Emily felt someone brush past her.
It was Maude.
Like a sleepwalker, drawn perhaps by the remnants of her intense connection with Ezra, or by simple desperation, the seeress was heading for the sea.
Before anyone could stop her, she had entered the water.
Two steps only, and it was up to her waist, lifting her dress around her like a jellyfish’s mantle.
Davis began to rush forward to rescue his partner, but was stopped by Crookes’ decisive restraint.
“No, don’t! Can’t you see what’s happening, man? She’s not sinking—she’s dissolving!”
It was true. Standing only where the shorter children had gone under, Maude should not have been so swamped. Indeed, she had stopped moving, yet the water was still crawling up her! Inexorably it swallowed her, as the horrified onlookers watched. Exhibiting no pain, but rather a transcendental bliss, the woman melted into the ocean’s embrace, till only her empty clothing was left floating on the placid sea.
Davis wailed, “Maude!” then collapsed.
Emily had passed all bounds of shock. Betrayed, bedazzled, bereft, her mind was now working in some kind of cool and rarefied zone, like a little bird carried by a storm into the highest reaches of the atmosphere finding it could somehow still breathe and fly.
Emily giggled softly to herself, hysteria bubbling under.
I started early—Took my Friends—
And visited the Sea—
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me—
But no Man moved Me—till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe—
And past my Apron—and my Belt
And past my Bodice—too—
And made as He would eat me up—
As wholly as a Dew—
Coincidental with the intrusion of Maude into the greedy sea, there now came a deep rumbling noise from the plain behind them, as if in response.
Austin helped Emily up, and Crookes aided Davis. Together, the six climbed the slope until they had gained the gramininferous flatland.
There was a green Mountain breaking the tableland now in the middle distance. Its magnitude obscured for a moment the fact that it possessed a familiar human profile.
Then the Mountain rose from the waist.
Only Walt dared speak. “We seemed to have awoken someone—”
For a moment, the Mountain sat upon the Plain in its tremendous Chair, its observation omnifold, its inquest everywhere—
At last it saw the humans.
The Mountain got to its feet and began to walk.
In no time it was towering over the expedition, casting a cold shadow across them.
The Mountain, observed Emily, was a hermaphrodite.
Divided down the middle, its left half was naked Emily, its right half naked Walt.
Beard and breast, split genitals—was this then their own magnificent reborn soul, somehow conjoined for eternity? Or was it rather a convenient guise for something beyond their comprehension?
Emily felt a curious wisdom emanate from the gigantic being. It seemed to sense why they were here, seemed to grasp their whole lives from start to unseen finish, much as a person might comprehend the entirety of a mayfly’s short existence.
And from the Mountain radiated pity.
Then the giant reached for them, with a hand as huge and green as Amherst’s town common—
There was a roaring in Emily’s ears, as of the sea. Something was clamped on her face. Where was she? What had happened?
She scrabbled at the impediment to her breathing, succeeded in clawing it off.
It was a gas mask.
Emily got weakly to her feet.
She was aboard the Thanatopsis, which vessel still sat on its cradle in the midst of the grassy town lawn, its bow still dripping with champagne. Above stretched the welcome blue sky, and a sun at normal noontime height. The familiar buildings of the town bulked reassuringly around them. From the hold came the muted cries of the ostriches.
The louder noise was that of the crowd who had come to watch them depart. Now their cheers were turning ugly.
“Start the show!” “When’s the sailing?” “I seen ’em shiver like, but then they came back!” “Hoist yer sails, lubber!” “Where’s the ghostly gale?” “Show us some skeletons!” “Heaven or bust!”
Emily’s shipmates were now off their couches. All seemed as dazed and bewildered as she herself felt.
“Of the dead, I dreamed,” said Walt. “Passing strange it was—yet even now it fades, fades, fades. . . ..”
Crookes said, “I too half-recall an adventure almost beyond words. Was it the ether only, or was it . . .?”
“Did I get to hold my babes?” asked Austin. “Someone, tell me, please! I don’t think I can go back to Sue without knowing—”
“Where is Madame Selavy?” Davis asked with some urgency.
