Mammoth Book of Steampunk Adventures

by Sean Wallace

  “Edwin,” he said, and Edwin was just short of stunned to hear his name. “Boy, could you join me a moment? I’m afraid I’ve gone and confused myself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Edwin lived in the basement by the grace of Dr Smeeks, who had asked the sanitarium for an assistant. These days, the old fellow could not remember requesting such an arrangement and could scarcely confirm or deny it any more, no matter how often Edwin reminded him.

  Therefore Edwin made a point to keep himself useful.

  The basement laboratory was a quieter home than the crowded group ward on the top floor, where the children of the patients were kept and raised; and the boy didn’t mind the doctor’s failing mental state, since what was left of him was kind and often friendly. And sometimes, in a glimmering flash between moments of pitiful bewilderment, Edwin saw the doctor for who he once had been – a brilliant man with a mind that was honored and admired for its flexibility and prowess.

  In its way, the Waverly Hills Sanitarium was a testament to his outstanding imagination.

  The hospital had incorporated many of the physicians’ favorites into the daily routine of the patients, including a kerosene-powered bladed machine that whipped fresh air down the halls to offset the oppressive summer heat. The physicians had also integrated his Moving Mechanical Doors that opened with the push of a switch; and Dr Smeeks’s wonderful Steam-Powered Dish-Cleaning Device was a huge hit in the kitchen. His Sheet-Sorting Slings made him a celebrity in the laundry rooms, and the Sanitary Rotating Manure Chutes had made him a demi-god to the stable hands.

  But half-finished and barely finished inventions littered every corner and covered every table in the basement, where the famed and elderly genius lived out the last of his years.

  So long as he did not remember how much he’d forgotten, he appeared content.

  Edwin approached the doctor’s side and peered dutifully at the stained schematics on the discolored piece of linen paper. “It’s coming along nicely, sir,” he said.

  For a moment Dr Smeeks did not reply. He was staring down hard at the sheet, trying to make it tell him something, and accusing it of secrets. Then he said, “I’m forced to agree with you, lad. Could you tell me, what is it I was working on? Suddenly . . . suddenly the numbers aren’t speaking to me. Which project was I addressing, do you know?”

  “These are the notes for your Therapeutic Bath Appliance. Those numbers to the right are your guesses for the most healthful solution of water, salt and lavender. You were collecting lemon grass.”

  “Lemon grass? I was going to put that in the water? Whatever would’ve possessed me to do such a thing?” he asked, baffled by his own processes. He’d only drawn the notes a day or two before.

  Edwin was a good student, even when Dr Smeeks was a feeble teacher. He prompted the old fellow as gently as he could. “You’d been reading about Dr Kellog’s hydrotherapy treatments in Battle Creek, and you felt you could improve on them.”

  “Battle Creek, yes. The sanitarium there. Good Christian folks. They keep a strict diet; it seems to work well for the patients, or so the literature on the subject tells me. But yes,” he said more strongly. “Yes, I remember. There must be a more efficient way to warm the water, and make it more pleasing to the senses. The soothing qualities of lavender have been documented for thousands of years, and its antiseptic properties should help keep the water fresh.” He turned to Edwin and asked, with the lamplight flickering in his lenses, “Doesn’t it sound nice?”

  “I don’t really like to take baths,” the boy confessed. “But if the water was warm and it smelled real nice, I think I’d like it better.”

  Dr Smeeks made a little shrug and said, “It’d be less for the purposes of cleanliness and more for the therapy of the inmates here. Some of the more restless or violent ones, you understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how’s your mother?” the doctor asked. “Has she responded well to treatment? I heard her coughing last night, and I was wondering if I couldn’t concoct a syrup that might give her comfort.”

  Edwin said, “She wasn’t coughing last night. You must’ve heard someone else.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it was Mrs . . . What’s her name? The heavy nurse with the northern accent?”

  “Mrs Criddle.”

  “That’s her, yes. That’s the one. I hope she isn’t contracting the consumption she works so very hard to treat.” He returned his attention to the notes and lines on the brittle sheet before him.

