by Tonia Brown
Then the man said something I had dreamed of hearing for many a moon.
“Elijah Goode is dead.”
I turned in a slow semicircle until I was facing Lightbridge once more. There was little I could do to hide the shock I am sure dressed my face. “What did you just say?”
“Goode is dead. He passed away almost a year ago.”
“How … why … when …” I stammered in my surprise.
“Heart attack,” Lightbridge explained with a shrug. “Not even men of science can live forever, I suppose. Though they try well enough. Don’t they?”
All of my strength fled me as I sank onto a stone bench, wrestling with mixed emotions. Part of me was devastated by the news of the death of my old mentor, the man who taught me most of what I know of biomechanics. Yet some darker part of me wanted to dance and sing now that the old geezer finally got what was due him. I know how terrible it sounds, but when Goode stole my work, he made a mockery of me and my family name, driving me not only from the scientific community of London, but from my very house and home.
But again, that is neither here nor there.
Lightbridge, perhaps made uncomfortable by my reaction, apologized. “I didn’t mean to shock you.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Forgive me. I’m just … it’s an awful lot to swallow.” I also wondered why no one else had informed me. Goode dead a whole year, and I had yet to discover it. Of course, I was not partial to newspapers or gossip circles, so perhaps I brought such silence upon myself. “I supposed I thought he would live forever.”
“We always do.” The man made himself comfortable to my right, returning his pant legs to their proper places as he did. “If it makes you feel any better, I only know about his death because I sought the man out for his genius. Imagine my surprise to learn that his greatest contribution to medical science was stolen from one of his juniors.”
“And who filled you with such rubbish?”
“His widow,” Lightbridge paused to crack another wide grin, “Geraldine Goode.”
While on the subject of Goode, I half expected the name of his widow to come about. Yet even prepared as I was, to hear the name spoken aloud forced a grand amount of hurt and ache upon me. For the last ten years, not a day passed that I didn’t roll that very name about in my mind. Geraldine the beautiful. Geraldine the betrayer! I won’t waste time going into details about her here. Suffice it to say that my prototype wasn’t the only thing Elijah Goode took from me. The smile with which Lightbridge mentioned her suggested this man knew more about me than I was comfortable with.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
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back to toc
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Three
The Request
Against my better judgment, I would like to take a few brief moments to speak of my own past. Then perhaps, as the story unfolds, you can understand why I made certain decisions, as well as fell into dire mistakes.
I, Philip Corinthian Syntax, am the only son, as well as only child, to a modestly wealthy family with a long and proud lineage. While I would love to blame a terrible childhood for my recent years of antisocial behavior, the opposite is true. My parents Maxwell and Sophia Syntax—God rest their souls—lavished upon me both affection and comfort the likes of which I wouldn’t understand until long after they departed this life. As a tyke I desired little and wanted for even less. Perhaps this grace of both economic and emotional support in my youth was what allowed my intelligence to bloom without hindrance.
Gifted was the word my scholars applied to me in those early years. After giving me their undivided affection for so long, I returned my parent’s investment by becoming the first Syntax to graduate valedictorian, as well as enter university before my fifteenth birthday. This was the last duty I would fulfill as their son, however, for my parents both passed away in a carriage accident while returning home from dropping me off to begin my second year of college. Their coach driver took a hairpin turn far too fast, and after a three hundred yard drop into a rocky ravine my parents were no more.
The morning the headmaster called me into his office to inform me I was an orphan, I nearly expired myself. My parents were the very measure of my entire life’s worth. What would I do without them? I took the news hard, but as the further events of my life unwound I would come to take it even harder. At the time, though, I had the fortune of someone with which to share my sorrow. Yet later, when I needed her most, she would abandon me as well.
Everyone abandons me in the end. Even as I write this, I worry death will forget about me also. I worry he will leave me behind—as he has done to those just beyond my door—alone in the quiet of the Arctic Circle, to freeze but never die, to suffer and never find peace.
I now believe that it was my parents’ death that tipped me toward the dark ideals of the power of science over the good of the heart. I drowned my bitter resentment for this so called God—this divine force that dared to snatch away a young man’s entire family in one fell, unloving swoop—in the dependable facts of science. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a peaceful physician. It was his dream that I should learn to heal God’s creatures. I decided to abandon this idea. Instead I would improve them. If He couldn’t keep His own fragile designs from breaking upon the rocks, then I would find a way to make it happen. I would improve upon the human being. Make him better. Stronger. More durable. I began this by designing the clockwork appendage.
After which I was rewarded with another backhanded slap from the Almighty.
Yet, we as a species are an immature lot when it comes to our triumphs, with some of us all but pompous about any small success. We crow and strut over every goal, no matter how tiny. Modern man is confident that he can cure all the troubles of the world, given enough time, enough dedication, and, of course, enough intelligent minds bent to the task. Meanwhile we forget our gentle past, our long lost connection with the very forces that created us.
Sometimes, we forget what a gift it is to simply just breathe.
Or keep warm.
