Breath of Earth

by Beth Cato

  No, not simply died. Were murdered. The cooks, the cleaners, the homesick little boys, the senior students all abuzz with talk of world travel in the coming years. The maid who hummed old hymns as she scrubbed the stairs to combat the constant filth of so many growing boys and careless men. Senior Warden Antonelli, as aggravating as he was, would bring in cut flowers when his garden was in bloom, and took care to personally arrange vases in the hallway. Then there was the elderly librarian who so often fell asleep tipped back in his chair, a book splayed open over his chest. What of the cats who lived in the alley next door, by the empty photographer’s studio? The calico was bound to have kittens any day now.

  Mr. Sakaguchi was right. That large piece of kermanite stolen, the explosion, Captain Sutcliff’s arrival . . . The timing of everything was too peculiar to be mere coincidence.

  She sat curled in the front hallway, her head pressed against her knees. The knotted tassels of the rug were stones beneath her socked feet.

  Something scuffed against the floor nearby. A wooden floor board creaked. Lee was not being particularly stealthy about his approach. She could hear his breath as he sneaked closer. She feigned ignorance up until the cotton scarf whispered over her nose.

  “Lee!” she snapped, swatting it away. Her hand caught one side of the scarf and stole it from his grip. The corner, weighed by coins sewn into the fabric, struck the wood with a muted thud.

  Lee Fong dropped beside her and sat so close their knees glanced. “I was trying to surprise you, Ingrid.” His voice was still boyishly soft, though it had recently begun to squawk at random moments.

  “Surprise me by mock-assassinating me like a Thuggee? Really? Mr. Sakaguchi would be livid if he knew you still had that thing.”

  Earlier, in the nineteenth century, the cult of Thuggees in India had gained infamy as assassins; their technique involved strangulation with their weighted scarves. Murder for the sake of money and the glory of Kali, the stories said. The Brits had exterminated the cult.

  Rebels against Britannia now called themselves Thuggees, and tales about how true they were to their roots varied wildly. Even so, the romantic morbidity of the Thuggees and their scarves had become quite the sensation with American boys. Some youngsters at the auxiliary had learned to sew just to weigh down their own scarves for mock battles.

  The Thuggees, nefarious as they were, were also distracting the Brits from turning their attention to the Unified Pacific. In a roundabout way, Thuggees were heroes.

  But Lee was not some boy from the auxiliary. He was Chinese. Carrying a Thuggee scarf evoked different connotations altogether.

  She gave him her best scowl. Lee’s cropped black hair, shiny with oil, stuck out every which way. Ingrid was Mr. Sakaguchi’s secretary, but Lee was a bit of everything—messenger boy, house servant, assistant cook, hostler. Mr. Sakaguchi had taken in Lee about five years before, and now it was impossible to imagine the household without him.

  He toyed with the blue scarf. Once upon a time, it had been Mama’s. “I was tickling your face, that’s all,” he said. The logic of teenage boys would forever confound Ingrid. “Mr. Sakaguchi asked me to fetch you.”

  “How . . . how is he?” Her throat still felt raw from screaming and breathing in powdered debris. It seemed as if she had downed a gallon of water when they first returned home, but nothing washed away the grit.

  Lee cocked his head to one side. The gesture reminded her of a bird considering something just before it fluttered away. “About the same as you.”

  As always, Lee wore his patch pinned to his upper arm. The scrap of cloth was vivid yellow, the threadwork in tidy black depicting the two kanji for Shina—the Japanese term for China, one often spat as if clearing phlegm from a throat. His registration booklet bulged from his breast pocket. He couldn’t leave Chinatown without his patch or papers, not that either guaranteed safe passage.

  A pink smudge marred the starched whiteness of his button-up shirtsleeve. “What happened?” she asked, pointing to his arm.

  “I was running errands and found a wall. Dangerous things, walls. They sneak up on you sometimes.”

  Meaning someone attacked him, or tried to. “You’re not hurt?”

  Lee shrugged.

  She frowned. A few months prior, a tussle had left him with two bruised ribs, and he’d had the audacity to try to hide the injury. Succeeded for a few hours, too, until Ingrid overenthusiastically recommended a book by flinging it straight into his chest. He had hit the floor like a deflated gasbag.