  Edwin did not tell Dr Smeeks, for the fifth or sixth time, that his mother had been dead for months; and he did not mention that Mrs Criddle’s accent had come with her from New Orleans. He’d learned that it was easier to agree, and probably kinder as well.

  It became apparent that the old man’s attention had been reabsorbed by his paperwork and test tubes, so Edwin returned to his stack of mechanical refuse. He was almost eleven years old, and he’d lived in the basement with the doctor for nearly a year. In that time, he’d learned quite a lot about how a carefully fitted gear can turn, and how a pinpoint-sharp mind can rust; and he took what scraps he wanted to build his own toys, trinkets and machines. After all, it was half the pleasure and privilege of living away from the other children – he could help himself to anything the doctor did not immediately require.

  He didn’t like the other children much, and the feeling was mutual.

  The other offspring of the unfortunate residents were loud and frantic. They believed Edwin was aloof when he was only thoughtful, and they treated him badly when he wished to be left alone.

  All things considered, a cot beside a boiler in a room full of metal and chemicals was a significant step up in the world. And the fractured mind of the gentle old man was more companionable by far than the boys and girls who baked themselves daily on the roof, playing ball and beating one another while the orderlies weren’t looking.

  Even so, Edwin had long suspected he could do better. Maybe he couldn’t find better, but he was increasingly confident that he could make better.

  He turned a pair of old bolts over in his palm and concluded that they were solid enough beneath their grime that a bit of sandpaper would restore their luster and usefulness. All the gears and coils he needed were already stashed and assembled, but some details yet eluded him, and his new friend was not quite finished.

  Not until it boasted the finer angles of a human face.

  Already Edwin had bartered a bit of the doctor’s throat remedy to a taxidermist, an act that gained him two brown eyes meant for a badger. Instead, these eyes were fitted in a pounded brass mask with a cut strip of tin that made a sloping nose.

  The face was coming together. But the bottom jaw was not connected, so the facsimile was not yet whole.

  Edwin held the bolts up to his eye to inspect their threadings, and he decided that they would suffice. “These will work,” he said to himself.

  Back at the table the doctor asked, “Hmm?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’m going to go back to my cot and tinker.”

  “Very good then. Enjoy yourself, Parker. Summon me if you need an extra hand,” he said, because that’s what he always said when Edwin announced that he intended to try his own small hands at inventing.

  Parker was the youngest son of Dr and Mrs Smeeks. Edwin had seen him once, when he’d come to visit a year before at Christmas. The thin man with a fretful face had brought a box of clean, new vials and a large pad of lined paper, plus a gas-powered burner that had been made in Germany. But his father’s confusion was too much for him. He’d left, and he hadn’t returned.

  So if Dr Smeeks wanted to call Edwin “Parker” once in a while, that was fine. Like Parker himself, Edwin was also thin, with a face marked by worry beyond his years; and Edwin was also handy with pencils, screwdrivers and wrenches. The boy figured that the misunderstanding was understandable, if unfortunate, and he learned to answer to the other name when it was used to call him.

>   He took his old bolts back to his cot and picked up a tiny triangle of sandpaper.

  Beside him, at the foot of his cot underneath the wool blanket, lay a lump in the shape of a boy perhaps half Edwin’s size. The lump was not a doll but an automaton, ready to wind, but not wound yet – not until it had a proper face, with a proper jaw.

  When the bolts were as clean as the day they were cast, Edwin placed them gently on his pillow and reached inside the hatbox Mrs Williams had given him. He withdrew the steel jawbone and examined it, comparing it against the bolts and deciding that the fit was satisfactory; and then he uncovered the boy-shaped lump.

  “Good heavens, Edwin. What have you got there?”

  Edwin jumped. The old scientist could be uncannily quiet, and he could not always be trusted to stick to his own business. Nervously, as if the automaton were something to be ashamed of, the boy said, “Sir, it’s . . . a machine. I made a machine, I think. It’s not a doll,” he clarified.

