Ashes

by Ann Hunter

  “Then we must hope they reach out to Khronos for direction, or the consequences for that cog are dire. A stuck cog or gear is a cog or gear that must be removed and replaced. Imagine spending your entire life not knowing where you belong only to die without fulfilling your purpose. If you have found your passion, you should allow nothing to stop you. No excuses. When you find you are made for that one purpose you will find a way to prove it to yourself, to others, and to Maker Khronos. That is how He will know that you know your place in The Great Wheel. There may be times when The Great Wheel proves unkind. It will feel as though there are never enough hours in the day, days in the week, or months in the year. This can often render a weaker cog useless, as we have spoke of. Find your true north, Rebecca, and do it when it is hard. Do it when it is impossible. Do it even when the world seems to be crashing down around you. To not be deterred is to show our Maker we are worthy of ticking.”

  “May I go to bed now?” Rebecca asked quietly.

  Robert nodded and motioned to the door.

  She kept her arms folded and ambled across the room. Her father touched her shoulder before she left and turned her to him. “Your mother’s name day is coming soon.” He grasped her hand and Rebecca felt something round in it. “Perhaps we should go into town some time.” He patted her back and nudged her toward the house.

  She opened her hand as she crossed the field between the forge and their cozy hillside home. The moonlight shone down on a pocket watch with a single name engraved on the back. Lord Robert Tremaine.

  II

  Rebecca placed three clean linen napkins around the table next to tidy copper bowls, and laid silver spoons beside them. Off in the corner her mother labored over a copper kettle bubbling with porridge to the pop and crackle of the fire. The morning sun streamed through the cottage window. Farmer Diggory rambled past in his cart full of bright, budding vetches, pulled by his old chestnut Belgian. Rebecca smiled at the beams of light scattering around her and glinting off the cutlery.

  “Mother?”

  Lilly Tremaine wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, dear?”

  “When did you know where you fit in The Great Wheel?”

  Lilly reached for a bowl and ladled porridge in. “I was still a girl. Perhaps ten. I found a fledgling blue jay injured at the foot of an old oak. My common sense told me to leave him, but something else urged me to scoop him up and hide him away. I listened. I don’t know why. I placed him carefully in the pocket of my apron and cradled it close to me so that my running would not startle or harm him further. When I got home I found a small box and stole away downy feathers from my pillow. They went in the box, along with the bird, to keep him warm. I kept him near the window so he could see the beautiful world outside, and cared for him religiously. I did not think he would survive. For days he lay limp and listless. I was about to give up on him. I came home from school to my mother’s scowl. Apparently there was a scared little bluebird flitting about my room, desperately trying to escape. When I opened the door to my room, I found him perched on the edge of the box peering to the outside world. I approached carefully. I did not want to frighten or re-injure him. He looked at me with his beady black eyes and then tapped at the window with a song. The moment I opened the window, he flew away. I watched him go with wonder in my heart. It was then that I sensed I should be a mender of broken things.”

  Rebecca took the bowl of porridge from her mother, placed it on the table, and handed her an empty bowl. The warmth of the food wafted up to her. She reached for fresh spring berries to place in the middle of the table, along with the last of the winter honey she had helped her mother harvest a few months earlier from their colony outside.

  They swapped bowls once more just before her father came in, grimy from working the forge since before the sun rose. He crossed to Lilly who mildly protested as his mustache tickled her cheek and he smudged a black kiss upon her. She swatted him with a dish towel and shooed him toward the wash basin.

  Rebecca rolled her eyes with a half smile. Her father was usually careful to wipe his hands and slough his boots before entering the stone cottage he had built, but this morning did not seem to be one of those times. He scrubbed with lye and rosewater, shook his wrists, and sat at the table with his family.

  Robert offered a prayer of gratitude to Maker Khronos to all of those who had helped make the meal possible, from Farmer Diggory, to sweet Lilly. Afterwards, Rebecca dug in to her porridge with berries and a drizzle of honey and chewed contentedly. Her father’s mouth moved with gusto.