  Lee’s face lit up in a grin. “That’s better.”

  “What’s better?”

  “You, angry. Though that means I should probably . . .” He scooted back, his beige pants gliding on the waxed wood.

  He meant well, but she flinched. Lee had been around her on a daily basis for years. He couldn’t help but notice what she could do. Not that they had ever talked about it. It was something to shrug away, like his hidden injuries.

  Now her power carried such strange potential. What had she done in the explosion—how had she done it?

  “Ingrid?” His voice cracked halfway through her name.

  “I’m sorry, Lee. It’s just . . . today. Everyone . . .”

  His face softened. “Yeah. Speaking of which, Mr. Sakaguchi is waiting.”

  “Of course.” She touched her cheeks to make sure they were dry and then stood.

  Mr. Sakaguchi’s study radiated warmth in mahogany and plush blue velvet. Shelves banded in rainbows of leather stretched ten feet high to crown molding at the ceiling. A leather armchair, squat and dense, angled toward the unlit fireplace. While opulent, it was austere compared to the home offices of most of the other wardens, who regarded their masculine spaces as lavish trophy rooms for their world travels.

  Mr. Sakaguchi was more practical than that. His artifacts related to earth sciences and magic. The Chinese-made earthquake weathercock consisted of a large vase with marbles set at the points of the compass; the marbles were supposed to drop to indicate the direction of a seism, though large trucks set off the device more often than actual quakes.

  Ingrid’s personal favorites in the room, though, were the colorful namazu-e prints on the walls. The propaganda posters from the 1850s presented a peculiar mix of Hidden One mythology and public safety message.

  Shuttered double doors led to a catfish pond just outside, but even that was an instrument of geomancy. Many nonmagical animals were known to be restless before an earthquake. In Japan, normal catfish—namazu—had served as warning systems for centuries. Somehow they were bound to the very magical and monstrous namazu that was said to carry the large island of Honshu on its back.

  Mythology had attempted to explain the relationship between magic, creatures, and mankind, but modern science had done little to elaborate on the subject. Hidden Ones often had been declared gods in old stories. Fantastics, common or rare, embodied pure magic.

  As to what magic was, that question was one perennially posed to new students at the auxiliary—one they were expected to get wrong. The textbook answer was that magic was raw energy, and that some beings—animal or human—were more adept at drawing it in and utilizing it. Some were born into it, the way a fish is born into water. That answer never satisfied Ingrid. It never defined what she was. What had she inherited from Papa?

  Sometimes, it seemed like a gigantic, mystic catfish supporting a landmass bearing billions of people made more sense to Ingrid than her own body and mind.

  She faced Mr. Sakaguchi at his desk. “Ojisan. What’s the news?”

  He sat with his back stooped. The collar of his smoking jacket dipped low, revealing a tidy row of mother-of-pearl buttons in the shirt beneath. He leaned on one fist while in another he held a pen.

  “I just called Charleston. They’ll dispatch two men tomorrow night, but they did send a group to Vesuvius, so they’re already shorthanded.”

  “What about everywhere else?” she asked.

  “St. Louis is suff
ering a bout of influenza. New York, as Italian-dominated as it is, sent half their available men to Vesuvius. Honolulu can spare five adepts and perhaps one warden, but it will take them over a week to arrive. No one in Seattle answered.”

  “But San Francisco . . . the risk. Has the mayor—”

  “Mayor Butterfield.” Mr. Sakaguchi’s face twisted in distaste. “The man barely let me speak. He assured me that no earthquake will happen while he’s mayor.”

  She snorted. “Maybe he’s found a way to bribe the dirt.” Since their walk home, the tremors had stopped. No blue shimmered over the ground, but that could change in an instant.

  “He has higher priorities right now. That corruption case against him is set to start on Monday. I told him that if tremors continued, the most at-risk sections of the city should be evacuated.” For Mr. Sakaguchi to admit to such a possibility said a great deal about the peril. “He argued that the natives here managed to survive for centuries without problems. As if the collapse of a native Ohlone hut made of tules is equal to the public harm caused by a falling brick skyscraper.”

  He glanced at the Bakelite telephone on the desk, as if he could will it to ring. “Mr. Thornton and Mr. Calhoun are not answering their phones. They are likely sleeping, but . . .”

