by S. E. Grove
He half expected that Broadgirdle would knock on his door that very evening. But the confrontation occurred the next afternoon, several hours into the workday. Shadrack had spent the morning gathering his papers, and now he stood at the window of his office, looking out at the Public Garden. He was remembering how, as a child, he would walk there with his parents on Saturday mornings. The roses seemed as tall as trees, and the air was filled with the quiet conversations of other people walking past. Boston had seemed like a winking jewel to him then, full of brilliant light and unexpected treasures.
Broadgirdle did not knock. He burst through the door and slammed it closed behind him. Shadrack took in one last lingering view of the garden and turned, somewhat reluctantly. He could see the man making an effort to rein in his anger, and it struck him as interesting that the prime minister had accosted him in a fury instead of waiting to bring himself in check. “This will cost you,” Broadgirdle finally said, his voice strangled.
Shadrack paused, reminding himself that there was nothing to gain by provoking the man further. “I’ve done only what seemed necessary,” he said. “The Weatherers and Dr. Sorensen had suffered enough at your hands, it seemed to me.”
Broadgirdle sneered. “You imagine yourself a man of the world, with your maps and your exploring friends—but you are as narrow-minded as the most provincial man in Boston. You cannot see the forest for the trees.”
“And what is the forest that I cannot see?”
“The purpose. The purpose of it all.” He waved his hand around the room, ending at the windows and all of Boston beyond them. “The purpose of our Age. Of what we do in it. Of the Disruption.”
Shadrack clasped his hands before him patiently. “You see your plans as part of a larger purpose,” he said.
“Of course they are,” Broadgirdle said, planting his fists on Shadrack’s desk and leaning forward. “It’s not just about fulfilling our Age’s destiny and expanding westward. It’s about who wins and who loses. Who will triumph and who will be extinguished. Would you want this hemisphere overrun by raiders? Or Indians?”
Shadrack raised his eyebrows. “I was not aware that either was interested in overrunning the hemisphere.”
“You are a fool,” Broadgirdle said dismissively. “You know quite well that its fate hangs in the balance. We can follow the path we are on, into greater and greater disintegration, or we can follow the path set out for us in the Age of Verity: Unity. Cohesion. Progress.”
“I do know that there are several possible directions for our Age,” Shadrack replied in a measured tone. “But I do not see them as you do.”
Something in Broadgirdle seemed to crest and fall. He stepped back from the desk, and his tone now was cold, almost indifferent, as if he had abandoned the prospect of persuading someone so dim. “This Age of Delusion is so misguided. The extent of the derailment is”—he shook his head—“tragic. Hopeless. And yet . . . and yet. This is the only Age we have. We will save this Age or we will not. Do you see?” He smiled grimly. “There is no other possible solution. I lament that you have failed so utterly to understand this.”
Shadrack heard the Nihilismian logic in Broadgirdle’s words, and he realized, as if he had ever doubted, that reasoning with him would be impossible. “Well,” he said, “then you are right—I do not see the forest. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I see a different forest.”
“The cost of your failure will be high,” Broadgirdle said. His voice was ice. “I warned you, and I am true to my word. Those threats were not made idly. Sissal Clay and Theodore, if he survives this war, will be deported. And when she returns to Boston, Sophia will be arrested for fraud. I hear juvenile prisons are no better than adult prisons—lack of funds, no doubt. And that’s where you will be, of course,” he finished triumphantly, “for having planned this war under Bligh’s nose. The evidence is at a warehouse near the wharf.” He grinned, his white teeth gleaming.
“I am aware of it,” Shadrack said calmly.
To Broadgirdle’s credit, he did not seem in the least surprised. “Then you are even more of a fool than I thought.”
Shadrack turned back to the window. “I hear that in the Age of Verity, Boston is not this nation’s capital.”
Broadgirdle took a moment to reply. “That is correct.”
