The Cold Beneath

by Tonia Brown

  “Greenhouse?” I asked. “I hope you don’t expect much of me there. I’m afraid amateur gardening is the limit of my botanical knowledge.”

  “Don’t let the name fool you,” Lightbridge assured me. “It hasn’t served as a proper greenhouse for a number of years. Come, let me show you.” He stalked away, leaving me little choice but to follow.

  I motioned for Bradley to join the others in gathering the luggage as I trotted to catch up with the long-legged man. Lightbridge rounded the house, guiding me into the back yard where there waited a greenhouse of preposterous proportions.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. The thing was almost as large as the main house with huge window panes that must have cost the man a small fortune to install, not to mention clean and maintain. Then again, he may not have wasted much expense on the latter. The windows were so filthy I couldn’t see beyond a single one. “Do you mind if I ask why so large?”

  “My wife. Without the distraction of children, she needed something to keep her busy and out of my graying hair. So I built this for her. In our travels, she picked up an affection for exotic plants, some of which become enormous. Banyan trees and the likes. She needed the space, so I gave it to her.”

  There was more to the story, something the man was aching to tell me. I could sense it in his words. “And now?”

  Lightbridge grinned, a hint of mischievous youth slipping through that feral look. “I needed the space for my project, so I kicked her out.” He made his way toward the greenhouse, once again leaving me and my inferior legs to trail him.

  As we drew closer, I saw that the windows along the sides weren’t just dirty, they were blacked out, as if painted over to keep one from seeing what lay beyond. “A greenhouse with no windows. I suppose it’s safe to assume you aren’t growing something inside.”

  “Correct. We aren’t growing. We’re building.”

  Before I could work out what he meant, Lightbridge flung the greenhouse doors wide, and spilled a cacophony of construction. Hammering, sawing and even the distinct pings of a steam-powered riveter rang through the afternoon air. Lightbridge motioned me inside, closing the doors behind us, once again trapping the loud noises. We stopped before a makeshift curtain, sewn from what looked like old bedclothes, which hung the length of the building from ceiling to floor. The filthy sheets billowed, teasing me with glimpses of what lay beyond. I almost laughed aloud at the sight of the greenhouse windows, which were in fact not only painted black but also covered in everything from old mattresses to bales of hay to layers of newsprint. No wonder I couldn’t hear the construction from the outside. A ring of the uppermost windows was left unobstructed, lighting the place as best it could.

  Lightbridge poked his head between the sheets and shouted, “Albert!”

  Within a moment, there appeared before us a small, sweaty man. He stood to my chest in height, but what he lacked in size he more than made up for with bulk. The man was a knot of muscles, thick in his shoulders, broad in the chest, and bore a neck the size of my thigh. His head was smooth as a newborn babe’s, yet he sported a wild, wooly beard from ear to ear. He was dressed in a thin shirt, torn short at the sleeves, and a pair of tattered breeches supported by leather braces. The braces doubled as bandoleers, from which hung a variety of tools. I recognized most of the tools as those of a tinker, like myself, though I doubted we shared more than a mechanical background.

  The man approached us, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “Albertan Josephus!” Lightbridge hollered at me while pointing to the short man.

  “Call me Albert!” the man shouted in a gruff yell, thick with Scottish brogue. He took my hand into a monstrous grip, leaving me to wince as he shook it for all it was worth. “Who be you then?”

  “Philip Syntax!” I shouted.

  Albert turned his head to one side and asked loudly, “Sincat?”

  “Syntax!” I tried to correct him.

  Lightbridge cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “We need to talk! Go give the men a break!”

  Albert scrunched up his face in clear disapproval. He fished a pocket watch from the bandoleer and waved the thing at Lightbridge. “No time! Already behind schedule!”

  Lightbridge didn’t answer. He merely stared at the shorter fellow, who turned and stomped away, muttering objections under the racket. No sooner had he disappeared beyond the barrier than I heard an earsplitting whistle. The construction noises came to an abrupt halt.

