The Steampunk Trilogy

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Basically, I’m in the hoosegow for offending an art critic.”

  “I had not realized that was a punishable offense.”

  “Me neither. But when money comes in the door, art goes out the window.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t quite see—”

  “Please—read my card.”

  Dogberry handed Agassiz a printed pasteboard.

  JOSIAH DOGBERRY, ESQ.

  ITINERANT ARTISTE

  PORTRAITS RENDERED

  WITH ELEGANCE AND DISPATCH

  PROFILES………………10 ¢

  FULL-FACE………………25 ¢

  TORSO TO WAIST………75 ¢

  DOWN TO THE FEET……1 DOLLAR

  (HANDS EXTRA)

  Above the text was a sample of Dogberry’s portraiture. The crude lines of the rendering seemed to limn a hydrocephalic hunchbacked dwarf.

  “I see,” replied Agassiz, handing the card back. “There was some dispute about your fees . . .?”

  Dogberry sighed. “I’ll say there was. I sweated blood to sketch the whole Pickens family, and they weren’t hardly satisfied. The father claimed I made his youngest look like a pig. Demanded his money back, he did. Unfortunately, I had spent it all on the vile necessities of life, to wit, kidney pie, a game of skittles and a night’s lodging. So, here I am.”

  “Where did you get your training, may I ask?”

  “Entirely self-taught, sir, and proud of it. I started life as a humble barefoot farmboy. In my spare moments, I would sketch the livestock with charcoal on a handy plank. When it came time for me to make my way in the world, I just naturally turned to the pictorial arena.”

  “Perhaps it would have been better for you to have remained on the farm. . . .”

  “Couldn’t be done, Lou. I was the youngest of sixteen boys, and by the time I grew up, the land had already been divided amongst my brothers. And it was only two acres to begin with! Not that they had such an easy time of it either. I remember one day when Joshua—he’s the oldest—turned to Jeremiah—that’s the one with the limp—and said, ‘Go fetch Jeb, Jason, Jethro, Jim, John, Jan, Jurgen, Jed, Jabez, Jahath, Job, Joel and Julius—we’ve got to talk about putting the patrimony back together.’ Well, sir, by the time Jeremiah had rounded everyone up—what with his limp and all—the price of corn had dropped another penny a bushel! Sure as taxes, the New England farmer is taking a beating these days. It’s all that cheap produce from the west, coming in by the canals and railroads, that’s driving us under. I curse the day the Erie Canal was ever dreamed up!”

  “But progress—”

  “Progress for some is always regress for others, Lou. Take my word for it.”

  Pondering this new sentiment, Agassiz was startled by the sound of a key in the cell door.

  The door opened to reveal the jailer who had conducted Agassiz last night. But instead of bringing breakfast, he delivered these chilling words: “You, the new one—come with me.”

  “Give ’em hell for all us little folks, Lou.”

  On watery knees, Agassiz preceded the cudgel-equipped guard. They traversed a maze of corridors, from behind the cell doors of which issued various groans and lamentations, before descending a level. This sub-basement appeared little used: cobwebs graced the nitred walls; rats scuttled with curiously intelligent movements across their path; a stack of crates was stencilled with the legend RELICKS OF YE SALEM TRIALS. . . .

  They came to a door from under whose bottom leaked light.

  “In you go,” growled the guard.

  Agassiz laid a hand on the door latch. He was shaking so violently that he actually transmitted his vibrations to the loosely hung door in its frame, powdering his shoes with dust. But at last he managed to pull open the Portal of Doom, whereupon an unfathomable scene met his eyes.

  A barely perceptible rumbling, easy to ignore, could be sensed emanating from somewhere. On the floor of the big room was a luxuriant Oriental carpet. Tapestries hid the walls. Centered in the middle of the rug was a long oaken table covered with a damask cloth. In the middle of the table stood a six-branched candlestick of ancient design casting its lambent glow. Two settings of plates and cutlery were arranged at either end of the table, in front of high-backed chairs. The smells of eggs, ham, toast and coffee emanated from various serving vessels.

