The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy)

by S. E. Grove

  “It is easiest to think of them that way, yes,” Martin said. “I believe my method is the most straightforward empirical way of eventually identifying every Age in our new world. Burr here collects soil samples for me—or, rather, his colleagues do—and, as you can see, we have managed to identify many Ages all across our hemisphere.” Martin spoke with noticeable pride. He beamed at Burr, who gave a quick smile.

  “It is very impressive,” Sophia said politely. She understood the significance of Martin’s research, but the map was still a mystery to her.

  “But that is not all! Let’s show her the green room!” he said eagerly to Burr.

  “By all means.”

  “Let’s try that new soil, shall we? Come!” He limped off toward the other end of the room, where Sophia saw a narrow, glass-paned door that she had not noticed before. It led directly into a small greenhouse—a greenhouse within the larger conservatory that they had walked through that morning. “This,” Martin said grandly, indicating the mostly empty flower pots and trays, “is where the great experiments take place!”

  “What experiments?” Martin’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  “The soil experiments, of course.” He leaned in until his long nose was almost touching hers. “The botanical experiments!” he whispered. “What we do,” he continued, straightening up and turning to a tray of odd-looking plants, “is combine different seeds and cuttings with soil from different Ages. The results are sometimes extraordinary.” He pulled one of the nearby pots off the shelf and held it toward Sophia. “What do you think this is?” he asked.

  “It looks like a strawberry,” Sophia said doubtfully.

  “Exactly!” Martin said. “But taste it.” He picked one of the berries from the plant and handed it to her.

  She stared at it skeptically for a moment and then popped it in her mouth. “It’s not”—and then her mouth was flooded with an unexpected taste—“Wait, it tastes like mushrooms!”

  Martin was even more delighted now. “Yes, mushroom! Remarkable, isn’t it? These are what I used for the bread. I have no idea why, but strawberries taste like mushrooms when they’re planted in this soil from the northern Baldlands. It is most curious.” He put the strawberry plant aside. “Over here we have my newest experiments with mapping vegetation,” and he gestured toward a long table with what looked like an ordinary vegetable garden. “Anise, celery, and onion, mainly.”

  “Oh! I saw an onion map at the market in Veracruz,” Sophia said instantly. “How do they work?”

  “Those were very simple to develop, really,” Martin said modestly. “Plants are greatly shaped by their native soil. The soil is magnetized, like a compass, and then the vegetable or root leads back to the soil in which it was planted—like a divining rod, if you will. It works better with some plants than others.” He scratched his head. “For some reason, pineapples always lead to the ocean.”

  He took out an empty pot. “But what I am truly looking forward to is this manmade soil that Burr found for us. The sample?” he asked.

  Burr obligingly handed over a glass container, and Martin spooned a small amount of soil into a tiny pot. “Let’s see,” he muttered, opening a long drawer and rifling through dozens of small paper envelopes. “Petunias? Oranges? Basil? We could use a clipping. But I think I would like to try—yes. Let’s use this.” He held up a brown envelope. “Morning glory!” He dipped into it and plunged the few small seeds that stuck to his fingertip into the pot of soil. Then he carefully smoothed the soil over and watered it with a ceramic pitcher. “In a few days we will see what has emerged,” he said, dusting his hands off happily. “And if I am right, it will be something remarkable.”

  “What other experiments do you do?” Sophia asked, intrigued.

  Martin did not have a chance to reply, because Burr suddenly gave a shout of alarm, seized Sophia’s arm, and pulled her away from the pot.

  A small green tendril, lithe as a snake, was winding up out of the soil and into the air. As they watched, the green stem split in two, sprouted a delicate spade-shaped leaf, and reached farther upward. Suddenly the tiny pot exploded, and a dense web of silver roots burst out onto the counter, clinging to and spreading across it. The green shoot, dotted with leaves, had now nearly reached the low ceiling of the greenhouse. Thin shoots sprung off it like wires, spiraling into the air. Then a tight white bud appeared near one of the leaves. Another bud and then another materialized. Almost simultaneously, the white buds turned green and then faintly blue and then deep purple as they grew and elongated. And finally, in a sudden burst, the morning glory flowered like dozens of tiny parasols opening at once. But that was not the most surprising thing. What astonished the speechless observers most was the sound that came from the flowers. A dozen high, flutelike voices called out in some unknown tongue that was not quite speech and not quite song: a high, undulating call that Sophia was sure contained words of some kind, though she could not understand them. Martin was the first to step forward toward the plant.

  “Take care, Martin!” Burr exclaimed.

  “There is nothing to fear,” Martin said, awestruck, reaching out toward the plant. “It is resting at the moment. How remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Its roots are made of silver. I wonder—yes. The stem is vegetable matter. Truly fantastic.” He turned to Burr and Sophia with an expression of wonder. “This morning glory is like nothing I have ever seen. It is only half plant.”

  “What is the rest of it?” Burr asked tensely.

  “I believe it is manmade.” Martin shook his head. “Not entirely manmade, but something in between, a hybrid. It has grown like a plant, but its substance is partly metallic. I have read about such plants in an obscure history from my daughter’s collection. But I believed it to be hypothetical, or fictional, or fantastical. I never imagined such plants could truly exist.”

