On the Isle of Sound and Wonder copyright © 2014 by Alyson Grauer
Published by Xchyler Publishing
an imprint of Hamilton Springs Press, LLC
ISBN-10: 1940810264
ISBN-13: 978-1-940810-26-3
eBook License Notes:
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www.xchylerpublishing.com
1st Edition: November, 2014
Cover Illustration by Egle Zioma, daywish.deviantart.com
Cover and Interior Design by D. Robert Pease, www.walkingstickbooks.com
Edited by Jessica Shen
Published in the United States of America
Xchyler Publishing
A Foreword from
Tee Morris, author of The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
I first met Alyson Grauer on Twitter in 2011. It was steampunk that brought us together; but the more we got to know one another, the more we shared in common. One of those many things—William Shakespeare. Once upon a time, I was terrified of Shakespeare; but then after being cast as “The King” and “Morgan the Interpreter” in James Madison University’s production of All’s Well That Ends Well, I needed to get over that fear. That was when my roommate sat me down and made me watch Ian McKellen: Acting Shakespeare.
Yes, Magneto—getting his iambic pentameter on. Like. A. Boss.
Alyson told me some time ago she had begun work on her first novel, a steampunk telling of William Shakespeare’s final play, The Tempest. With all the stories that she and I have shared both online and (finally) in 2014 when we met, I can’t recall if I ever told Alyson of my emotional attachment to that play. I first read The Tempest in 1990 while studying in London. One year later, I went on to direct it. I still look back on my production fondly—an island stuck in the heart of the Bermuda Triangle, its fairies lost in time and space, music spanning decades providing a backdrop for intrigue, romance, and resolution.
I wonder if Alyson knew The Tempest is one of my favorites of Shakespeare’s?
She does now.
Alyson and I have only been friends for a brief time, but I have never known her to turn her back on a challenge. If she doesn’t embrace challenge, she leaps on a challenge’s back, wrestles it to the ground, and demands it to call her a pretty, pretty girl. She stepped up to the invitation of writing for The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, and her short story “A Trick of Strong Imagination” stands as part of the Parsec-winning season of the Tales from the Archives podcast. She was then tapped to write for Mechanized Masterpieces. Her novella “Lavenza, or The Modern Galatea” leveled up the steampunk already present in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in such a way that, I believe, Mary Shelly would have given her a nod and said, “You go, girl.”
She made her professional debut as a writer with The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences and drove the legend of Frankenstein even deeper into steampunk. Now, she was going to steampunk Shakespeare’s epic farewell to the stage, the play I hold so close and dear to my heart?
Of course she would.
When I read On the Isle of Sound and Wonder, I found myself on stage at JMU once again, undertaking the challenge to bring Prospero’s Island to life. Characters so very familiar to me emerge from the wings and take their places. Music becomes a tapestry woven specially for my players. The storm rises. The show goes on.
But these once-intimate friends are new to me, now. This island is not lost in time but lost in technology. Its music is a clockwork staccato against an omnipresent harmony of steam. I know this world so well, and yet I am a stranger here. I am not the sorcerer behind the storm this time. This is Alyson’s world, and I am rediscovering The Tempest all over again.
If you are a fan of steampunk, you will enjoy this lush tale of science and alchemy. If you are a fan of Shakespeare, you will enjoy this adventure of redemption, betrayal, and romance. If you are a fan of both—as I am—On the Isle of Sound and Wonder is truly the best of both worlds. Not only the worlds of steampunk and Shakespeare, but of literature and theatre. While Shakespeare once told us . . .
“These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits
And are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
In the case of Alyson Grauer’s debut novel, those cloud-capp’d towers, gorgeous palaces, and great globe are all captured in a book. You can return to that world. Anytime.
Thank you, Aly, for this astounding trick of strong imagination.
1854
Water poured over the streets of the city, down every roof and every drainpipe into the cobbled walkways and curving arches of Neapolis, while the people huddled in their homes and pretended to sleep soundly. It seemed that days had passed in the torrential downpour and darkness, though it could have only been a matter of hours.
The rains had come, swallowing up the sun, and everything stopped as the city braced itself for a flood. The waves slapped and stung the shoreline, the winds peeled away at the city and its gardens, and even so, the midwife climbed from her home on the outskirts of town up the hill to the palazzo.
The child was coming, and it was coming much too quickly.
* * *
It had been a warm, careless day in spring when the opportunity came to the midwife’s door. She answered, one hand ever-closed around her tall and gnarled staff. A serving woman stood in the street at a safe distance, flanked by two of what must have been guards in semi-civilian dress—simple caps and jackets over plain-colored shirts and trousers. Nothing out of the ordinary, but somewhat too clean to be authentic. A second glance revealed to the midwife that they were mechanized men, which meant they served someone rather important, indeed.