  “All right, lads!” Albert shouted from beyond the homemade curtain. “Cap says take a break!”

  There followed a great whoop of agreement. Without warning, a bevy of workmen filed out of the greenhouse. Most were equipped in a similar fashion to Albert, covered in tools and gleaming with sweat. Lightbridge held the door for the crowd, grinning like a maniac at his hired crew. A few nodded at me on their way out, but most ignored me or seemed unaware of my presence altogether. Lightbridge pushed the doors closed again. My stomach fell to my knees at the echoing click.

  Lightbridge turned to me, still grinning like a monkey and rubbing his hands in excitement. “Like the curtain? I know it seems a bit theatrical, but I caught a journalist hiding in the bushes outside a few weeks ago. I don’t mind sharing my idea, but only when it’s ready.”

  “I see,” I said, though I didn’t. The patchwork curtain and homemade acoustical padding made little sense to me. I wondered why a man of rich means would stoop to such improvisations. Certainly, from the looks of his estate and home, he could afford otherwise.

  “Speaking of seeing, are you prepared?”

  “I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I smiled to assure him of my good humor.

  Lightbridge was not amused. “I mean what I ask. You should ready your mind, for this will be unlike anything you have ever seen.” His grave tone chased away my grin.

  “Don’t let his dramatics give you a fright,” Albert said, popping his head between the sullied sheets. “Every last one of the lads got the same speech, and we’ve yet to find anything more stupefying than his ridiculous plan.”

  “Thank you my good man,” Lightbridge said. “Your loyalty is much appreciated.” He rolled his eyes heavenward as if seeking assistance, then pushed the man aside, and with him, the curtain.

  I ducked under his outstretched arm, past the barrier and straight into a dream.

  ****

  back to toc

  ****

  Six

  The Northern Fancy

  It had to be a dream, for what lay beyond that curtain was not of the waking world. At first I thought it was a sailing ship, for its resemblance to a maritime vessel was uncanny. But where a nautical craft bore sails and rigging, this ship’s hull was topped by an intricate looping of thick wire framework. The vessel was enormous, taking up almost the full length of the greenhouse end to end. The hull stood at over half the height of the building, with the second level of unfinished framework touching the roof.

  The craft wasn’t just a slapdash work of unskilled labor. No. It was exquisite. The ship’s body was as sleek as a Spanish galleon, with scrollwork and carvings that would make a first-class sculptor weep with jealousy. The body was stained deep rosewood in color, while the scrollwork was highlighted in a rich gold paint. From the forefront of the vessel thrust a wooden masthead—a beautiful maiden smiling as she stared into the distance. I was transfixed by her, as if the thing could see into my very soul.

  “Say hello to the Northern Fancy,” Lightbridge said.

  I couldn’t say much of anything. I was dumbstruck.

  “She’s a beauty,” Lightbridge said. “Isn’t she?”

  I somehow managed to find my voice at his question. “She certainly is. How did you get her here?” I was still convinced it was a sailing vessel.

  “She was built here. Created on this very spot.” He stepped forward, arms spread and voice booming. “I brought in artisans from all across the globe to breath
e life into my vision, and here she is. She is lightweight, sturdy. As sound as a pound. We shall travel north in style, my new friend. In style.” Lightbridge came to rest with his palms on the ship, petting the thing as if it were alive.

  His words brought our previous conversation to mind. “Your vision? This is how you plan to conquer the Arctic Circle? I thought you said by air.”

  Lightbridge turned to me, his wild grin wide again. “So I did.” He dipped his head forward, signaling that I should turn about.

  I did so.

  Behind me, along the greenhouse wall, there hung a hulking mass of folded cloth. It was as long as the ship, dyed the same rosewood color. I could just make out the same gold scrollwork bunched between folds of the fabric. Letters peeked out here and there, but I couldn’t make out their meaning. The thing didn’t answer my question; it only raised another.

