The Steampunk Trilogy

by Paul Di Filippo

  Emily threw down the apparatus. “With such logic, I could make a hummingbird into a dragon! If you believe this faker, you’re all loco. I only hope I can keep myself from falling over with laughter when your expedition goes bust!”

  Exerting obvious self-control, Austin approached his sister. “It’s a certainty that you won’t be there, after this brazen insult.”

  Emily laughed. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Austin. I shall be there, and not just as a spectator, but as one of the crew! It’s that, or else I shall wire Father with news of this whole sordid affair! And believe me, a mundane telegraph works just as well as a celestial one!”

  Mention of the Squire caused Austin to blanch. The wind had been effectively taken out of his sails.

  Now Crookes tried to reason her out of it. “Why are so bent on accompanying us, Miss Dickinson, if you have no faith in our success?”

  Emily moved to stand by Walt. “I’m going to protect those I love from being made fools of and hurt!”

  Neither affirming nor denying Emily, Walt said, “Are our dreams so shaky, sirs, that we cannot afford a clear-eyed skeptic among us? Her presence will not hinder us, if our theory is sound.”

  A groan wafted from the couch. Everyone turned to the recumbent medium.

  “Let the petite unbeliever set sail with us. It matters not.

  “For she shall never return!”

  9

  “LAND HO! ETERNITY!”

  THE PARADE OF ostriches through the streets of Amherst attracted not a little attention, from gentry and mudlark alike.

  Led by Henry Sutton, chivvied gently onward from the rear by a switch-wielding Walt—whose informal uniform, for once, fit his role of herder—the big magnificent tropical birds trotted proudly down the dusty thoroughfares, pulling spectators in droves after them.

  Emily had to scurry to keep up with the parade of men, women and capering children: not an easy task in her long white dress. Finally, she gathered up her skirts, daringly exposing several inches of ankles and calves, and managed to catch up with Walt.

  A little Madness in the Spring is wholesome even for a King, Emily reminded herself. And the Lord knew, this had been the maddest Spring of her life!

  It had taken not one but three days to arrange the ideoplastic propulsion devices to the satisfaction of both Crookes and Davis. So had Emily ascertained, from daily visits to the Common. She had barely suppressed her laughter at the sight of so much useless activity; surely the tubes would prove as much a hoax as Madame Selavy’s third arm and hand. . . .

  During this time, Austin and Sutton had been kept busy loading various supplies aboard the schooner: tents, bottled water, foodstuffs, ropes, ostrich fodder. Emily was reminded of those Cattle smaller than the Bee, whose tillage is the passing Crumb—

  As for Walt, he had simply disappeared after the seance. A brief note had turned up that next morning at Emily’s breakfast setting, quoting one of the wanderer’s own poems:

  Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,

  Healthy, free, the world before me,

  The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

  Emily had cracked her soft-boiled egg with no apparent tremor of her hands, while inside she was all awhirl with uncertainty.

  She had not meant to state her love for Walt aloud, least of all during such a confused public event as a seance! Yet she had. Under whatever devilish impulse, she had blurted out her true feelings for Walt—feelings she had hardly been willing to admit even to herself.

  And now her words, it seemed, had caused the object of her affections to bolt. Was it that he did not reciprocate her deep devotion—or that he felt too strongly toward her to trust himself around her? Probably the former.

  My Worthiness is all my Doubt—

  His Merit—all my fear—

  Contrasting which, my quality

  Do lowlier—appear—

  Lest I should insufficient prove

  For his beloved Need—

  The Chiefest Apprehension

  Upon my thronging Mind—

  Well, there was no way to retract her words, even if she had wanted to, no action she could do take until—if—Walt returned.

  So she calmly ate her egg.

  But this very morning, drawn to her Main Street bedroom window by the unmistakably unique noise of a passing flock of ostriches, Emily had seen the shaggy figure of her beloved.

  Emily made a hasty toilet. Carlo, sensing her excitement and urgency, barked and bounded. A sudden wave of feeling passed over Emily. She knew with certainty that by plunging after Walt, she was embarking on a grand adventure that might separate her from her pet forever, by elopement or marriage, death or madness.

  Emily gave the big dog a hug, then locked it in the bedroom.

  By the time she made her way down to the street, the procession was some distance ahead. Hence the need for her indelicate haste.

  Now she drew up even with the hirsute shepherd.

  “Walt! Wait!”

  Obediently, Walt stopped. The flock continued on without him, the crowd encircling them and preventing their escape. Soon, the two poets were alone, the hustle and bustle dying away as the parade disappeared around a bend.

  Walt had not moved. Emily came around to look in his face. His placid, manly features, she was relieved to see, revealed no distaste or distress at her appearance, as she had half-feared they would. Quite to the contrary, he smiled gently at her, and doffed his floppy black hat.

  “Emily, dearest, I am glad to see you once more before our departure.”

  “It is today, then! Let’s hurry, or they’ll leave without us!”

  “You do not still propose to endanger yourself on such a chancey expedition, I pray . . .”

