by Jean Rabe
The woman grew silent, her question complete. Yevgeniy reached up and pulled the thick rope hanging next to him. The bell at the top of the temple, exposed to the frigid elements outside, rang slow and long. Yevgeniy closed his eyes and listened carefully.
When the last traces of sound had fallen away, Yevgeniy opened his eyes and spoke to the woman. She nodded pleasantly, but then heard something—perhaps unpleasant, perhaps devastating—and she stiffened. She swallowed and then bowed her head. She was shaken, and she swept from the room as though each and every person in it had offended her.
Yevgeniy smiled and beckoned to Maks. Maks turned Savil’s wheelchair around and heaved him up the two steps to reach the dais proper. Then he spun around and wheeled Savil forward. Yevgeniy had clearly not recognized Maks up until this point, for as he stared, his eyes widened, and a curious smile played across his lips.
“Maksim,” was all he said as Maks approached.
That one simple utterance sent a chill running down Maks’s spine. “It is I,” Maks replied.
Yevgeniy’s eyes narrowed, and though there was no enmity there, there was confusion, and curiosity. “Dear Maks, what happened to your brother?”
“He slipped on some ice three years ago,” Maks said simply. “Struck his head on the stones only a block from here. He’s been like this ever since.”
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you, Oracle.”
The silence between them lengthened, and Maks had the distinct impression that this was the first time Yevgeniy had been caught off-guard in months, perhaps years.
“You never answered my invitations,” he finally said.
Maks nodded. “Please forgive me. It was boorish, I know. But I was busy in those early days . . . And then I had Savil to deal with.”
Yevgeniy shook his head. “I would have taken care of everything.”
“I know, and I thank you for it, but I could never have accepted.”
Yevgeniy paused. He seemed saddened. “Of course. Though why have you come? Why now?”
Maks shrugged. “I leave tomorrow for Constantinople. I merely hoped . . .”
Yevgeniy nodded. “Speak on, Maksim.”
“I had hoped that you would read Savil’s fortune.”
“And not your own?”
Maks’s chest tightened. He had known Yevgeniy would ask, but he hadn’t known until this very moment what his answer would be. “Please,” he said.
Yevgeniy smiled. He reached to one side and pulled the rope hanging next to him. The bell pealed long and loud, trailing away as the wind played among the belfry high above. Yevgeniy waited, his eyes closed, his arms spread wide.
At last, when the sound had fallen away, he opened his eyes and regarded Maks with an expression that hid all. Or nearly all. For a moment there was concern, but it vanished and the placid expression Yevgeniy had shown to all the other supplicants returned.
“You will do well in Constantinople, Maks. You and Savil, both. You will live out your life in peace, though in little prosperity. Savil will be by your side until the black sea burns red. And you . . . You will find in that city what you have ever searched for.”
Maks listened to these words and let them settle over him like a blanket of soft, worsted wool. They filled him with hope, and it was a welcome change from a life that had been filled with so much misery these past years.
He also knew that Yevgeniy was lying.
But he didn’t care.
He stepped forward and kissed Yevgeniy’s cheeks—a horrible breach of protocol—and then pulled him into a deep embrace.
“Go well, Yevgeniy Udmanoslov.”
“Go well, Maksim Vadimov.”
That done, his heart lifted, Maks left the temple.
The Echoer
Dean Leggett
Dean Alan Leggett lives near the train tracks running through his current home in Sussex, Wisconsin. He enjoys riding his bike on the trails through the woods and marsh nearby. He is known to stop at the old wooden bridge that crosses the tracks. In the winter months he enjoys seemingly endless snow shoveling and spending quiet days with his wonderful wife, Annette. While this is his first story set in the genre, he has found the steampunk world rich with all types of artistic talent. When he isn’t working in the bizarre world of information technology he can be found writing about worlds yet to be or worlds that should have been.