“I can imagine such a world. In which Boston is not the center, but a place on the edges. How I love this city,” he said quietly. “Its crooked streets and absurdly cold winters and absurdly hot summers. Its face of brick, its heart of green grass. But it has changed. With the border closure, it has become a pale ghost of itself. I have the sense that it is already gone. Even living here, I already miss it.” He turned back to the other man. “Perhaps this will make it a little easier to leave. Not so much an exile as a journey to find a city like the one Boston once was.” He smiled sadly. “Nochtland perhaps, or the distant cities of the Pacific. I have never seen them.”
Shadrack had placed all his effort into planning that journey, and the destination seemed strangely secondary. He had not allowed himself to imagine what it would look like when they were all safely reunited somewhere: Mrs. Clay, Theo, Sophia, and himself. There were too many things yet to plan and too many things that might yet go wrong before tomorrow, when he closed the door of the house on East Ending Street behind himself for the last time.
Broadgirdle’s gaze was heavy with disdain. “You put safety above principle, do you? You have a small mind, Shadrack.”
Shadrack still smiled. “I believe it is principle that has urged me to take this course, Gordon. Had I been more concerned for my safety, I would have left the Eerie where they lay, in their coffins filled with earth. But I am glad I did not. When we are all together, my family and I, somewhere far from here, I will have nothing on my conscience as I explain my actions.”
32
Smoke Maps
—1892, August 14: 6-Hour 22—
The chapter by Sarah Smoke Longfellow (Smokey) concerns the origin of smoke maps, which are worth knowing about. They are widely misunderstood. Many people believe that “smoke maps” are impressions made by smoke on paper—that is, a kind of drawing or painting done in smoke. These are interesting to look at, no doubt, but they have no mapping properties in and of themselves. If anything, a more interesting map might be made by drawing with smoke on cloth, which is the standard medium for mapping weather.
—From Sophia Tims’s Born of the Disruption: Tales Told by Travelers
NOSH AND BITTERSWEET left on the afternoon of the thirteenth, setting out to find Datura. Sophia found it difficult to say good-bye. From the moment Nosh’s gentle face had appeared so close to hers in the Salt Lick train station, the moose and the boy had surrounded her with a sense of considered protectiveness. She had traveled with only two Eerie in her short life, but both of them had a kind of measured stillness that was reassuring in difficult circumstances. She felt worried, uncertain, and suddenly less safe. First Goldenrod, then Bittersweet; I’ve been traveling with an Eerie by my side for a month and a half, she thought as she stood outside Smokey’s front door, watching moose and Weatherer depart. Now I’ll have to get used to traveling without one again. When will I see them next?
Theo was mending well, and the excitement of learning the Art of Iron, as Everett called it, infused him with energy. Nevertheless, Smokey said she would feel more confident about her patient if he slept one more full night in quiet and safety.
“That is,” she added with a smile, “when you’re finished telling us about it.” They were all standing in the kitchen after dinner.
“It’s like listening,” he said, extending his scarred right hand, “but with your bones.”
“That sounds impossible!” said Sophia.
“It’s not easy,” Theo admitted, with the air of someone who is a little embarrassed at the greatness of his own gifts. “At first, I had no
idea what he meant. But he said to stop thinking about it and just focus on hearing what my hand had to say.”
Sophia reflected that it was not unlike what Bittersweet had taught her: to observe and interpret without considering how. “What are you trying to find now? Your boots?” she teased. “I’m pretty sure I saw them under the cot.”
Theo laughed good-naturedly. “I was trying to sense the Eerie Sea. I know which way it is, because I know it’s north, but I was trying to see if I could feel the way.”
“Can you?” Casanova asked, watching with interest.
“A little. It’s like I want to go that way”—he pointed—“and I can’t explain why.”
“Is it pulling you to bed?” Smokey asked. “Because that’s where you ought to be right now.” Theo laughingly accepted her reprimand, and they all retired for the evening.
• • •
ON THE MORNING of the fourteenth, Sophia woke to the sound of Smokey’s quiet preparations in the kitchen. She was wrapping bundles of food, setting them aside in tidy piles. “Bread, dried meat, and fruit,” she said, seeing that Sophia was awake. “There is water along the way. Casanova has one pack, and you’ll borrow one of mine.”