  From the corner of her eye, Rebecca noticed her mother cringe as Robert’s mouth smacked. She noted how daintily her mother had spread the napkin over her lap, despite already wearing an apron. Lilly rested a hand there and leaned forward carefully to embrace the spoon with her lips and take the porridge from it. When she swallowed she all of a sudden fidgeted and pipped up, “Robert Tremaine!”

  Robert was so engrossed in his meal that he answered with his mouth still full “Wha-?”

  “Your elbows, dear.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What now?”

  Lilly’s spoon clanked against the copper bowl. “Your elbows! You are smudging the linen.”

  Robert looked down at his dirty elbows which he neglected to wash and saw two black half moons. He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, love.”

  He wiped his mustache and kicked back the wooden chair bound by straw and wicker. His spoon clattered against the copper wash basin like a kettle drum when he took his empty bowl over. Robert scrubbed his elbows with the dish towel, leaving black scuffs upon it. “Rebecca and I were going in to the city today, were not we, my girl?”

  She looked at her mother who was rolling her eyes. Rebecca nodded demurely.

  “I was hoping Rebecca would help me today with the chickens. We should have hatchlings soon and there’s only so many mouths we can feed. Corn is in short supply. The older ones need to be sorted for market.”

  Robert leaned against the wall near the fire. “Nonsense! I make more than enough to have all the chickens my little chickadees require.”

  Lilly sighed, hands in lap, and twisted the wedding band on her ring finger.

  “I’m taking my newest gears and cogs into town today and plan to return with a pretty penny,” Robert reassured.

  “Why do you need Rebecca?” Lilly asked.

  Rebecca looked between them.

  “Because,” Robert winked at his daughter. “A barrel of copper cogs and gears is awfully heavy.”

  Truth was Robert had already loaded the barrel of polished, perfect cogs and gears into their clockwork carriage. Rebecca helped hoist several crates of various other sized cogs and gears. The morning was warming up quickly, and the work made her even warmer. She wiped her brow when the last crate was loaded and climbed into the front seat beside her father who had cleaned himself up and dressed in his second best waist coat, fine breeches, white leggings and leather spatterdashes.

  Robert smiled at her and turned the key of the carriage. The carriage rattled to life and rolled into the dirt lane that curved in front of their house. Rebecca waved at her mother who was drying dishes near the window. The clockwork carriage pipped and sputtered down the dirt road cheerfully.

  Rebecca watched workers harvest vetches from Diggory's fields. She may not know where she belonged in the world, but she knew baking in the sun all day and bringing in the fields was not for her. She wondered at how they enjoyed it. How they knew it was where they belonged.

  The carriage slowed when they caught up to Farmer Diggory in his wagon. His old blond Belgian gelding plodded along lazily. Rebecca leaned over their carriage door to see Diggory chewing sleepily on a long stalk of vetch. His straw hat cast a shadow over his nodding head. The gelding’s lip drooped while he pulled the wagon as if he were half asleep as well. Rebecca sighed. "Why doesn’t everyone own a carriage like ours?"

  Robert kept his hands on the steering wheel. "Oh I imagine Diggory just likes th
e older, simpler ways. There's nothing wrong with that. A horse is a rare sight these days, but it is a pleasant one."

  The Belgian’s cropped tail raised and green-black orbs fell from his behind. Rebecca wrinkled her nose and watched as their carriage passed over them, unscathed. Her father laughed.

  “Still a pleasant sight, Father?”

  He continued chuckling. “Maker Khronos loves every single gear, regardless of the number of cogs upon its body. We must all work together. The horse is merely doing his job the best way he knows how.”

  “I did not think the animals had a choice,” Rebecca mumbled.

  Her father waved his hand at the comment as though he were swatting at a slow moving fly. “Bah. Natural order of The Great Wheel and what not.”

  She smiled. Fair enough.

  Robert beeped the horn on their carriage carefully so as not to spook the horse. Farmer Diggory looked over his shoulder.

  “Say, Diggory,” Robert called, “could you be so kind as to move over a smidge?”