I never thought the dim lights of Beaumont would feel so welcoming. Even as an experienced rider, extended travel on horseback had taken its toll. Our journey started in the burning heat and dust of Amarillo. It isn’t the typical dust that clings to the brim of your hat. It is unique. It finds its way into every crease of your body and dries you to the bone. No amount of water can remove the empty taste it leaves in your mouth.
But things changed as the weeks and miles ticked by. The heat dissipated, and a cold rain came that tamped down the dust. I didn’t feel that I was in the same country, though even after three weeks of travel I was still in the same state. The vastness of Texas is now imprinted on my soul.
The wind gusted, causing cold water to pelt me in the face. I let off yet another string of curses as Kendo rode close. “Brandon, how many days ago did you cry to the heavens for even a few drops of rain?” he asked.
Why did my crew always take such pleasure in my discomfort? Even Kendo taunted me. I guess I should have expected it. Kendo was Texas. Take a cactus, add some twigs for arms, some old cowhide for skin and hair as black as oil and you have my guide. Kendo Crow-feather of the Kiowa Clan is also my good friend. He knows Texas, and more importantly the sign language, of the various tribes . . . the ones that are still left that is, most are scattered like tumbleweeds in a twister.
I am a half breed Indian myself, even though I don’t look it. My father’s Irish blood provided me fair skin that took three years in the desert to harden. And while skin will darken, no amount of sun could take away my red hair. It was too red for Texas or any place west of Vermont for that matter.
For this journey Kendo brought along his squaw. Shelia has long blonde hair, a tiny waist, and a thick German accent. She needed boots to stand above five feet. The three of us made quite a sight; we were the talk of Fort Worth, and I am sure will be the talk here in Beaumont.
Shelia rode ahead to the inn, giving me some time to get a feel for the town. Sheila holds our makeshift crew together. I consider her insight invaluable. When she isn’t reminding us to pick up taters for dinner, she’s bartering for new wheels for one of the supply wagons. I call her our little logistics goddess. This particular project wouldn’t be where it is today without her. She found the parts we needed and the parts we didn’t yet know we needed.
Our goal—to build the greatest airship of all times—the Echoer, the ship I once drew in the school yard sand. The ship I promised Allison I would take her away in.
I was smitten with amber-haired Allison from the first day I saw her at Endrich Catholic Boarding School. I was scared witless and barely ten winters when I was taken from my home and placed in Endrich. They tied my hands to the rail of the open wagon to keep me from jumping off and running away. I tore most of the skin off my wrists trying to work free. I didn’t know where we were going and I was surrounded by strangers that spoke in sounds I didn’t understand.
I don’t remember the day I arrived at Endrich. But what I do remember is Allison’s eyes and smile as she held my hands and applied cool salve to my wrists. She wasn’t much older than I, but this was her world. She took me under her wing and sat as near as she could during classes. Every time I knew the answer she would smile, so I fought to learn everything I could. Education became my obsession. Within a few years I was at the head of the class. Allison and I made a great team. She was my whole world, and I promised I would take her away. We would fly high in the sky and visit amazing places together . . . all on our very own magical aeronave called the Echoer.
Now all I needed was her. Literally, I needed her. After
Endrich we both were both selected to a math program and sent to the East Coast. Later, with Allison’s family connections, we were admitted to Durham University in England. If you ever have doubts about airship travel, try being tossed around at sea for endless weeks. Even on calm days I couldn’t be near the railing. Come to think of it, horseback isn’t recommended either, but I digress.
My time in England wasn’t the best. I thought eight years in Catholic school would have prepared me for anything, but I was wrong. The rules were absurd. The main thing I learned was that the English didn’t like being told what pompous asses they really were. Allison tried to keep me focused, but the harder she tried to make things right, the farther I seemed to push her away. My grades fell.
I kissed Allison goodbye and told her I would wait for her back in the United States. Did you know that no matter how angry you get, or how much you plead, they will not turn those blasted ships around?