Sophia rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Thank you, Smokey.”
“I’ve set out some clothes for you to wear that are better than that raider garb. Everyone will hear you for a mile around.” She held up a pair of buckskin pants, buckskin boots, long woolen socks, a linen shirt, and a wool cloak. “Pants are better for travel anyhow. I’m only a little taller than you, so I hope they will fit.”
“They look wonderful, Smokey—thank you.” Sophia changed rapidly into the clothes, finding them only slightly too large—but comfortably so. The boots were a perfect fit, and she looked down at them admiringly, happy to find that everything was so warm and light.
“You’ll find the weather cooler than here, because of the ice.”
Sophia folded the cloak carefully and tied it onto the borrowed pack. “I wonder how far away the sisters are.”
“There’s no telling.” Smokey finished wrapping another bundle. “But you must turn around and start back when you are halfway through this food, regardless of where you are. You’ll find nothing to sustain you there.”
“The three of them must eat somehow.”
Smokey shook her head. “I wouldn’t eat what they eat,” she said darkly.
Casanova and Theo joined them in the kitchen. Casanova carried a large pack that seemed already stuffed to the brim, but he set it on the table and opened it, stowing all the food Smokey had prepared.
“Wool blankets and rubber tarps for the ice,” Smokey said, handing them to Casanova. “Theo, these are for you.” She held up a linen packet. “Clean bandages and a small flask of medicine. Take no more than a sip or two if your shoulder begins to hurt again. It will numb the pain. And choose a good walking stick—your balance will be off with your arm in a sling.
“There’s enough food for four days, no more. If you aren’t back by the eighteenth, we’ll have to head in after you, and I can’t promise it will end well. So turn around in two days,” she said, “regardless of where you are. Besides, if you aren’t back by then, it will be too late to save the grove anyway,” she added matter-of-factly. “And one more thing.” She held up three short candles.
“Ah,” Casanova said, smiling and taking them in one large hand. He handed one to Theo and one to Sophia. “Carry these on your person. You don’t want to lose them.”
“But we already have enough candles,” Theo said.
“Not candles made by Smokey.”
“They are smoke maps,” she said, a trifle apologetic. “You’ll forgive me for worrying. But I just want to be sure you can find your way back, should anything go wrong. Light the candle, and the smoke will guide you here, to me.”
“Oh!” Sophia exclaimed. “Thank you. A smoke map,” she murmured. The short candle looked quite ordinary and smelled pleasantly of beeswax. She tucked it into her satchel and then placed her satchel inside the pack, making room between the wool blankets.
“Do you have to take your satchel, Sophia?” Casanova asked. “All that paper. It’s a lot to carry.”
She nodded. “It has my maps. And my notebook. And the garnets they gave me in Ausentinia. I have to bring it.”
“Sophia never goes anywhere without her satchel,” said Theo, smiling. “It is as well traveled as she is.”
“Very well,” Casanova said with amusement as Sophia blushed. “Let’s head off, then. Smokey,” he said, turning to embrace her, “thank you. We’ll be back on the eighteenth or sooner, I promise. I’ll take good care of them.”
“I know you will, Grant.” She hugged Sophia and Theo in turn. “One more thing,” she added as she stood in the doorway. “The Eerie Sea carries its name for a reason. Do not be troubled by what you might see or hear there. It is an uninhabited Age, and it cannot harm you. Until you reach the realm of the three sisters, at least.” The three started down the path. “Be safe,” she called after them.
—9-Hour 40—
THEY WALKED NORTHWARD, away from Oakring. For the first part of their journey, they had no need of Theo’s guiding hand, for Casanova knew the way toward the Eerie Sea. Elodeans traveled there periodically to spend time in the ice caverns, and their trails were visible, though overgrown.