  “Of course! I don’t foresee any risk—but even if there were, do you think I would let my Master rush into it without me?”

  Walt sighed, and replaced his hat. Taking Emily by the elbow, he said, “Let us walk. I can think better then. It is how I have been spending the last several days.”

  They set out toward the center of town. After a few yards, Walt spoke.

  “Emily, I do not think you really know me—”

  “Oh, but I do, Walt, I do! Your soul is as clear as ice on a stream to me!”

  “I must disagree. We have barely met, and you claim me as your ‘Master.’ That alone shows how poorly you perceive me. I am no person’s master—not even my own, I fear! I am still a mystery to myself, after all these years. How could I be any less a mystery to you?”

  “But I love you, Walt! Surely that transcends mere knowing!”

  “It does, it does, I agree. But do you and I mean the same thing when we speak of love, Emily? Ever since I left my endlessly rocking cradle, I have been direly perplexed about the nature of love. I have been one that ached continually with amorous love. Does the earth not gravitate? Does not all matter, aching, attract all other matter? So the body of me to all I meet or know! I am not content with a mere majority—I must have the love of all men and all women on this earth!”

  “And you have mine, Walt! My whole heart!”

  “Emily, listen. Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, you came to me gently, a drop like myself. You whispered, ‘I love you. I have travelled a long way merely to look on you, to touch you.’ And this is good. But I respond: ‘Now that we have met and looked, we are safe! Return in peace to the ocean, my love. I too am part of that ocean, my love. We are never separated! Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!’”

  All Emily could hear were the words “my love,” repeated twice. To travel to Summerland were superfluous: she was in Paradise already.

  “Have it as you will, Walt. I am content. Let us join the others now.”

  “Only if you truly comprehend me, ma femme. . . .”
<
br />   “Yes, be assured. I do.”

  In silence, they walked the rest of the way to the Common.

  The crowd was enormous. Not only did masses of people overspread the lawn, but they hung from the windows of neighboring buildings. The young scholars of Fraternity Row, plainly already in their cups, were singing some raucous ditty about John Brown’s body—evidently their idea of the proper sendoff for such a solemn voyage.

  Emily was surprised that neither secular nor religious authorities had intervened to stop what was in essence a blasphemous expedition. She could only assume that both money and Dickinson influence had been brought to bear.

  The ship itself—sails still unfurled—had been transformed into some kind of bauble-bedecked Tannenbaum. From its rigging and superstructure hung the loaded Crookes tubes, connected by electrical cables. Their suspicious contents seemed to cast a nimbus around each, making the very air waver. It was a spooky effect, and Emily was still unable to conceive through what trickery Madame Selavy achieved it.

  The last of the ostriches—Norma, thought Emily—was just being brought aboard, up a long gangplank with a gentle slope. Walt and Emily followed the bird aboard.

  The rest of the crew awaited them.

  Austin spotted Emily. She mustered her rebuttal to his expected rebuke, but was taken aback by his actual words.

  “Although it is too late for you to carry out your threat by telegraphing Father, and so force your passage, you are still welcome to accompany us, sister. Despite your obvious and baseless antipathy toward Madame Selavy, she has graciously interceded on your behalf.”

  Emily eyed the medium suspiciously, and was returned a mocking curtsy and a smile that resembled the expression one of Vinnie’s cats might wear when stalking its feathered prey.

  Crookes now spoke. “If all hatchets have been at least temporarily buried, then perhaps we can move to a scientific footing. Our departure time is scheduled for exactly noon, and we still have a few items to attend to. Henry and Austin—please hoist the gangplank. And Mister Whitman—would you do these honors?”

  Crookes handed Walt a bottle of champagne. Taking it, Walt replied, “I am privileged, sir,” and advanced to the bow. At the appearance of the poet, the crowd roared, then fell silent. Assuming the dignity that he brought to all his frequent public-speaking engagements, Walt addressed the spectators.

  “These are the words of my good, gray friend, William Cullen Bryant, and I deem them meet for today.

  “‘So live, that when the summons comes to join

  “‘The innumerable caravan, which moves

  “‘To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

  “‘His chamber in the silent halls of death,

  “‘Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

  “‘Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

  “‘By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

  “‘Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

  “‘About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’”

  With his final words, Walt swung the bottle mightily against the hull of the ship, at the same time bellowing.

  “I christen thee Thanatopsis!”

  Champagne and glass sprayed the nearest watchers. A stunned silence reigned. Walt turned to go, then re-faced the crowd.

  “The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?” he asked them.

  No one answered, flippantly or otherwise.

  Walt returned to the others. He seemed enlarged somehow in Emily’s eyes, as if he were now casting off the restraints of civilization, preparing to match his big soul against death itself, flexing his spiritual muscles in preparation for a celestial wrestling match.

  “Well, cameradoes, our ship is nobly christened. It only remains to set sail. O captain, my captain—is it time?”

  Crookes consulted a pocket watch. “Nearly. Let us take to our couches.”

