock you never had. When the wind settles, you will find nothing has been lost.”
Sophia looked out at the city she had wanted for so long to find.
Then she turned to where the moss met the green grass of Ausentinia. From the moment Goldenrod described the nature of the old ones, Sophia had suspected what the map would ask of her. Now she knew for certain.
A sudden cry drew her gaze upward. Seneca, swooping toward her, landed abruptly on her pack. Sophia was thrown off balance by the strength of his descent. “Go back, Seneca,” she said, over her shoulder. She saw the falcon’s dismissive gesture out of the corner of her eye. “Go back,” Sophia insisted. “You will have to guide them here. Tell Goldenrod where I have gone.”
She let herself plummet downhill, her feet moving quickly over the moss. As she did, Seneca opened his wings and pushed off, taking flight. Sophia felt herself gaining momentum, and she began to brake, wondering suddenly if the weight of her pack would pitch her precipitously into Ausentinia. She threw it off, and her descent slowed.
She stopped at the very edge of the Dark Age, looking out onto the dirt path that lay only a short step and yet a whole Age away. “I am ready,” she said, between gasps.
A gust of powerful wind moved through the birch trees closest to her, unsettling their papery leaves so that they fluttered and came free. The wind struck her face, more sudden and violent than she had expected, and the border of Ausentinia moved through her. She disappeared into the memories of another being: the memories of the place where she stood.
She had no sense of her body. If she had a body, that knowledge was gone.
The world was black and red. All was darkness, except for where the sky was pierced by red flame that turned violently white and then streaked to the earth, filling the air with terrible roars and clouds of dust. When the flames turned white, the landscape was briefly illumined, and there was black, black rock in every direction. A raging impatience simmered in the back of her mind, and she knew that this was not her mind, but Ausentinia’s. Impatience and unease—a wish to be everything, to be nothing, to be otherwise. The dark earth, the red flames, the flashes of piercing light, the roaring, and the clouds of dust went on and on. They went on for longer than Sophia thought possible. The restless violence coursed through her, and there seemed no end to it. Flickering somewhere in the endless dark, Sophia in her own self felt a spark of terror: a fear that it would go on forever.
Give up the clock you never had, she reminded herself.
She had to lose track of time, as wholly and irretrievably as she could, so that she would not spend years wandering aimlessly through the Clime’s memories: so that the memories of Ausentinia would not erase her own. She could understand the dread all who had ever become Lachrima must have felt—the great horror of being swallowed whole by an ancient vastness. And she could sense the impulse all who had become Lachrima must have followed—the impulse to cling to oneself fiercely, as if clinging to a rock in a great ocean of time. But this, she knew, was not the way. The way was to give up oneself, to give up one’s sense of time—to let go of the rock, to float.
Sophia plunged forward, letting herself plummet through the memories the way she had plunged downhill, the way she had rushed through the beaded map. She moved, and the dark vanished. In a moment, she had passed from a burning world of darkness to a world of water. Waves rose and fell around her. A massive, brilliant moon that seemed close enough to touch hung on the horizon. A steady sense of purpose had replaced the reckless violence: Ausentinia gazed at the moon and felt a stirring of something like contentment. Agitation still lurked below the surface of the waves, but in the air above them was tranquility. Sophia let herself float again, urging herself more quickly through the memories. The waves disappeared. Ice curved away from her in every direction, and the sun hung limply in a pale sky. As she let the time give way, slipping through her fingers rapidly, and then more rapidly, straining her own limits, the ice continued, and only the flickering light of the sun—day and night and day again—assured her that time was indeed passing.
The ice seemed interminable: ice and indifference. A penetrating, immobilizing indifference descended until Sophia could hardly recall anything beyond it. Struggling against a sense of panic, she pushed onward; the endlessness of this unrecognizable world, these incomprehensible memories, threatened at the edges of her consciousness like a terrible promise. There had to be something familiar—somewhere, some time.
Abruptly, as if it had never been gone, the world she knew appeared. She gasped with relief. There were hills and trees, and a bird wheeled down to settle among the rocks. The rocks crumbled and gave way, creating a deep ravine, which filled slowly with rubble. Ausentinia had shed its indifference. Curious, tentative, and searching, it made its way into the world. Sophia recalled trees growing from seed, spreading to cover great expanses, dressing and undressing with the seasons. A path appeared before her, leading three ways, and then, trudging slowly toward her, under a white garment that covered everything but her eyes, came a woman. Sophia paused to watch. The woman drew closer; her eyelashes were caked with dust and she walked wearily, taking the path lined by birches.