  Seated at one end of the table was a man. He wore high polished boots and the uniform of a Prussian officer, all gold buttons, braids and epaulets. From his belt was suspended an unsheathed rapier. The man’s face was as hard and sharp as the stones of the Cuckfield Quarry from which Mantell had gouged his fossils. One eye was concealed by a black patch decorated with the broken-armed cross of the ancient Aryans, primal sun symbol stitched in white.

  “Herr Professor,” said the man in a voice somehow reminiscent of the motions of a King Cobra (Ophiophagus hanna), “won’t you join me for breakfast?”

  Mesmerized, Agassiz took the offered seat.

  “Please, help yourself.”

  Scooping unseen food into his plate, gulping down a huge lump in his throat, Agassiz found his voice. “A-and your name, sir?”

  “You enjoy the modest privilege, Herr Professor, of addressing a humble representative of the King of Prussia. I am His Majesty Frederick William the Fourth’s loyal servant, Hans Bopp.”

  Agassiz felt a wave of fear wash over him. Here, then, was the second man Cezar had warned him of, the infamous head of the Prussian secret police.

  “We have some business to discuss,” said Bopp. “But let us wait until we have sampled this novel American cuisine. It is my first visit to the New World, and I fully intend to enjoy it. Come, eat.”

  Bopp’s words and tone brooked no disagreement. Agassiz manfully chewed and swallowed, though he tasted not a morsel. Bopp spoke brightly all the while on inconsequential topics: the poetry of Eichendorff, the music of Mozart (particularly the hidden Masonic symbolism in The Magic Flute), and the landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich. . . . Not surprisingly relaxing a bit under the civilized conversation, Agassiz was actually beginning to enjoy his coffee when Bopp said without preamble, “You are aware, are you not, that you are still in the service of King Frederick, Herr Professor?”

  Agassiz choked on his coffee. Recovering, he said, “But how can that be? The grant was to last only two years, and that time was up in March. I’ve spent all the money, but I can give a strict accounting—”

  Bopp reached inside his coat and removed some papers. Agassiz recognized with a sinking feeling the agreement Humboldt had mailed him for his signature. Damn his own avarice! But he had needed that three thousand dollars to get to America. . . .

  “May I read to you from section four, paragraph sixteen, clause nine? ‘The undersigned agrees to offer the Crown first option on his services for a period of time not to exceed two decades after the expiration of this contract. Should the reigning monarch perish (God save him), the option shall pass to his successor.’”

  Agassiz attempted a feeble laugh. “Surely such a clause is merely one of those ancient manifestations of droit de seigneur, not meant to be actually invoked . . .?”

  Folding up the papers and returning them to his coat, Bopp said, “I’m afraid not, Herr Professor. It’s actually a modern notion, and quite legal. In fact, it was this very clause which I was able to use—along with my status as ambassador—to convince the Governor to order your arrest. But I don’t wish to invoke courts of law quite yet in our discussion, nor the displeasure of the King, which I, as his duly appointed agent, would be duty-bound to express. No, I intend to appeal to your sense of honor and to our common heritage.”

  The sole surviving Teutonic Knight stood up, his sword clattering on his chair, and proceeded to stride martially up and down the room as he spoke.

  “You see, Herr Professor, I am going to speak to you as a fellow membe
r of the Aryan race. It’s true, you’re not technically a member of the Germanic tribes, but as a pure-blooded Swiss, you represent the next closest branch of our noble family. Perhaps you’re familiar with Comte de Gobineau, the Frenchman? No? Ah, a pity. He is in the midst of composing a monumental work he intends to call The Inequality of the Human Races. I believe you’d find it fascinating. It details the genesis of the Aryans on the Indo-European plateau, their migrations and their proper place as lords and rulers over all other degenerate branches of humanity.

  “But this destiny, while ultimately inevitable, is subject, as are all temporal schemes, to setbacks and hindrances. While the glorious rule of the sons of Ahura Mazda will come to pass sooner or later, it can be delayed. The lesser races, you see, are cunning in a primitive way. They can interpose barriers to our success. If nothing else, they outnumber us drastically.