  And Dr Smeeks said, “I can see that it’s not a doll. You made this?”

  “Yes, sir. Just with odds and ends – things you weren’t using. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? No. I don’t mind. Dear boy, it’s exceptional!” he said with what sounded like honest wonder and appreciation. It also sounded lucid, and focused, and Edwin was charmed to hear it.

  The boy asked, “You think it’s good?”

  “I think it must be. How does it work? Do you crank it, or—”

  “It winds up.” He rolled the automaton over onto its back and pointed at a hole that was barely large enough to hold a pencil. “One of your old hex wrenches will do it.”

  Dr Smeeks turned the small machine over again, looking into the tangle of gears and loosely fixed coils where the brains would be. He touched its oiled joints and the clever little pistons that must surely work for muscles. He asked, “When you wind it, what does it do?”

  Edwin faltered. “Sir, I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t wound him yet.”

  “Haven’t wound him – well, I suppose that’s excuse enough. I see that you’ve taken my jar lids for kneecaps, and that’s well and good. It’s a good fit. He’s made to walk a bit, isn’t he?”

  “He ought to be able to walk, but I don’t think he can climb stairs. I haven’t tested him. I was waiting until I finished his face.” He held up the metal jawbone in one hand and the two shiny bolts in the other. “I’m almost done.”

  “Do it then!” Dr Smeeks exclaimed. He clapped his hands together and said, “How exciting! It’s your first invention, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Edwin fibbed. He neglected to remind the doctor of his work on the Picky Boy Plate with a secret chamber to hide unwanted and uneaten food until it was safe to discreetly dispose of it. He did not mention his tireless pursuit and eventual production of the Automatic Expanding Shoe, for use by quickly growing children whose parents were too poor to routinely purchase more footwear.

  “Go on,” the doctor urged. “Do you mind if I observe? I’m always happy to watch the success of a fellow colleague.”

  Edwin blushed warmly across the back of his neck. He said, “No, sir, and thank you. Here, if you could hold him for me – like that, on your legs, yes. I’ll take the bolts and . . .” With trembling fingers, he fastened the final hardware and dabbed the creases with oil from a half-empty can.

  And he was finished.

  Edwin took the automaton from Dr Smeeks and stood it upright on the floor, where the machine did not wobble or topple, but stood fast and gazed blankly wherever its face was pointed.

  The doctor said, “It’s a handsome machine you’ve made. What does it do again? I think you said, but I don’t recall.”

  “I still need to wind it,” Edwin told him. “I need an L-shaped key. Do you have one?”

  Dr Smeeks jammed his hands into the baggy depths of his pockets and a great jangling noise declared the assorted contents. After a few seconds of fishing he withdrew a hex, but seeing that it was too large, he tossed it aside and dug for another one. “Will this work?”

  “It ought to. Let me see.”

  Edwin inserted the newer, smaller stick into the hole and gave it a twist. Within, the automaton springs tightened, coils contracted, and gears clicked together. Encouraged, the boy gave the wrench another turn, and then another. It felt as if he’d spent forever winding, when finally he could twist no further. The automaton’s internal workings resisted, and could not be persuaded to wind another inch.

  The boy removed the hex key and stood up straight. On the automaton’s back, behind the place where its left shoulder blade ought to be, there was a sliding switch. Edwin put his finger to it and gave the switch a tiny shove.

  Down in the machine’s belly, something small began to whir.

  Edwin and the doctor watched with delight as the clockwork boy’s arms lifted and went back down to its sides. One leg rose at a time, and each was returned to the floor in a charming parody of marching-in-place. Its bolt-work neck turned from left to right, causing its tinted glass eyes to sweep the room.

  “It works!” The doctor slapped Edwin on the back. “Parker, I swear – you’ve done a good thing. It’s a most excellent job, and with what? My leftovers, is that what you said?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I said. You remembered!”

  “Of course I remembered. I remember you,” Dr Smeeks said. “What will you call your new toy?”

  “He’s my new friend. And I’m going to call him . . . Ted.”