  Diggory flicked the reins and the Belgian moved to the side of the road without so much as a wink. Robert saluted them as they passed and Diggory tipped the brim of his straw hat.

  As the carriage crested the hill at the edge of their hamlet, Rebecca saw the city they were to visit in the distance. A yellow haze settled around the outskirts and from the center plumed black and purple clouds as thick as a summer storm.

  The buildings clawed at the sky, or what little there was of it. Darkness seemed to choke out the sun and cast a long shadow over the city and surrounding fields. The fields themselves, golden from their current location, bowed to the smoke and turned sickly and gray the closer they drew to the city.

  Robert frowned and moved his arm in a grand gesture. “Behold, The Corporation. Just look at the filth it is creating. Nasty, dreary…” His mustache twitched beneath his Roman nose.

  The fresh spring air died under the oppression of the acrid city. White flakes fell from the gray fog. Rebecca stared up into the ominous cloud. The flakes fell on her cheeks as softly as snow on a forest, but they were not cold. She wiped her cheek. When she looked at her palm she simply stared. The flakes turned to white dust from the friction.

  “This isn’t snow.”

  Her father shook his head. “Ash.” He pointed toward an imposing building that rose above all others.

  “Is that—?”

  “The Corporation.”

  Rebecca’s eyes darted about. The buildings did not glisten as she had imagined they might. They sat under inch-thick soot. Dirty chimney sweeps walked amongst the roofs. Rats scampered across cobblestones, and great machines, not unlike the Tremaine’s carriage, burped along powered by plumes of violet-gray steam. She buried her face in her elbow and coughed heavily as one of the vehicles honked angrily at her father.

  Robert seemed unbothered and turned down an alleyway toward the shops. The fact that he was whistling a cheerful tune did not help the way Rebecca’s lungs felt.

  At the first shop, Robert hopped out and bid her wait for him as he took a crate inside. He emerged staring at the same crate in his arms, still full to the brim with his wares. He offered her a reassuring smile and continued whistling his tune from earlier.

  He popped in to the next shop and staggered out the same way. Another, and his crate was still full. His shoulders began to slump, his face drawn. Down he went to each shop that would surely require cogs or gears, until Rebecca’s brown hair was covered with a soft down of ash, and not a single sale. He dropped the crate in the back of the carriage and slid into the cab, resting his hands on the wheel. He stared down the lane. “I don’t… I don’t understand.” He looked at Rebecca. “I always come to this shop. They always buy. For years they’ve been buying.”

  “Why are not they buying, Father?”

  He shook his head. “They all say the same thing.”

  Rebecca touched his arm tentatively. “Is there anywhere else you could try?”

  He nodded and turned the key to their carriage. After a short while the carriage rolled to a stop before a clock smith’s shop. The windows were black except for a small circular area in the center of each where the soot had been wiped away for the day in order to see approaching customers and show off wares. The pocket watches in the display case could barely be seen. It was more of a silhouette in the streaky blown glass circle.

  Robert got out and removed a crate of gears and cogs to take inside. Rebecca followed. The door opened, and rang a merry jingle, then shut behind them.

  Rebecca was relieved to be out of the filth. The air in the shop was stuffy, but it was better than the mess outside. Her father nodded his head toward the counter where a copper service bell rested. She moved toward it and gave it a solid smack. It rang with a brilliant ting. An old man’s voice from further in back of the shop called that he would be there soon.

  Rebecca clasped her hands behind her back and looked at all the clocks hanging from the walls. Some were intricate cuckoo clocks with delicate wood carving work of aspen leaves and acorns. Others were like over-sized pocket watches. It was louder than her father’s forge.

  She stared at one of the cuckoos as the minute hand approached the top of the hour, and counted down. All of a sudden the room escalated to a cacophony of alarms and cuckoos. A miniature knave figurine even chased a maiden around the outside of one while the husband popped out of the cuckoo hole with an expression of shock.

  When the room quieted to only ticking again, the clock smith emerged. “Robert Tremaine, my boy! How good to see you.”