  “By Wotan, they are incredibly fecund! We Northerners, with our concentration on matters of the intellect and the spirit, can hardly match the tropical scum in matters of procreation. It’s disgusting how they breed, like maggots in filth! And just as you would crush without compunction a stinging insect that annoyed you, so must the inferior races of the world be brought under the fatherly and wise rule of Germanic efficiency and swiftly exterminated!”

  Bopp paused, and Agassiz tried to muster a politic reply. Slowly, he began.

  “While I basically agree with you as regards the innate superiority of our white race, I must beg to differ slightly with your aggressive plans for world domination. Surely the wisest and least energetic course is simply to maintain a policy of strict segregation. Let the dark-skinned races be penned up in their portion of the globe, while we keep to ours. For instance, we might begin by shipping all the North American blacks back to Africa—”

  Bopp exploded. “And let them squat on the untold undeveloped wealth of that continent!? And what of the possibility of their stealing sufficient arms from us to represent a military threat? No, that will hardly do, Herr Professor. It’s a fight to the death, believe me. And although it’s guaranteed that Aryan forces will ultimately triumph, inaugurating a thousand-year rule, the price of the victory can be high or low, depending on what we do today.

  “You see, while German scientific and military prowess lead the world, are at an all-time pinnacle and still ascending—consider, if you will, the miracles of the Krupp munitions factories, the useful accomplishments of scientists such as Baron Liebig, and even the somewhat more esoteric findings of men such as yourself—there is another aspect to our culture that has been much neglected of late.

  “I speak now of the religious side, the occult sphere.

  “Ever since the Enlightenment, Aryan man has tended to disparage that which could not be weighed or measured. By failing to keep in touch with the spiritual elements in his nature, the inner light of Valhalla which alone gives direction to all his drives, he has cut down the tree of Yggdrasil. Look at the sad state of my own order, reduced first to land-grubbing politicians, then to mere retainers, turning our backs on all the secret knowledge we brought out of Jerusalem.

  “I will grant the savages this much: whatever trappings of civilization they mimic, they wisely hold on to their religions. Their ancient gods and rituals still fuel their daily activities and their will to survive.

  “It is this pagan spiritual vigor which I intend to restore to the Germanic peoples. And I shall begin by employing the fetiche of the Hottentot Venus!”

  Agassiz suppressed a curse. That damnable pudendum! Why had Cuvier ever preserved it? Would it haunt him for the rest of his life . . .?

  Agassiz sought to dissuade this Prussian Paracelsus from his plans. “But surely, Herr Bopp, you cannot seriously intend to contaminate yourself with Negro magicks?”

  “Why not? What could be more ironically fitting than to turn the savage’s own weapons against himself? Magic, my dear Professor, knows no ethnic taint. I am perfectly at ease with anything that will achieve my ends, whether it be the shamanism of the Red Man or the taoism of the Yellow.”

  Bopp’s lone eye began to gleam. He drew close to Agassiz.

  “I have a vision of the German people reinspired with a thousand sects and cults. No more shall the Order of the Rosy Cross offer the sole alternative for seekers after cosmic truth. No, there shall be a hundred orders. The Mystic Aeterna, the Stella Matutina, the Ordo Templi Orientis, the Hammer League, the Thule Society, the Fraternitas Saturni Lodge—The Old Ones shall return! That is not dead which eternal lies! He does not sleep, he only dreams!”

  Bopp’s mantic trance fled as quickly as it had come, leaving the Teutonic Knight plainly enervated. He rested a hand on the back of Agassiz’s chair and slumped. With an effort, he straightened.

  “It is your duty, Herr Professor, both contractually and as a representative of the Aryan race, to assist me in obtaining the fetiche. I take it for granted that you will contact me at the first definite sighting of the sorcerer.”

  “And if I should chose not to comply?”

  Bopp smiled evilly. “Allow me to show you something.”

  Moving to one of the tapestries, Bopp lifted it to reveal a door. He motioned Agassiz to open it and enter.

  The moisture-scented room was filled with a rumbling that issued from a large water-wheel whose axle protruded from one wall. An underground stream entered from one side of the room through a stone channel, exiting on the far side.