Waiting for her to finish school was awful. And in my boredom I started to look for like-minded inventing folks . . . folks with the skills I needed to realize my airship. I knew that with the right crew the Echoer would be possible. My crew officers—currently Kendo and Sheila—became my friends and we worked on my design.
I tried to stay in touch with Allison, writing her about my crew and project. I wanted her to know where she could find me. When I learned she’d returned to the United States, I tried to get her to join us. But she said she wanted nothing to do with my childhood fantasy.
My last contact with her was a few years ago.
Today that childhood dream is real. The Echoer is almost completed.
There were times along the way where I almost gave up. So did Kendo and Sheila. But when one of us would give up, the other two would supply the needed encouragement. As far as I was concerned, we were missing only one person to complete our family . . . Allison. After years of listening to me, Kendo and Sheila knew all about Allison.
We had a solid understanding of what we needed to make the Echoer fly. What we truly lacked was Allison’s intuition of metals. She had an innate skill with gear assemblies. She may have inherited some of that from her watch-making father, but she honed her skills with insatiable drive for perfection.
So we needed Allison’s divine connection to metal to remedy our current perplexity. I didn’t dare unmoor the Echoer until I was sure this divine connection was made.
Allison, however, was still refusing my requests for help. It seemed she was roped into a very prestigious position with the Catholic Church. She said she needed the stability of that job and that she was not about to give up a lucrative future by . . . as she put it . . . “running away with me.” I might have been a little hot-headed in some of my letters. I might have said some unkind words. I wrote the requests in anger, and I didn’t mean some of the things I said. I tried to take them back. But did you know postal riders are fast?
Ah, I digress again.
Kendo, Sheila, and I first took our project to Amarillo, the helium capital of the world. It is amazing how helium can leak out of the best air bladders after a just a few weeks. Helium is hard to transport and not at all cheap.
Kendo didn’t like our hanger idea for storing the Echoer, said it would attract too much attention in Amarillo. He suggested looking for a dry river bed, one that cut deep so we could set up at the bottom. We could run rigging lines across the top and canvas to shelter us from the summer sun. I doubted we could ever find one large enough to hide a fifty-foot tall airship. But once again I was proven wrong. The rancher actually liked having our crew on her property. She said as long as we helped keep trouble off her land we were welcome to use a chunk of it for our project.
Then I caught word that Allison was going to be in Texas.
I was elated. How far from Amarillo could Beaumont be? It was the same state, after all, and so I made plans to travel there. I had no idea just how . . . big . . . Texas was.
I hope Sheila finds us a proper inn to pass our time here while I find Allison.
Shelia said she was here a few years ago, and that since Spindletop blew, Beaumont had become the place everyone wanted to be. Hence, the inns were full, and I figured that finding even an old barn to sleep in would be next to impossible. But Sheila said she has connections. Actually, she has a friend who knows a friend who knows the proprietor of one of Beaumont’s finest inns—the Beaumont House. Shelia crafted a beautiful silver maple music box to give him (I helped her with the mechanics), and said it should net us rooms and hot baths.
Looking at the finished work, I thought a long, hot bath was indeed in my near future.
The Beaumont House was an impressive sight. The aroma coming from its eatery made my mouth water and my stomach growl in anticipation. We waited well more than a handful of minutes . . . to give Sheila time to meet with the proprietor . . . before we stopped our horses at the rail. Kendo helped me through the front door; I wondered if I would even be able to walk fully upright again.
The drinking hall was shoulder-to-shoulder. The cigar smoke made my eyes water. We made our way to the bar and found Shelia. She stood at the counter chatting it up with the proprietor, Frank, who had a winning smile and served us food unlike any I have ever had.
Later on, Kendo and Shelia didn’t need to help me waddle up the stairs to our rooms; the railing was sturdy enough for me to lean on.