“Good day to you, good-mother,” called the serving woman, who was not much younger than the midwife herself. Her voice was lush and gentle, her expression serene.
“Good afternoon,” replied the midwife, eyeing the mechanized guardsmen. The pale gold sheen of their skin betrayed them as more than human despite their haphazard peasant costumes and too-casual posture.
The serving woman clasped her hands loosely before her, her head lifted a little higher than the midwife would expect for one of her station. “I was told you assist in the birthing of children. Is it so?”
“Yes, of course. Are you expecting?”
The bluntness of the question caught the servant off-guard, and she squeezed her fingers together as though to keep her composure. “No, of course not. It is my lady who is with child.”
“Your lady?” The midwife’s gaze wandered to the servant’s shoes—plain, but very clean. Lik
e new. The midwife took a step closer, leaning on the staff comfortably. “A wealthy woman, I presume?”
“Very wealthy. She will pay you handsomely for your advice, your support, and your wisdom.” Her gray eyes were pale against her olive-warm skin, her dark blonde hair neatly plaited over one shoulder in a single braid.
The midwife drew a slow, deliberate breath through her nose, smelling the warm sunlight, the drying mud beneath their feet, and a hint of exotic perfume, probably dabbed behind the servant’s ears. Jasmine, the midwife thought, and . . . sandalwood? Expensive. Add on the hardly used shoes and the mechanical guards. . . .
“I would be happy to discuss the terms of service, my lady,” said the midwife, with a proper curtsey. “And please, don’t be offended. I know a highborn lady when I see one, though your disguise was likely necessary for passing through the city unmolested.”
The woman’s cheeks grew rosy, but she stood with her back straight, her chin tucked with humility. “Forgive the deception, good-mother,” she answered smoothly. “I hope you do not mind. I wanted to come myself. The selection of a . . . skilled midwife is not something one entrusts to a servant, after all. Not when there are matters of the heart and spirit involved. Do you see it as a spiritual process, midwife?”
“It is a highly personal process, to be certain.” The midwife waited, wondering if the woman would elaborate.
“Yes, just so. Especially when there is a midwife available such as yourself, who has a great deal of special knowledge to draw from.” The lady gave a shy sort of smile. “I would rather not discuss it in the open.”
Ah, so she wants magic to bring her baby to the world safely. Well, that much I can do; I’ve never lost a child. The midwife nodded and gestured toward her home: a hut half-embedded in the hillside where she was close to the earth and protected from the wind and weather. “Of course, my lady. Come inside and have some tea. Shall I call you by your title or by your married name?”
“My name is Sophia,” offered the lady. “My husband is the Duke of Neapolis.”
“My noble lady!” the midwife said immediately, and curtsied again for good measure. “I am very honored, indeed. My name is Corvina.”
“A lovely name!” The duchess smiled agreeably. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine. I am happy to help you in any way I can. How far along are you?”
“Not very,” said the duchess, a hint of worry scampering across her expression. “But I have had such dreams since it began. I would like for you to riddle them for me, and ward me against any problems that might arise.”
“Of course, my lady, I am at your service.”
* * *
Dreams.
Corvina paused in a shop’s alcove to catch her breath, bracing herself against either side of the narrow archway as the water rushed around her ankles. Leaves, debris, and bits of trash floated past her, sliding back down the hill the way she’d come. What a storm! Lightning split the sky open once more, flashing bright and cold, and she looked up toward the palazzo—the king’s stately palace—high on the hill.
On any other day, she would have followed the duke and duchess’ instructions to the letter: she would have ridden on a cart heading into town then transferred to a trolley winding up through the streets toward the heights. She would have walked to the gates of the palazzo to give her name to the tin birds that acted as security for the entrance. They would have flown to the guards waiting inside the palace and inform them of her name and business purpose. From there, an armed mechanical escort would have brought her to the duchess’ chambers for the birth. They had spoken of the process a thousand times; she knew every step, every nod, and every movement by heart.
But no one had thought the duchess would go into labor so soon, so suddenly, or that it would be in the middle of perhaps the worst storm the city had ever seen.
The midwife straightened her back, stretching her neck for a moment before shifting her grasp on the staff and heading out into the downpour once again, staggering up the hill, as bent as any old woman. She thought wistfully of how much easier it would be if she could somehow guide the storm away from Neapolis, or stop it from raging altogether.
Her wisdom did not lie with the weather, however; her understanding of the human body made her a healer, and that’s what had led the duchess to her. That’s also what had brought her to the attention of the duke.