  “If they both recover quickly, they’ll be able to channel energy.” The words felt fake on her tongue, but she had to say something hopeful. More than that, she needed to do something. “Lee!”

  He poked his head through the cracked door. “Yeah?”

  “Jiao started some soup for us. Please ask her to fill two kettles. I’ll take them to Mr. Thornton and Mr. Calhoun.” Like many of the first wave of Chinese to come to San Francisco, Jiao was Cantonese. She was a fine cook, and her soups were akin to magic.

  “Sure, Ing,” Lee said, and ducked away.

  “Ingrid, you should rest—”

  “Ojisan. Leave it to me. You have too much to do here, and you know Lee can’t go to Mr. Calhoun’s.” Mr. Calhoun despised “Chinamen and other primitives,” and only tolerated Ingrid because he never looked at her face. “They’re stubborn men on their own. They’d have to be at death’s door before they sacrificed pride to summon a doctor. I’ll call you from each of their homes.”

  Mr. Sakaguchi frowned. “I suppose that will suffice, but I do want you to utilize caution. Even more . . .” He opened a desk drawer and set a dark object on the mat. Mama’s pistol.

  Mama used to take Ingrid on day-trips out to Mount Diablo so they could practice shooting. She had taught Ingrid to do most everything a man could do. Ingrid could saddle and ride a horse, rig a harness, check oil and basic functions on a standard steam-kermanite autocar engine, and read and do her own figures. She never quite mastered the art of pissing while standing up, though.

  Mr. Sakaguchi had never come along on their target-shooting trips. Kitsune-ken’s hunter gesture was as violent as he got. “If you must defend yourself against the Army & Airship Corps or anyone else, I’d rather you shoot them than use earth energy. People understand bullets.”

  “Whereas my power is about as well understood as Jefferson Davis’s ghost.”

  His smile was tender yet weary. “You’re you, Ing-chan. Your mother brought you to the auxiliary when you were barely five, all red and swollen with fever. Near death, by the accounts of Pasteurians and Reiki physicians alike. Boys will manifest their geomancy at that age, certainly, but no one had considered such a possibility for you. No one but your mother. The instant I pressed kermanite to your skin, the fever was siphoned away. Right then, I knew.”

  “I only wish we knew what. Or how. Or why.”

  “‘Some mysteries must stay with God.’”

  She nodded. It was one of his favorite sayings, one that he used most often when speaking of the Hidden Ones. His favorite tale involved the massive namazu, but similar stories were told everywhere. The Chumash and other aboriginal tribes up north to Cascadia spoke of two-headed serpents within the earth, whereas the Iroquois and Algonquin told of a giant turtle. On other continents, Hidden Ones bound through earth magic included buffalo, horses, crabs, hogs, and several types of frog—fantastics so massive, so incredible, that most people doubted their existence in the modern world.

  Ingrid slipped the gun into her dress pocket where the pleats would hide it from view. It felt heavy against her thigh. She was the hunter; now she only hoped she had to deal with kitsune, not village chiefs.

  “Speaking of mysteries, Mr. Sakaguchi,” she said slowly. “Who would want to destroy the auxiliary? The Chinese?” She glanced at the doorway in case Lee was there. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for thinking of them first.

  “The Chinese have legitimate reasons to target us, though the Unified Pacific has a stockpile of charged kermanite. Creating a bottleneck here wouldn’t affect the military right away. Regular business on the West Coast, yes.”

  “Someone mad at the auxiliary, then? In novels, the villain always takes out insurance on the building or person they wish to destroy.”

  “A personal vendetta does seem more likely. Someone angry at us, or angry at the city itself.”

  Ingrid thought of Lee and his scarf. “We do have two British-born wardens, which is unusual. Maybe it was Thuggees.”

  “That does seem extreme. If they wanted to hurt the British, there are far better targets within the city or elsewhere. Besides, anyone with an education would realize an act against geomancers here, on such strategic fault lines, could have consequences for the whole city. San Francisco’s population is diverse. The auxiliary reflects—reflected—that.” His voice broke.

  “Maybe they’ll find others alive in the rubble,” she said softly.

  “Surely they will,” he whispered.