That is what ingenuity does to you, makes you proud and aloof. Makes you forget that the human race has lived centuries without the aid of science, and would probably exist long after the arts of science have exhausted themselves. But this kind of pride goes hand in hand with arrogance, and with Lightbridge well aware of my relationship to his legs, it was only a matter of time before he put the advantage of my conceit to good use.
After I rebounded enough from the news of Goode’s death to gather myself, I invited Lightbridge to acquaint me with his story over afternoon tea. We retired to my modest breakfast nook, with Bradley serving us from the best settings I owned, while Lightbridge filled the small room with his booming voice and boisterous personality.
“First,” Lightbridge said, “let me start by providing you with a bit of background on myself, so you might understand where I come from and appreciate why I intend to go where I intend to go.”
“By all means,” I said. “Take your time.”
“I was born to a poor family,” he began. “One of twelve sons doomed to poverty in the hills of Kentucky. I spent my formative years plying the family trade. My father was a blacksmith, you see, and he taught me how to shoe horses and sling ammunition, that sort of thing, yes? At the age of fifteen, I grew tired of the trade and decided to become a soldier. It took little to convince the authorities I was of proper age, considering my bulk. I was a strapping young lad, and as you can see, I grew into an even larger old man.”
Lightbridge paused to pat his round belly with a laugh. Despite my earlier uncertainty, the man now had my full attention. He was nothing if not charismatic; a natural orator with brilliant character. I smiled and nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“I rose in the ranks rather quickly and surprisingly, considering my lack of a decent education. I took a wife
early in my career, but my poor Bessy couldn’t give me children, so it was just me and the misses and the United States Infantry. I saw a great deal of the world. Lots of excitement. But also lots of combat and war. Lots of …” he paused, looking down into his empty cup, before he finished with, “lots of ugliness.”
I could sense remorse in his words, and was left to wonder how deep that particular laceration ran. But I decided against reopening the wound of his sorrow just to satisfy my curiosity. No need for the man to bleed twice over something so far gone.
After this uncomfortable moment of silence passed, he lifted his head again and revealed that the smile had indeed returned. “But Bessy helped me through the worst of it, like a good woman should. After almost forty years of military service, I retired with the rank of colonel, with many a medal to prove my bravery as well as plenty of hard-earned money. I found myself ready to lead a comfortable life, only to find myself bored out of my skull at the prospect of easy living.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” I interrupted, “most people spend their whole lives searching for the ideal of easy living.”
Lightbridge leaned across the table to remind me, “I’m not most people.”
“Point conceded.”
“So,” he continued, returning to his relaxed position, “finding myself at the mercy of boredom, I decided to fill my declining years with the act of exploration. I joined one of those explorers’ clubs. You know the kind. With the animal heads hanging all over the walls of their meeting houses?”
I nodded. I did indeed know the kind of place of which he spoke.
The man frowned, a formal measure of his distaste for these so-called adventurer clubs. “They were into all sorts of things. Hunting big game all across the Ivory Coast. Pushing the U.S. borders further west while combating the natives for control of the land. Even seeking out and mapping the wild Pacific Islands.”
“Sounds perfectly dangerous,” I said.
Lightbridge snorted. “Sounded perfectly boring to me. I did all of that and more in my service to this country. No offense meant, young man, but in all my years, I’ve seen things that would shrivel a constitution as delicate as yours.”
“Don’t apologize, sir, there is no offense taken here.”
One truth about myself of which I have always been well aware and ready to admit upfront is the fact that I am an unabashed coward. Men such as Lightbridge were cut from an entirely different cloth than that of a man like myself. He, a heavy canvas, rough and ready, made for action. While I, a light silk or taffeta, never intended for anything more than show.
Lightbridge continued, “Those blasted hypocrites had nothing new for me. There was no challenge. I wanted something more. Something dangerous. Something daring. Something, perhaps, even considered impossible.”
“Impossible?” I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“Yes, impossible.” Lightbridge’s boyish eyes twinkled with wonder as his expression took on a distant look. “I wish to do something that has either been dubbed a total impossibility or has, at the very least, bested all who attempted it. I want to leave more than just a footnote in history; I want a whole chapter dedicated to my deed.”
“I see.”
My interruption seemed to return him to the moment, leaving him to slump against his chair with a loud sigh. “There are, of course, many solutions to this problem. I considered scaling great mountains, seeking legendary animals, even searching for the real-world location of what should have been mythical places. In the end, it was my beleaguered wife who first suggested joining the race for the Pole.”
By now I was thoroughly confused. “The what for the what?”
“The race for the Pole. The North Pole, to be exact.”
My eyes went wide as I realized what he was speaking of. “You mean you want to seek out the location of True North?”
The man nodded, his calm expression a beacon of serenity. Either that or a sure symptom of his madness.
Even I, who read very little of the passing news, knew of the infamous battle among explorers worldwide to reach the North Pole first. My manservant had, on a number of occasions over the past few years, brought to my attention the full details of the failed expeditions. Bradley, like much of the rest of America, seemed to revel in the juicy details of such disastrous results. I had to admit, it was an interesting topic, but a bit gauche for my tastes.