* * *
The midwife had just examined the duchess’ increasingly swollen belly when she met the duke for the first time. The duchess had dropped off to sleep in her chambers, and the midwife was in the antechamber, washing up.
“How is she?” asked the man at the door, and the midwife turned, only to fold into a slight bow. For a moment, she wondered if it was the king himself; but without a crown, he must have been none other than the duchess’ lord husband, the Duke of Neapolis.
He was a handsome, slightly older man, with eyes as gray as stone against his smooth, light brown skin. The palazzo belonged to the King of Italya, but, beloved by him, the duke and duchess took permanent residence there, as well. The duke was a known confidante and advisor to his liege lord.
“She’s doing well, my lord,” answered the midwife, her eyes lowered, the damp cloth still in her hands.
“Please,” said the duke, gesturing for her to rise. “My wife tells me you are very knowledgeable. She says you have great herbs and many tales to tell of their qualities.” The duke walked into the antechamber, his steps slow and deliberate.
“This is so,” said the midwife, lightly but with caution. She had been ejected from more than one city in her thirty-some years; she did not want it to happen again—not when the duchess was doing so well.
“Sophia also tells me that your hands are gentle, but your arms are tattooed.”
The midwife stared straight ahead as the duke made a wide circle around her.
“May I see them?” His tone was cordial—courteous, even, but the midwife had heard snakes speak like this before. She did not know yet if the duke was a snake, but he certainly was no barn swallow.
She gingerly replaced the damp cloth to the basin and reached for one sleeve, then the other, pulling them back as one might peel a fruit.
The duchess had spoken the truth: the midwife’s arms were dark by nature, but she was, indeed, covered in faded ink depicting stars, the sun, the moon, and archaic symbols the likes of which ordinary folk would not see in their lifetimes, let alone an average day.
The duke did not touch her, but she could feel his eyes as though he inspected her with his broad fingertips. The midwife itched for her staff, but the gnarled, knotted stick leaned against the wall just behind her and barely out of reach.
“I see,” said the duke kindly. “Thank you for your honesty.” He moved a little further away from her, but his eyes never left her face, even as she avoided his gaze for fear of insulting or angering him. At last he exhaled deeply, the relief and satisfaction of the noise causing her to look up with furrowed brow.
“Have you always been an enchantress?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the midwife, dropping her gaze again. “I am only a healer, a midwife learned in how to bring forth babes to the world and heal minor ailments.”
The duke stopped pacing and looked sharply at her. “As you saw through my wife’s disguise, so I see through yours,” he said, his voice grown serious. “I wish to know the truth.”
The midwife dared to look up at him again, torn between the severity of his tone and the urge to survive another day in this town. But his expression was not angry, simply questioning. She swallowed the instincts that strained within her chest, pleading with her to escape. “I was born with my gifts,” she said, but it was neither an admission nor a confession, merely a truth.
It satisfied him, and he nodded. “I wish to show you something, and ask of your wisdom some advice, if you will indulge me.” He gestured toward the door.
She
hesitated a moment, then reached for her gnarled stick. It fit against her palm as though it were meant to be there. They walked in silence for some time, turning down hallways and slight staircases. Their path was crossed by no one, though, more than once, the midwife felt the eyes of servants slinking by behind them, or in passages unseen nearby. The palazzo was very grand, and the midwife felt a touch of wonder that they could move about so freely without ever seeing another person.
She found herself not terribly surprised when the duke pushed open a door and led her down a brief passage which opened up into a workshop of sorts. Instruments and contraptions adorned the space, hanging from the ceiling and mounted on walls and shelves. Books lined the walls and piled on tables, and a warm fire blazed in the hearth nearby, illuminating the brass, copper, and steel in the room.
“You are an inventor?” she ventured, her eyes roving the room, noting the high-mounted windows on the eastern wall of the workplace.
“Something like that,” he agreed, moving toward his desk.
She lingered close to the exit, grasping the gnarled staff, wondering what the Duke of Neapolis, favorite of the king, could want with her. He picked up a book, paging through the large, worn volume in search of something particular.
“What can you tell me about this?” He showed her the page.
The midwife’s eyes widened only a fraction, but her heart leapt and shuddered in her chest as she studied the diagram. “You are an alchemist,” she murmured.
He chuckled. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I have done much reading and much studying, and still I seek more. Yours is a world I wish to know. Intimately.” His gray eyes fixed on her. “I would like for you to teach me. You will be paid handsomely, and I assure you, I am a quick study.”
“I should focus on caring for your wife and your child-to-be,” she said, taking a step back. “I don’t know anything about alchemy, my lord; I’m sorry.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” encouraged the duke, still holding the book open. “I’m sure you have much to teach. I am willing to learn. It is a blissful union of opportunities.”
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