  Robert had set the crate of his wares on the counter top and reached to clasp the geriatric hand. “Hello old friend.”

  The clock smith pushed his bottle-bottomed glasses up the bridge of his nose with a knobby finger and squinted at Rebecca. “Is this your little girl?”

  Robert reached out to her shoulder and gently pulled her close to him. “Not so little anymore. She’s twelve!”

  The clock smith smiled with a twinkle in his eye. “Why, nearly a woman grown.”

  Heat rose in Rebecca’s cheeks. She glanced away.

  Her father squeezed her shoulder. “Rebecca, this is Christoph. I was his apprentice. He is the one who made the watch I told you of.”

  “What brings you in today, Bob?” asked Christoph.

  Robert clapped the sides of his crates which rattled with a soft tink of metal scraping together.

  “Hmm,” the clock smith said gravely.

  Rebecca looked at her father. His brow knit together. “What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong? You know it is the best you can come by,” he said with an air of confidence.

  The clock smith held up a gear so polished he could see his own reflection, even through his obvious cataracts. “Yes, yes. It certainly is.” He carefully laid the gear back in the box and pushed it back toward Robert. “But I cannot take it.”

  Robert Tremaine’s mustache twitched. “Why ever not?”

  “I’m afraid I’m closing shop soon.”

  Robert leaned forward, his jaw agape. “What? You can’t close. This place is an institution!” He pivoted on his heels and walked about. “So many memories here.”

  The clock smith nodded. “Yes, I know. But I have no choice.”

  Robert’s head swiveled in the direction of his friend.The muscles in his jaw tensed.

  “I’m being forced out, Robert… by The Corporation. By the king.”

  Robert hammered his fist against a counter top. His head bowed and he squeezed the corners of his eyes between his finger tips. “Khronos,” he swore under his breath.

  The clock smith’s voice quivered. “I’m sorry, my boy.”

  Robert stuffed his hands in his waist coat pockets and sniffed deeply, hanging his head. His toes curled upward as he rocked slightly on to his heels. He shook his head and wordlessly took the crate of cogs and gears. Rebecca followed him with a fleeting backwards glance toward the old clock smith.

  Her fat
her practically flung the crate into the back of the carriage. He climbed in the cab and slammed the door, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Rebecca crawled in beside him. The bustle of machines and people a street or two over hummed along while father and daughter remained silent.

  Robert started the carriage and bullied it into gear. It rattled in protest and rolled toward the city center where a flood of people gathered. A plump man in tri-corn hat, plumed with red feather, dressed in white stockings, and full, tan suit held up an open scroll. He raised a cupped hand to his mouth and cried out, “Hear Ye! Hear Ye!”

  Rebecca’s father parked the carriage and got out with a slam of the door. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the throng of people, trying to get in close to hear what was going on. Everyone seemed upset.

  Another man came up behind the crier and waved his hands, asking the crowd to listen. A hush rolled over them. The crier read from the scroll. “It is hereto and henceforth forbidden to make, sell, purchase any object that is cog or gear-like in nature.”

  A din rose up from the people.

  The crier tried to raise his voice. “Furthermore any person, shop keeper, tinker, or smith caught dealing in the trade of clock work, or copper, will be apprehended and punished to the full extent of the law.”

  A swell of anger rose from the mob.

  “What law?” said a woman.

  “There is no law here, only tyranny!” said a man whose only soot-less feature was his hazel eyes.

  The second man on the stage tried to calm the crowd once more.

  “Who demands this? By what authority?” yelled Robert Tremaine.

  The crier finally finished “By order of His Supremeness, Chief Executive Officer of The Corporation, King Andrus, Lord Over All That He Sees Or Has Ever Heard Of.”

  The crowd boo’ed and hissed.

  Robert swung his fist through the air. “He is not my king!”

  The crowd hushed and looked at him. Robert pushed forward further, dragging Rebecca along.

  The crier looked down from his perch on high with a raised eyebrow. “Come again?”