“Why?” I asked. “So many have died in the fruitless pursuit. I would have thought after DeLong’s tragedy, people would have given it up.”
“Do you jest, sir?” Lightbridge asked.
“I’m perfectly serious.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. It’s not.” Nothing about this scheme, or this man, was anywhere near obvious to me. While I understood the premise, I failed to comprehend the reasons for following through. Risk one’s life for the sake of adventure? Seemed like the idea of a madman to me. This notion became true enough in its own sense, but for far different reasons that I at first imagined.
He cleared his throat and delivered to me what sounded a practiced collection of words. A speech, if you will. “The chance at fame and fortune alone draws most men to the task. As for my fellow countrymen, as well as those of other nations, there is the singular chance to stake a claim in a totally unexplored area of the world. As long as there are men alive, they will never give up on such an admirable goal.”
Lightbridge smiled wide at me again, basking in his front of patriotism, propriety and pride. But I sensed in his good humor a deeper vein of wonder. Over the journey I would come to understand that wonder, as well as appreciate it for what it was worth. Through to the untrained eye, such as mine at that moment, it appeared that the man was in it for the usual reasons.
I, however, was unconvinced the idea was sound. Patriotism be damned! “Didn’t they have to send a rescue party after DeLong’s rescue party?”
“Amateurs.”
“Excuse me?”
“All of them, amateurs. DeLong, Greely,” he paused to add with a grin, “even Parry.”
I couldn’t help but bristle at the last name, yet I suspected his throwing a British naval officer in with the likes of his fellow Americans was a deliberate design to get a rise out of me, which it most certainly did. I raised my eyebrows at the man.
“They had no idea what they were doing,” Lightbridge said.
“And you do?” I demanded.
Lightbridge smiled wider. “Yes. I do.”
I leaned back in my chair, sure that I was taking tea with a lunatic. “No offense meant, my good man, but what do you think you know that Parry didn’t? He was an officer of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, not just some, if you’ll pardon the expression, colonial soldier.”
The man seemed unmoved by my slur, perhaps expecting such a sharp retort to his even lower blow against my British honor. He merely shrugged and said, “I know that it isn’t a matter of men or muskets, but rather of mechanics.”
I cocked my head at his answer. Again I suspected his words were designed to seize my attention, and of course, they did.
Lightbridge leaned across the table again, resting his elbows on the hardwood surface as he clasped his hands over the tea set between us. He pressed his index fingers together, pointing them at me as he spoke. “Mr. Syntax, I am positive that passage to True North is not only a possibility, but can be made on a regular basis given use of the proper equipment. All attempts to reach her have been made by sea and ice and land. That leaves but one route unexplored.”
“What are you saying?” I asked in a near whisper.
Sitting back again, he spread his hands as he said, “We can reach True North by means of air.”
I stared at him in silence, in disbelief. He was truly mad if he supposed he could succeed where highly trained men had failed. Experts on the frozen wastes of the Arctic couldn’t accomplish what he suggested, and certainly not the manner in which he suggested them. We could reach it
by air? What kind of nonsense was he spouting? It was then that I realized the full significance of what he had just said.
“We?” I asked. “What do you mean we?”
“I’m asking you to come along,” he said, settling his hands over his ample belly. “I want you to sign on with my company. Travel with me. Conquer the North Pole with me.”
“Me? Why me?”
“I have need of you.”
“Why me?” I repeated. There was no reason in Heaven or Hell I could imagine that would move a man such as Lightbridge to seek the company of a hermit like myself.
“Because I already have an excellent physician to help me maintain the living parts of my body on this journey.”
I stared at him in doubt, still unsure what he was driving at. The hollow click of his metallic ankles sounded, as he adjusted the position of his faux legs, bringing the true message of his words to immediate light.
“I said I needed you,” he explained. “And I meant it. Sign on to our venture. Come with me.”
My jaw went slack as I understood his insane request. There I sat, in the middle of my modest breakfast nook, staring at a madman who wanted to tow me halfway across the globe all because of his worry for his blasted metal legs.
His smile returned as he recognized my comprehension. “I’m unsure how my legs will operate at subzero temperatures. I do not look forward to the possibility of them seizing when I need them most. I need an expert with me at all times, to ensure my complete mobility.”
“Which is why you sought Goode?”
“Yes. But instead I found his grieving, and to my surprise rather young, widow. She was all too eager to share the details of Goode’s little theft with me. Seems it has weighed upon her conscience for some time.”
I snorted, turning my head to one side as I said, “I’m astonished she didn’t claim it was her own work.”
“Now, now, Mr. Syntax. Cynicism doesn’t suit you.” His laugh was hearty, deep and rich.
But I didn’t laugh with him, couldn’t laugh. For Geraldine had spoken the very same words to me not so long ago. I tried to steer Lightbridge back to his original conversation. “Who normally maintains your legs for you? Why not take him?”