The inn workers were already bringing up buckets of steaming water for the bath. If only I could cut the soreness from the ride with a nice bottle of whiskey. But I needed a clear head for tomorrow; the hot bath would need to do.
I eased myself into the tub after learning our horses were being tended to. Sheila was Shelia, seated at a small table, her back to us, quilling a list of supplies we would pick up in the morning.
Later, Kendo and Shelia left me to rest while they said the night was still too young to waste. I could still hear them whoopin’ it up downstairs as I drifted off. Longhorns crashing down the hall wouldn’t have woken me.
In the morning, however, a repeated rapping at the door jostled me. It took me a few ticks to get my wits about me. I wrapped a sheet around my waist and opened the door. A well dressed boy brought in a hot pitcher and a bowl. He spoke with a slight European accent: “I was to tell you ‘she’ is in town, sir. She can be found at Saint Anthony’s five blocks directly south of here. You can’t miss the tall, round tower.”
I thanked him with a silver piece and dressed for the day.
I was excited. I could hear my heart beat as I headed down the stairs. The main room was still crowded, but thankfully less smoky. Folks of all nationalities were bustling about. It reminded me of a sea port, only sea ports didn’t smell like fresh bacon.
Kendo and Shelia were easy to spot. Shelia placed her hand on my arm as I sat to join them for breakfast. “It will be fine, Brandon,” Sheila told me. “Allison will join us. I can feel it.”
Kendo pushed a mug toward me. I took a sip and held it high, “If not, we can tie her to the extra horse we brought and work things out on the way back.”
Shelia let out a loud giggle and was elbowed by Kendo. I ate quickly and waved my last strip of bacon at them. “What’s going on here, you two? Something’s up. Don’t keep secrets from your boss. I can see it in your faces.”
Shelia tried to mask her smirk with her mug but broke out laughing. “We are going to sell the horses and take the rails back. We wouldn’t dream of having Allison ride through the length of Texas on horseback. That would be downright cruel.”
My eyes grew wide as it sunk in. “Then why didn’t you talk me into taking the train to get here? I still can’t walk straight.”
Sheila drew herself up. “Because on horseback we didn’t have to listen to your prattle, you had to put all your energy into riding. I could just imagine you pacing the length of the train cars telling everyone about Allison . . . not to mention about our little project.”
I was caught between full anger and pride at her genius. Shelia pu
lled her chair closer for more privacy. “Brandon, now go get Allison while we arrange rail travel back to Amarillo.”
It was raining outside. It felt refreshing.
I stowed the plans for the Echoer inside my leather long coat and headed toward Saint Anthony’s. I could honestly say I had never looked forward to going to a church before. I could see the front towers of Saint Anthony’s clearly, even from the steps of the inn. Then I caught a glimpse of a figure in black dance across the puddle-dotted road a few blocks ahead. The pounding in my chest told me the woman with the parasol was my Allison. Who else but Allison owned a black parasol?
I hurried along.
The magnificence of Saint Anthony’s could be felt in the air. The solid brick building looked plucked right off the street of Venice. Then it clicked and I stopped dead in my boots. Saint Anthony . . . the saint of finding things you lost, the saint of the traveler.
Was God taunting me with his signs?
Or was he guiding me across the vast expanse of Texas to find my lost Allison?
Either way he didn’t spare any expense. The two massive towers framing the entry doors must have reached at least sixty feet in the air, making the front pillars look small in comparison. It also made the building look closer than it actually was. I could see the woman in black present her parasol to a worker before pulling a cloth over her head. She wasn’t looking my way and slipped inside the doors . . . pulled away from me yet again. That had to be my Allison.
I took a deep breath crossing the last street and headed up the front stairs.
The church looked complete in its construction except for a few makeshift tables near the entrance. I stepped inside and allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light came through stained glass windows, and the cloudy sky cut most of that. Still, I could tell that the windows were amazing. They gave a deep blue hue to the interior and made me feel like I had just stepped into another world.