  Davis spoke. “Soon we shall float on the Bay of Seven Souls. Princess Pink Cloud will hail us from atop the Garnet Cliffs, and our fondest dreams will become reality.”

  Austin said, “Soon I shall hold my babies.”

  “And c’est vrai, no medium shall rival me upon my return.”

  Conducting his crew sternwards, Crookes brought them to a circle of couches incongruously bolted to the deck. Within the circle was the pentagram of ideoplastic containers. Off to one side stood an elaborate arrangement of tightly stoppered metal tanks and a large odd clock. From the tanks ran several rubber hoses, two per couch. Each pair of hoses terminated in a gutta-percha face mask.

  “Miss Dickinson, you are the only one unaware of our precautions, so listen closely. We have been warned by Princess Pink Cloud that the transition from earth to Summerland would drive a conscious human traveler mad. Therefore, we have elected to make the trip asleep, so to speak, as uncognizant of the dangers as one of Professor Agassiz’ fossils.

  “One of these tanks is filled with ether, a gas possessing the power to incapacitate the brain. Perhaps you have heard of it in connection with some recent childbirth experiments, at Massachusetts General Hospital—? The other contains pure oxygen. The valves of both are controlled by this multum-in-parvo clock, a kind of electro-mechanical timing device. Five minutes before noon, the clock will trigger a blast of ether into our masks. At noon, the same device will close the circuit in the propulsion tubes. A mere sixty seconds will suffice to make the transition, at which point we will be awakened by a gale of fresh oxygen. Now, are you willing to entrust your life to such a mechanism?”

  The scientist’s confident demeanor—similar in kind to Walt’s new bravado—inspired Emily. She answered, “If you warrant the contraption, then I place my faith in it—and in you, sir.”

  Crookes smiled. “Very well, then. The hour approaches! Ladies and gentlemen—couches, please!”

  On the horsehair cushions the intrepid cross-dimensional argonauts laid themselves down.

  Emily gingerly picked up her face mask and tied it on. Covering her nose and mouth as it did, it imparted a stifling, claustrophobic sensation, as if she were being immured in one of the newest Fisk Metallic Burial Cases.

  Truly, she felt already dead, her oldest dreads finally realized.

  Walt had taken a couch across the circle from her. Emily caught his eye. He winked, and she felt better.

  The sun was directly overhead, and the noise of the crowd came to Emily as a wordless booming surf.

  A hiss of escaping gas sounded. Emily held her breath until her lungs nearly burst, but was forced in the end to inhale.

  Sleep is the station grand, down which, on either hand, the hosts of Witnesses stand!

  As she drained the final dregs of oblivion, she heard a relay click, followed by the very Crack of Doom.

  10

  “DROPPED INTO THE ETHER ACRE—WEARING THE SOD GOWN”

  HER DUST CONNECTED—and lived.

  Upon her Atoms were Features placed, august, absorbed and numb.

  She was a Creature clad in Miracle.

  It was Anguish grander than Delight.

  It was—Resurrection Pain.

  If Death was a Dash, she was most definitely cis-hyphen.

  Still recumbent on her couch, noting dazedly that the noon sky above her had changed somehow to sunset hues—a shroud of gold and crimson, tyrian and opal—Emily reached a shaky hand up to her face and struggled to remove her mask.

  Above her appeared the figure of Walt, concerned.

  “Here, Emily—allow me.”

  He undid her mask and helped her to sit. Emily forced her eyes to focus on her fellow travelers, who were gradually coming to and rising, weakly doffing their anesthetic gear.

  “Are you all right?” Walt asked her.

  “I—I believe so. Though I am almost afraid to own thi
s body somehow. What happened? Did we actually pass across death’s border?”

  “I assume so. But let us help the others, and then we’ll see what we can see.”

  Soon, all seven voyagers were standing, however weakly.

  Then, for the first time, they dared to lift their eyes and look outward, beyond the Thanatopsis.

  What they saw made them move somnambulistically as one to the ship’s port rail.

  The Thanatopsis sat on its wheels in the middle of an apparently infinite, perfectly flat plain, whose circumambient horizon seemed queerly further off than its earthly counterpart.

  And the plain was covered with emerald-green, almost self-luminous grass, cropped or mown or inherently self-limited somehow as smooth as the lawn of some Vast Estate. Any other feature there was none.

  In stunned silence they stood, until from Walt pealed immense gales of laughter, followed by exuberant, near manic speech.

  “Oh, my sweet Lord! I was right, right all along! How fine, how just, how perfect! Has any poet ever received surer confirmation of his visions? Please, someone—ask me what this grass is!”

  Emily complied. “What—what is this grass, Walt?”

  Walt puffed up his chest and declaimed, “A child said, ‘What is the grass?’ fetching it to me with full hands. How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, a scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say ‘Whose?’ Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, the beautiful uncut hair of graves!”

  Young Sutton began to clap. “Bravo, Walt! You seen it all before we even got here!”

  Now Davis hesitantly spoke. “My calculations must have been off a trifle. This is plainly not the Bay of Seven Souls.”