  Strapped to the rim of the water-wheel were two figures. With a shock, Agassiz recognized them as his two visitors of a day or so ago: Hoene-Wro´nski and Levi. With each revolution of the wheel, they alternately plunged into the water and emerged coughing and sputtering, with barely enough time to gather their breath for the next dip.

  “Two pitiful would-be players in this great game,” said Bopp sarcastically. “I caught them inquiring about the fetiche. Oh, don’t be alarmed. I don’t intend to kill them, just teach them a little lesson before sending them packing back to Paris. If I were ever to lay my hands on that damn Kosciuszko, however, the story would have a different ending! But enough fun—let us go.”

  Outside the torture-room, Bopp said, “I trust I do not have to spell out the application of what you have seen to your own case, Herr Professor? I thought not. Very well, then, you are free to leave. Your guard waits outside to conduct you to the prison gates.”

  With a hand on the door latch, Agassiz was brought up short by one last comment from Bopp.

  “If you still waver, Professor, allow me to assure you that the future of the sub-humans and all their allies can best be depicted by a boot stomping on a face—forever!”

  Agassiz found himself on the ground floor of the prison without having consciously made the ascent. The events of the past twenty-fours hours had overtaxed his brain.

  Sunlight pouring in through the unbarred windows of an anteroom began to restore him a little to himself. As clerks fussed over the paperwork connected with releasing him, Agassiz sought to reassure himself that the whole interval had been only a horrible nightmare. Surely the affairs of the world were not managed by such madmen. . . .

  Another prisoner was brought into the room. It was Dogberry.

  “Glad to see you made it through whatever you made it through, Lou, though your face does look like the leeks we used to blanch on the farm. Anyhow, you didn’t miss much of a breakfast. I counted fifteen weevil carcasses in the gruel, not reckoning a few wings and feelers.”

  Grateful for a familiar and friendly face, even of a night’s acquaintance, Agassiz said, “I take it you’re to be released today also, Josiah?”

  “’Pears so, Lou. Though what I’ll do when I’m out of here, I can’t rightly say. Guess I’ll be moving on to ply my trade in a less cosmopolitan town, one where folks ain’t followers of this newfangled daguerreotype realism—”

  Something about the hapless artist—surely not his mi
nuscule talent—reminded Agassiz of Dinkel, his trusted sketcher of twenty years who had chosen to remain in Europe. Almost without intending to, Agassiz found himself saying, “Josiah, would you like a job drawing for me? The subjects would be animal in nature, which might be more in your line.”

  Dogberry slapped his trousers, sending up a plume of dust. “Would I! Why, Lou, you’re the kind of patron that Rembrandt had with the Medicis!”

  “I believe you have Michelangelo in mind, Josiah.”

  “One Spaniard’s the same as another to me, I’m afeared.”

  Soon, two free men stepped out into the open air of Charlestown. The simple act of breathing had never filled Agassiz with as much joy as it did right now. He vowed never to forget the feelings of this moment. . . .

  Despite the sleepless night and the unsettling interview, Agassiz found himself enjoying the walk through early morning Charlestown. Onboard a ferry heading toward East Boston, he found himself frequently breaking into a foolish grin.

  Objectively considered, he knew, his life was a mess. On the one hand, he was forced to play host to a miscegenating colonial and his Bushwoman bride, not to mention a Terpischorean Ojibway sachem. He was simultaneously under surveillance by an autocrat and an anarchist. His wife was at death’s door, and last night’s fiasco had surely erased all chances for him to secure the Harvard professorship.

  On the other hand, he was not strapped to the motive apparatus of a gristmill.

  Opening the unlocked door of his house, Agassiz called out, “Pourtales, Burckhardt, Desor, hello! Your leader has returned unscathed!”

  Jane poked her head out of the pantry. “Shush, Professor! Everyone’s sleeping. They only just got home an hour or two ago. . . .”

  “The lazy wretches! And I suppose no one expressed any concern for me . . .?”

  Jane looked hurt. “Master Desor claimed he saw you climbing into a carriage filled with trulls and tosspots. He said you had a slattern in each arm and one on your lap.”