Moving onward through Ausentinia’s memories, she saw the travelers, at first in small numbers. Then they grew more numerous until they became a blur. Young and old, always alone, they moved along the path. Ausentinia felt a piercing fondness for them. Sophia felt something tugging at her mind: it reached for her, drawing a thread from between her thoughts as if pulling a silver thread from a tapestry. Ausentinia needed to find a route through the Dark Age that had overtaken it, a path out of the darkness, and it tugged at Sophia’s memory insistently. The memory came free. The path she had taken through the dark forest unfurled behind her, perfectly recalled in every detail.
Sophia opened her eyes. A light so bright that she felt blinded shone around her. Her body felt strange. Her head was light; her ears throbbed; her throat felt scraped to rawness. When she took a deep breath, her lungs ached. But the air began to restore her.
She lifted her head. Not brilliant light, but complete darkness surrounded her. For a moment she felt a rush of terror: it had happened—she had been transformed into a Lachrima. Her hands flew to her face, and as she felt her familiar features, she realized that the
darkness around her was the night sky, deepened by the gathering of clouds above her. The path between the birches to Ausentinia ran true before her.
She had crumpled to the ground, and she raised up slightly, with effort, to look behind her. Leading up the hill through the moss was a dusty path that she knew Ausentinia had made from her memories: a route through the encroaching Age, a safe passage through the darkness.
• • •
HALF AN HOUR afterward, Seneca appeared and Errol crested the hill after him to find Sophia curled into herself, lying in the grass by the side of the road. He gave a shout and dropped his horse’s reins to rush toward her, Goldenrod and Rosemary hurrying behind him. When he seized her, fearing the worst, Sophia’s eyes startled open.
“She’s alive,” he said, his voice rough with relief.
“I told you she would be,” Goldenrod said, though she was nearly as agitated as she dropped to the ground beside them. “Ausentinia promised me that she was well.”
“You will find nothing has been lost,” Sophia said with a weak smile.
“You are a miracle, Sophia,” Rosemary said, clasping her hand. “You have led us to Ausentinia. You have remade the path.”
“It was very brave of you,” Goldenrod said, pulling her into a sudden embrace, “to lose yourself so completely so that Ausentinia could be found.”
41
Making the Arrest
—1892, July 1: 6-Hour 12—
Most in New Occident consider the southern war for New Akan’s independence that took place soon after the Disruption sufficient bloodshed, and desire no further conflict with our neighbors. And yet there are those, particularly Nihilismians, who believe that a nation is made in the crucible of war, and they prepare, if not openly plan, for such an eventuality.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
INSPECTOR ROSCOE GREY was never home for lunch, and he frequently missed dinner when working on a demanding case. For this reason, the household had a careful morning routine, and it was almost never disrupted. Mrs. Culcutty set the table in the dining room and placed the morning newspaper beside the inspector’s plate. The inspector drank coffee and read the paper until Nettie arrived, yawning and with her hair in wrappers, and then they ate breakfast together and discussed the happenings of the previous day and made plans for the day to come.
The morning of July 1, however, did not begin as it was meant to. Roscoe was standing at his mirror, straightening his thin black necktie, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. “Mr. Grey—oh, Mr. Grey, it’s Mrs. Culcutty.” Her voice was anxious.
With a frown of surprise, he let her in. Mrs. Culcutty was out of breath from having climbed the stairs too quickly. There was a newspaper in her hands.
Inspector Grey had fully expected to read in the morning’s paper that the Western Party had won the election and that Gordon Broadgirdle had been named prime minister. So it took him several seconds to comprehend the headlines:
WAR DECLARED
WESTERN PARTY WINS ELECTION: BROADGIRDLE NEW PM
UNITED INDIES DECLARES IMMEDIATE EMBARGO
RIOTS AT THE HARBOR CAUSE TANK EXPLOSION
MOLASSES FLOOD CLAIMS DOZENS OF LIVES
IN THE EARLY hours of July 1, 1892, a proclamation of secession was issued jointly by the Indian Territories and New Akan. New Occident has made a declaration of war in response.
Shortly after Gordon Broadgirdle, the new prime minister and leader of the elected Western Party, made his victory speech at the Boston State House and declared his intent to lead New Occident toward immediate expansion westward, the proclamation of secession was delivered by a representative of the two jurisdictions. The proclamation, reproduced in full below the fold, states the intent to form an independent nation. It repudiates many of the prime minister’s stated policy objectives, in particular his adherence to the closed-border policy. Prime Minister Broadgirdle was swift in issuing a declaration of war, which was passed by a bare majority in an emergency parliament session. The prime minister plans to speak at the State House this morning to make a call for enlistment.
Gamaliel Shore, the defeated candidate of the New States Party, could not contain his chagrin. “I fear that this secession and this war will be disastrous to New Occident. It all stems from our misguided border policy,” Shore argued, “which the New States Party would have overthrown. I am fearful indeed for the future.”