Emily noticed now that the medium was indeed missing.
Davis rushed to the ship’s side and addressed the crowd.
“Did anyone see a woman leave the ship? Speak up, for God’s sake!”
“Not me.” “She musta jumped ship if she ain’t there.” “I think I seen her go overboard.” “Say, now that you mention it—” “Yeah, I seen her hoist her skirts and run off.” “She couldn’t take the failure—”
Davis returned, massaging his brow wearily. “It does not seem possible that Hrose would have fled. But the alternative—I can’t quite envision it, but it’s something too horrible to contemplate. Perhaps I will find her back at The Evergreens. . . .”
Austin said stiffly, “I fear you will not be welcome there long, Mister Davis, nor will Madame. This whole affair has proven an expensive and embarrassing fiasco. If you will be so kind as to pack your belongings, I shall be happy to pay for your ticket back to Poughkeepsie.”
“And I too shall be leaving,” said Crookes. “This fruitless sidetrack off the road of science has lasted too long. My laboratory beckons.”
“Henry and I also shall be going,” said Walt. “Manahatta’s million-footed streets call.” The burly poet draped an arm around his young companion, who smiled with animal amiability, as if he had simply been for a walk around the block. Then Walt turned to Emily.
“Would you consider accompanying us to New York, Miss Dickinson? Although I cannot guarantee you an easy entrée to literary society, you might find the writerly company at Pfaff’s Saloon congenial. And, with a little luck, it might very well lead to the publication of your poetry. . . .”
Here was the invitation she had lived long years for, uttered by the man who had shown her the most respect and admiration.
So why was a wave of repugnance engulfing her?
Something she had learned, something about Walt and young Sutton—
No, it was gone. The cause was invisible, but the sharp-edged feeling of distaste remained.
Emily spoke coldly. “I fear my sensibilities would not permit my easy entrance into the circles you frequent, Mister Whitman.”
Walt smiled sadly. “As you wish, ma femme.”
She almost relented then. But her rock-ribbed New England soul could not burst its straps of iron.
The men dropped the gangplank, and the travelers descended. Halfway down, Emily spied Vinnie waiting for her, and waved.
As Emily’s foot touched the grass, a sudden vision overwhelmed her, full, broad and comprehensive.
She saw her future days in their entirety. Years going by with no male company other than The Squire and Austin. Keeping more and more to her room. Tending her garden, tending her parents as they began to decline in health. Writing letters, writing poems. Vinnie somehow staying with her, growing bitter and convoluted. Her own eventual death, her corpse carried out the back door and across the
fields—
And the rebirth she dreamed of?
An image of a green sea rose from somewhere. It was strangely comforting.
Sad and lonely those years would be, stretching long and cold, yet not lacking a certain icy glory. . . .
This trip, however abortive, had been the turning point. Now there was no going back.
What if she had truly spurned Whitman and his beguilements, when he had first serenaded her below her window? Snubbed him utterly, instead of chasing after him? Would it have made her future easier to bear?
No. She could have done nothing different.
But the cost of the knowledge of who she was seemed rather steep—
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years—
Bitter contested farthings—
And Coffers heaped with Tears!
About the Author
Paul Di Filippo is a prolific science fiction, fantasy, and horror short story writer with multiple collections to his credit, including The Emperor of Gondwanaland and Other Stories, Fractal Paisleys, The Steampunk Trilogy, and many more. He has written a number of novels as well, including Joe’s Liver and Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken.
Di Filippo is also a highly regarded critic and reviewer, appearing regularly in Asimov’s Science Fiction and the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. A recent publication, coedited with Damien Broderick, is Science Fiction: The 101 Best Novels 1985–2010.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Victoria” first appeared in Amazing Stories, June 1991. “Walt and Emily” first appeared in Interzone, November and December 1993.
Copyright © 1995 by Paul Di Filippo
Cover design by Kat Lee
978-1-4976-2654-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Steampunk Trilogy Page 30