  The door cracked open again and Lee leaned into the room. “Ing? The soup’s ready.”

  “Thanks, Lee. I’ll be back soon,” she said to Mr. Sakaguchi as she backed away. “I’ll ring you.”

  He nodded and said nothing. Grief flowed over her in a wave. Most everyone they knew, dead.

  Ingrid failed to hold back tears as she walked away. The simple melody of the shamisen returned to her mind as the gun, in perfect rhythm, bumped against her thigh with each stride.

  Mr. Calhoun resided in a flat near Russian Hill. Ingrid’s breath huffed as she crested a rise. The two pots of soup steamed in the nippy air, handles heavy in her grasp.

  It had been a chilly winter, and so far April hadn’t shed its cloak of gray. Ingrid loved it, and she loved San Francisco. She loved the flowing hills crowned by jeweled mansions, the varied chimes of cable cars, and how everyone here came from everywhere else. The French patisserie owner set up his clapboard sign advertising prices for day-old croissants, while a quick-tongued Italian woman berated her children as she clipped laundry to a clothesline draped above an alley. Two Chinese men toted handcarts, yellow patches vivid on their black suits, and walked with the wariness of prey in a meadow.

  For everyone else, the day was utterly normal, and there was comfort in that.

  Airships buzzed overhead, out of sight above the clouds. She breathed in brisk air, not minding the underlying taint of exhaust and sewage and whatever strange brew wafted from the factory upwind.

  Up ahead, braced between a leaning telephone pole and a gas streetlamp, stood a familiar figure. The woman wore a dress of similar fashion to Ingrid’s, a Western modification of a kimono. The fabric was so dark it almost obscured the floral pattern. The high belt revealed a figure still curvaceous enough to make most men look twice, but Ingrid’s focus was on the camera. The black box rested atop a tripod with telescoping legs adjusted for the street’s slope.

  “Miss Rossi!” Ingrid called, eagerness quickening her steps.

  The woman remained stooped as she peered through the camera lens.

  Ingrid hadn’t seen Victoria Rossi in months, ever since the portrait salon beside the auxiliary shut down. Miss Rossi had done photographs in studio and also so
ld commercial images of fantastics—pegasi, selkies in midchange, grotesque ghuls, soaring thunderbirds, that sort of thing. Ingrid still had some postcards of unicorns tucked away in a bureau drawer.

  Miss Rossi had something of an obsession with wild fantastics. Sometimes she’d close shop for days as she gallivanted off to the beach or hills to attempt a sighting through her lens.

  “Hello, Miss Rossi!” Ingrid panted from the climb. Soup sloshed in the kettles as she came to a stop.

  “You. The girl from the auxiliary.” Miss Rossi didn’t lift her head. She wore a crown of soft ostrich feathers dyed to match her navy dress.

  “Yes.” Ingrid preened at the recognition. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you do street photography before. Have you set up a new studio?”

  Miss Rossi straightened as though the camera scalded her. “New studio? Ha!” The laugh was practically spat. “You think they let me own another studio here, in this city?”

  Ingrid stepped back, shocked at her vehemence. Miss Rossi had always been a bit clipped in her mannerisms, but this rage was something new. “I’m sorry. I thought—the business seemed to do well. It was a good location—”

  “Oh, location. Yes, location fine, too fine. Mayor Butterfield, he has business fees and permits, you see?” Miss Rossi rubbed her thumb and fingers together. “Fees for location, fees for sewer, though sewer always backs up, fees for my safety as a woman, fees to keep his people from telling lies. No fee paid—things vanish. Chemicals no delivered. Windows broken.”

  Ingrid wasn’t surprised. The wardens paid their own fees to Mayor Butterfield. However, no one used graft like the Chinese. It was rumored that the late emperor’s treasures were used to bribe the city and state to keep Chinatown intact. It was yet another reason why his memory was venerated by his people.

  “I’m sorry,” Ingrid said.

  “Sorry does not get my business back. It gets nothing back.” Miss Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “You not in building today?”

  “You heard about that, then.” Ingrid’s throat tightened. “Yes. Yes, I was. Me and Mr. Sakaguchi. We . . . survived. We might be the only ones. It was . . . a miracle, I suppose.”