  “What on earth is that?” I asked.

  “Guess,” Lightbridge said.

  I had no idea, and said as much.

  “It’s an airbag,” Albert said.

  “Spoilsport,” Lightbridge muttered.

  “If the lad is anything like me, he doesn’t have the time or the patience for your musings, Gideon.”

  “I suppose not.” Lightbridge returned his attention to me and explained. “You see, the bag is strung through the wire framework there above the Fancy’s deck. When inflated, it should fill to fit the rings, helping to lift the entire ship from the ground.”

  I stared at the deflated balloon. “Inflated with what? I assume we would use hot air diverted from the boilers. But this is unlike any balloon I’ve ever seen.”

  “Steam is just vaporized water,” Lightbridge said calmly, as if explaining basic science to a child. “Once we reach the extreme temperatures of the Arctic, one of two things is bound to happen. Or perhaps both. Either we will be unable to generate steam fast enough to combat the cooling effect of subzero temperatures, or …”

  I finished the thought for him. “Or the collective condensation will freeze the balloon, leaving us deadweight in midair.” Both of these things were terrible possibilities, but an even worse thought struck me, and with it came a gut-wrenching dread. If they weren’t going to fill the bag with hot air, then that left only one gas light enough to help lift the ship. I whipped to face the two men, who were staring at me with bemused looks. “Please don’t tell me you intend to travel with that much hydrogen strapped atop us. We would be nothing more than a floating bomb!”

  “Calm down, laddie,” Albert said. “Hydrogen would be suicide.”

  “Then what is left?” I asked.

  Lightbridge grinned. “Helium.”

  I wrinkled my nose as I stared at him. Helium was a fairly new discovery, a buoyant gas whose power in lift was only exceeded by its rarity. “What madness is this?” Turning back to the airbag, I stated an obvious but universal truth. “There’s not enough helium in the world to fill my stomach let alone that bag.”

  “There wasn’t,” Lightbridge corrected me. “But there is now.”

  The pair led me to a small mechanic’s shop at the back of the greenhouse, in the midst of which sat a cloth-covered heap. The back wall was lined with metal canisters, each about four feet in height and unlabeled.

  “What do you think?” Lightbridge asked as he ran his hands along the mysterious canisters.

  My eyes drew to slits of suspicion. “What am I supposed to think?”

  Again the man dropped his voice to that condescending tone. “It’s helium, son.”

  “What is?”

  Lightbridge swept a demonstrative arm in front of the cans. “All of it. Every last one, filled to the brim. Ready to transfer into the Fancy the moment we decide to depart.”

  In retrospect, I suppose I should have held my tongue, but at the idea that those fifty or so cans were filled with something as rare as helium, well, I just couldn’t help myself. I laughed. Long and loud, I laughed. I hadn’t laughed so hard in quite some time, and maybe I overdid the humor of it a little, but the notion struck me as beyond amusing. It was foolishness at its worst. Almost as unbelievable as the idea of this entire trip.

  “You almost had me,” I said between guffaws. “I must seem so gullible.”

  The men looked to one another, neither upset nor resentful of my laughter.

  “Show him,” Lightbridge said.

  Albert nodded, then whipped the cloth away from the heap, exposing what lay beneath.

  The sight of the machine killed my laughter mid-chuckle.

  I stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed at a thing of awesome beauty. Even without the knowledge of what it was capable of doing, I could see it was the product of pure genius. Compact gears and winding cables crisscrossed the machine in a complex pattern. Stopcocks and pressure switches lined the sides, all motionless in its dormant state. I could spot an intake valve and an output nozzle, but the makings in between said nothing of what it did. So I asked.

  “Natural gas is fed through this tube here,” Albert said, pointing to the left side of the machine. “It is then run through a series of filters and ionic polarizations, until helium exits here.” He motioned to the nozzle for emphasis. “There is a series of byproducts that eject through these ports, but nothing of any consequence.”