An artist’s rendition of Broadgirdle at the podium, accompanied by Peel and other members of his party, occupied a box beside the article. Inspector Grey glanced at the other headlines. War? Secession? An embargo? A molasses flood? How had so much happened in a scant six hours? He realized that Mrs. Culcutty was still in front of him, recovering her breath and watching him anxiously. “Thank you, Mrs. Culcutty,” he said. “This is grave and urgent news, indeed. I’ll come downstairs with you.”
“Oh, Mr. Grey, what is the meaning of it all?”
Grey shook his head. “I hardly know. But I do know that Broadgirdle is a determined man, and if he has set us upon this course, it is because he intends to follow it. He is not one to back away from such declarations once they have been made.”
As they reached the stairs, Nettie’s bedroom door opened and she appeared, swathed in a lavender robe, her head bristling with a colorful assortment of hair wrappers. “Father? What has happened?”
“Come downstairs, Nettie. I will tell you over breakfast.”
Nettie was alarmed by her father’s unexpected seriousness. “Tell me now, Father.”
Grey paused, his hand on the oak newel of the staircase. “New Occident has declared war on the Indian Territories and New Akan.”
Nettie gasped. “War?” She followed Mrs. Culcutty and her father hurriedly down toward the dining room, her lilac slippers pattering on the stairs and then the floorboards.
“Yes. The Western Party was elected, which prompted an embargo from the United Indies and a proclamation of secession from the Indian Territories, allied with New Akan.” They had reached the dining room. Grey took his seat, and Mrs. Culcutty served him coffee with a trembling hand. “In addition,” he went on, scanning the paper, “this seems to have triggered riots at the Boston Harbor and some kind of explosion of a molasses tank. Though how that occurred is beyond my comprehension.”
The dining room door opened. Mr. Culcutty wore the same anxious expression as his wife, and he had clearly been waiting for them. Roscoe motioned him inside. “Sit down, Mr. Culcutty, Mrs. Culcutty. Nettie.”
“What will happen, Father?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “We will go to war. Although New Occident has only a small armed force, which means Broadgirdle will need to recruit from the civilian population.”
Nettie gazed at her father, wide-eyed. “Will you have to go to war?”
Grey reached out and put his hand over his daughter’s. “No, my dear. I almost certainly will not. I am too old, thank the Fates, as is Mr. Culcutty,” he said, and the other man nodded. “Unless things change very much, neither one of us will be asked to enlist.”
“Unless they change very much?” Nettie echoed. “Does that mean it might happen?”
“Frankly, it is impossible to say, with a prime minister like this one. Broadgirdle is an extremist. He will take extreme measures.”
“Oh, I don’t like him!” Nettie burst out. “Horrid, horrid man.”
At the conclusion of this pronouncement, there was a knock at the front door. Mrs. Culcutty rose and headed for the foyer. The others heard the door open and then the sound of a woman’s voice, low and tense. A moment later, the housekeeper returned, accompanied by an older woman wearing an expression of deep distress and a small boy wearing almost nothing at all. Inspector Grey recognized the woman as Mrs. Sissal Clay, Shadrack Elli’s housekeeper.
“Mr. Grey,”
Mrs. Culcutty said, clearly trying to preserve some semblance of normality, “a Mrs. Sissal Clay is here with what she says is an urgent matter. One of your officers accompanied her. He is waiting at the door.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Inspector,” Mrs. Clay said apologetically, with a glance at the newspaper on the table. “Especially given the very disturbing news. But I am afraid I am here with a more immediate problem.” She paused and suddenly clasped her hands nervously.
“Yes?” prompted Grey.
“It has to do with Prime Minister Broadgirdle and—and Theo. Theodore Constantine Thackary.”
“What has happened?”
Mrs. Clay took a deep breath. “You see, Inspector, Theo has taken it upon himself to—well, to investigate the murder of Prime Minister Bligh on his own.”
Grey frowned. He sensed an unpleasant difficulty appearing, like a dark cloud on the horizon.
“He has been investigating the murder and has discovered a great deal. But . . .” Mrs. Clay cleared her throat. “But in so doing, he has not been entirely honest with you. In fact, neither of us has been.”
Grey’s frown deepened.
“Theo believes that Gordon Broadgirdle is responsible for the murder,” she continued, with difficulty. “And he decided to find evidence proving it. He has been working in Broadgirdle’s office for more than two weeks now—under a different name—and he has found some suspicious circumstances. But the difficulty is this. Last night, he was with Winston here”—she indicated the boy in rags—“and he went into Broadgirdle’s offices for a meeting. Broadgirdle left the State House half an hour later, but Theo never emerged. Winston waited all night for Theo to reappear.” She collected herself. “We are concerned for him. We are afraid something may have happened to him in that office.”