Sophia felt deeply grateful, as they proceeded, that Theo had been so fortunate as to meet Casanova in the Boston jail. At Smokey’s house, she had already seen the gentleness with which he cared for her friend. Now she could see that he was a thoughtful companion on the road, as well. Clearly he had taken his promise seriously. He held the branches up out of their way to let them pass; he warned them of loose rocks underfoot; and he seemed to know the name of every plant and the meaning of every sign around them.
“Owl pellets,” he said, holding up a tufted bundle of what appeared to be lint and bones. “The owls cannot chew, so they swallow their food whole and regurgitate some of it. You see,” he said, pulling it apart, “the remains of a little mouse.”
“Seems messy,” Theo commented.
“You try eating a mouse whole,” said Casanova.
The land they traveled through was mostly flat and sparsely forested. The trees seemed to droop overhead, their foliage battered by the charcoal hail. The path was covered with fallen twigs and torn leaves.
As they walked, Sophia periodically looked up at the skies. She had not seen Seneca since he had dropped Goldenrod’s token, and some part of her was always waiting for the falcon to appear. Every flutter of wings drew her eye. “That’s a duck hawk,” Casanova said, following her gaze when a swooping figure made her stop.
“Very beautiful,” Sophia commented.
“Also known as a peregrine falcon. They are fairly common in these parts.”
“Casanova,” she said, “Theo was lucky to meet you in the Boston jail.”
He smiled. “Lucky Theo.”
Theo stopped in his tracks. “Why did you call me that?”
Casanova smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “How could I have forgotten? So much has happened, it entirely passed me by. When you were ill on the way to Oakring, we were stopped by raiders. They knew you. They even gave me dried meat, saying it had iron you needed. And one of them, named Skinny Jim, called you ‘Lucky Theo.’”
Theo’s strained expression relaxed into a smile. “Skinny Jim,” he repeated. “Well, well.” He turned back to the path, still smiling.
“Who is he?” asked Casanova.
“A raider I used to know.” Theo laughed, tapping his walking stick against a tree trunk. “He made his name as a knife thrower, actually, before he turned to raiding. He was one of the few I met who seemed to think there were rules to raiding. He never stole from women or from old people or from people who had children.”
“That rather shrinks the pool, doesn’t it?” Sophia remarked.
“Considerably. I never said he was a successful raider. But a few times, it worked out for him. He robbed a rancher in the southern Baldlands once and made off with enough money to live for two years. Of course, he spent it all in six months, but it was good while it lasted. Skinny Jim. A thief with scruples.”
“Like the pirates,” Sophia said.
“Like Casanova,” Theo suggested.
Sophia eyed Casanova cautiously. “Is that true?”
Casanova shook his head, a smile twisting his face. “I’ve never told Theo why I landed in the Boston jail. He’s fishing.” He ducked beneath a tree trunk that had fallen across the path. “Could be I was in jail for embezzlement. Or murder.” He turned and gave them a menacing look.
Theo laughed. “Sure. Very likely.”
“Or treason,” said Casanova, with less mirth in his voice.
“Treason,” Sophia repeated.
“’Course it was treason.” Theo scowled. “With Broadgirdle as prime minister. Cough too close to him and it’s treason. No doubt he was trying to stuff the Boston prisons so he’d have enough foot soldiers.”
Casanova pointed up the path. “There’s a clearing up ahead, and we’ll take a rest.” Theo and Sophia waited, hoping he would say something more. He did.
“I was arrested for protesting the border closure and New Occident’s policy toward the Indian Territories. I was part of a crowd on the State House steps. The police took us in. At first, it didn’t seem serious. But I had trouble getting a lawyer, and the days passed. And then Broadgirdle—who wasn’t prime minister yet, but still in parliament—got a law through that made certain forms of protest count as treason. The law applied even to people who had already been arrested on lesser charges. So there I was—in prison for treason.” He paused, holding a branch aside so that Theo and Sophia could pass. “No doubt if I hadn’t been conscripted,” he said matter-of-factly, “I would have been hanged.”