  I heard him, but again had trouble believing it. “I’m sorry? What does it do?”

  “It makes helium,” Lightbridge reiterated.

  “No …” I whispered.

  “Yes,” Albert said. His beaming pride was not lost on me. It was very much like the knowing grin of a proud papa.

  “You made this?” I asked.

  The chief mechanic nodded. Something like embarrassment settled on him as his cheeks grew rosy.

  “Good God, man!” I shouted. “This could be one of the greatest inventions of the year. Damnation! I dare say of the entire century. It shouldn’t be covered up in some greenhouse. It should be shared with the world! Shouted from the rooftops. Your face should be on the cover of every scientific rag from here to England.”

  The top of Albert’s head gained the same rosy hue as his cheeks. The man actually held his hands behind his back and twisted his toe on the dirt floor of the greenhouse like a shamed schoolboy. “It’s not all that special. Just a little something I whipped up for the Cap here.”

  “Just a little …” I let the words trail off as my aggravation swelled. “Certainly you don’t believe that. This is extraordinary. You do realize if this does what you claim, that you are a genius. A certifiable genius.”

  “Albert’s modesty forbids him to think such things,” Lightbridge said. “It also helps me keep the machine to myself.”

  I was reaching the end of my tether. “Sir, I must protest. This could change the face of the world overnight. If helium can be readily made available, then there is no limit to its applications.”

  “We know,” Lightbridge said. “Which is why I intend to reveal it to the world, with the added proof of our airship in flight. Once we return, of course.”

  “Return,” I echoed. “You intend to just leave this … this … this phenomenon idly sitting here while we jaunt off to the Arctic Circle for a bit?”

  “That’s precisely what I intend to do,” Lightbridge said. As I stared at him, flabbergasted to the point of silence, he scratched his beard in thought. “Well, I actually mean to have the machine moved into my walk-in safe before we leave. I might be mad, but I’m not crazy.”

  “Not entirely crazy,” a woman said from above us.

  My skin went cold as I recognized the speaker. It was a voice I had hoped never to hear again for as long as I lived.

  ****

  back to toc

  ****

  Seven

  Geraldine

  “Hello, Philip,” the woman said, her lilting voice echoing through the greenhouse.

  I raised my face to spy the speaker standing on the bow of the enormous ship. She leaned over the railing, staring down at me. Even with the di
stance between us, I recognized her. The voice was unmistakable. Her silhouette, unforgettable. “Geraldine?”

  “It’s good to see you again.”

  I struggled to form a response. “It’s … good to see you.” I was exaggerating slightly. But now was not the time to speak what lay on my heart. That would come soon enough.

  She disappeared from the railing as Lightbridge tried to explain how the helium was to be transferred into the airbag. What the man didn’t realize was that I had lost interest in the ship altogether. There were more pressing issues at hand.

  “Goode’s widow is here?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  My face grew even colder as the blood drained from it. “Why?”

  “I invited her.”

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “I thought I explained this already. I needed a doctor. She seemed a logical choice, since she is not only of the medical persuasion, but also intimately familiar with my prosthetics.”

  It made perfect sense. Why hire someone to whom the clockworks would be foreign territory when he could have someone familiar with both his medical and mechanical needs. Which also raised the question of why he needed me along when he had her. “You didn’t say she was your personal physician.”

  “That’s because I’m not,” Geraldine said, emerging from the darkness of the ship.

  My jaw almost touched the floor as I gaped at the sight of her. Five years had passed since I had last laid eyes on her, yet she was as beautiful as the day she left me standing alone at the docks. Long red tresses hung past her slender shoulders, framing her pale face. Bright green eyes searched mine as she smiled at me, that seductive grin teasing, taunting, flooding my senses with burning memories. My heart stirred, my pulse quickened, and I was forced to remind myself of her treachery. It was difficult, to say the least.