  “Ted?”

  “Ted.” He did not explain that he’d once had a baby brother named Theodore, or that Theodore had died before his first birthday. This was something different, and anyway it didn’t matter what he told Dr Smeeks, who wouldn’t long recall it.

  “Well he’s very fine. Very fine indeed,” said the doctor. “You should take him upstairs and show him to Mrs Criddle and Mrs Williams. Oh – you should absolutely show him to your mother. I think she’ll be pleased.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “Your mother will be proud, and I will be proud. You’re learning so much, so fast. One day, I think, you should go to school. A bright boy like you shouldn’t hide in basements with old men like me. A head like yours is a commodity, son. It’s not a thing to be lightly wasted.”

  To emphasize his point, he ruffled Edwin’s hair as he walked away.

  Edwin sat on the edge of his cot, which brought him to eye level with his creation. He said, “Ted?”

  Ted’s jaw opened and closed with a metallic clack, but the mechanical child had no lungs, or lips, and it did not speak.

  The flesh-and-blood boy picked up Ted and carried him carefully under his arm, up the stairs and into the main body of the Waverly Hills Sanitarium. The first-floor offices and corridors were mostly safe, and mostly empty – or populated by the bustling, concentrating men with clipboards and glasses, and very bland smiles that recognized Edwin without caring that he was present.

  The sanitarium was very new. Some of its halls were freshly built and still stinking of mortar and the dust of construction. Its top-floor rooms reeked faintly of paint and lead, as well as the medicines and bandages of the ill and the mad.

  Edwin avoided the top floors where the other children lived, and he avoided the wards of the men who were kept in jackets and chains. He also avoided the sick wards, where the mad men and women were tended to.

  Mrs Criddle and Mrs Williams worked in the kitchen and laundry, respectively; and they looked like sisters though they were not, in fact, related. Both were women of a stout and purposeful build, with great tangles of greying hair tied up in buns and covered in sanitary hair caps; and both women were the mothering sort who were stern with patients, but kind to the hapless orphans who milled from floor to floor when they weren’t organized and contained on the roof.

  Edwin found Mrs Criddle first, working a paddle through a metal vat of mashed potatoes that was large enough to hold the boy, Ted, and a third friend o
f comparable size. Her wide bottom rocked from side to side in time with the sweep of her elbows as she stirred the vat, humming to herself.

  “Mrs Criddle?”

  She ceased her stirring. “Mm. Yes, dear?”

  “It’s Edwin, ma’am.”

  “Of course it is!” She leaned the paddle against the side of the vat and flipped a lever to lower the fire. “Hello there, boy. It’s not time for supper, but what have you got there?”

  He held Ted forward so she could inspect his new invention. “His name is Ted. I made him.”

  “Ted, ah yes. Ted. That’s a good name for . . . for . . . a new friend.”

  “That’s right!” Edwin brightened. “He’s my new friend. Watch, he can walk. Look at what he can do.”

  He pressed the switch and the clockwork boy marched-in-place, and then staggered forward, catching itself with every step and clattering with every bend of its knees. Ted moved forward until it knocked its forehead on the leg of a counter, then stopped, and turned to the left to continue soldiering onward.

  “Would you look at that?” Mrs Criddle said with the awe of a woman who had no notion of how her own stove worked, much less anything else. “That’s amazing, is what it is. He just turned around like that, just like he knew!”

  “He’s automatic,” Edwin said, as if this explained everything.

  “Automatic indeed. Very nice, love. But Mr Bird and Miss Emmie will be here in a few minutes, and the kitchen will be a busy place for a boy and his new friend. You’d best take him back downstairs.”

  “First I want to go show Mrs Williams.”

  Mrs Criddle shook her head. “Oh no, dear. I think you’d better not. She’s upstairs, with the other boys and girls, and well, I suppose you know. I think you’re better off down with Dr Smeeks.”

  Edwin sighed. “If I take him upstairs, they’ll only break him, won’t they?”

  “I think they’re likely to try.”