  “Why is it making that sound?” Sophia asked.

  Martin smiled. “I have no idea. But I will find out.” He took a last look at the morning glory. “We have much to do! I will visit the library, and we will examine these flowers under a strong lens, and then perhaps we will attempt another sample.” He wiped his eyes, which were damp with emotion. “What a discovery!” Then he hurried back to his laboratory, followed by Sophia and Burr, who closed the greenhouse door firmly with a grim expression.

  “Perhaps we ought to consider the matter, Martin,” he said, following the older man as he whirled around gathering supplies. “Must I remind you that the experiments on occasion have . . . unexpected consequences.”

  “Nonsense,” Martin said absently.

  “Nonsense?” Burr exclaimed. “What about the strangling creeper? What about the lying labyrinth of boxwood, which would have been the death of five royal attendants had you not killed it with poison? What about the blood-apple tree, which I hear is now the source of innumerable horror stories designed to keep children from wandering unattended in the park? Or the fanged potatoes? Or the walking elm? Martin!”

  Martin looked up, startled. “What?”

  “There is something strange about that flower. Its voice unsettles me. We have no way of knowing its true nature. We must be a little cautious. Please.”

  The botanist looked at the tall nine-hour clock near the courtyard door. “Almost lunchtime,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll ask her to look it up in the library. Morning glory. No, that wouldn’t be it. Soils? Manufactured soils?” He shook his head. “There won’t be a thing.”

  “Martin,” Burr repeated gravely.

  The old man beamed at him. “Since when are you so serious, Burton? This is very unlike you. We must seize the opportunity! A discovery like this occurs once in an age!”

  “It is you who makes me serious. Normally I throw caution and care to the wind, but I have learned that you need minding. I must be the voice of reason to you. Consider the greater circumstances. Consider . . .” He paused. “Remember the whispering oleander,” he said gently. “It too co
uld speak.”

  Martin hesitated.

  “The whispering oleander?” Sophia echoed quietly.

  “That was a different thing altogether,” Martin finally said. “It is an absurd comparison!”

  Burr took a deep breath, clearly frustrated. “Martin, I am only asking you to proceed carefully. Silver roots—in this palace? You will be accused of treason.”

  Martin rolled his eyes with exaggerated impatience. “I tell you, Burton,” he exclaimed, “there is no danger.”

  “What dangers are you ignoring now?” someone asked.

  Sophia turned, expecting Calixta, and saw instead a slight woman with hair piled intricately atop her head. She wore a long, close-fitting garment that swept the floor; it was covered with tiny silk flowers of a deep midnight blue. A high pearl choker encircled her neck. The dress left her arms bare, and at first Sophia thought there was a long line of sequins running from the woman’s wrists to her shoulders. Then, as she joined the group, Sophia realized that they were thorns: each no larger than a fingernail, they were pale green, slightly curved, and seemingly quite sharp. The woman smiled kindly at Sophia. She seemed young, but her expression was serious and thoughtful, as if borrowed from a much older face. Sophia suddenly understood what people meant when they called Sophia herself “wise beyond her years”—it was here, in the woman’s face. She smiled back. The woman turned to Martin, and Sophia noticed that her jet-black hair was dotted with tiny blue flowers.

  “My dear, you’ve arrived just at the right moment! I need your help immediately!” he exclaimed, hurrying toward her.

  “A great pleasure to see you once again,” Burton said, kissing the newcomer’s hand.

  “Likewise, Burr,” she said, smiling. “How is Calixta?”

  “Dearest, we have no time for this,” Martin exclaimed, seizing her hand. “You must come see the soil Burr brought me. It’s most extraordinary. You simply won’t believe—”

  “Father,” she said gently. “Won’t you introduce me to your other guest?”

  Martin caught himself. “Of course, of course—I’m so sorry, my dear. This is Sophia, a friend of Burr and Calixta’s. Sophia,” he said, turning to her with a little bow, “this is the royal librarian and court cartologer.

  “My daughter, Veressa.”

  23

  The Four Maps

  1891, June 28: 11-hour 22

  Lock the doors, stop your ears.

  The Lachrima will sense your fear.

  And if it’s drawn in by your fright

  You’ll surely see it in the night.

  —Nochtland nursery rhyme, first verse

  ONLY WHEN VERESSA murmured, “A pleasure to meet you,” did Sophia finally find her tongue.

  “You are Veressa?” she exclaimed, the words spilling from her mouth too loudly. “The cartologer?”

  “Yes,” Veressa replied, both surprised and amused. Sophia felt dizzy. She put her hand out toward the table, and Veressa seized it. “Are you all right?”

  “You—my uncle,” Sophia said, attempting to collect herself. “My uncle sent me to you. I came from Boston all the way to find you. My uncle, Shadrack Elli. Do you know where he is?”

  It was Veressa’s turn to stare, her eyes wide. “You astonish me,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I have not heard that name in many years.”

  Sophia bit her lip as disappointment rushed through her. She had been hoping that somehow, once she found her, Veressa would know what had happened to Shadrack and have a plan for his rescue. Her hand closed around the spool of thread in her pocket. Why would you lead me so easily to Veressa, she asked the Fates, if she cannot lead me to Shadrack?

  “Come,” Veressa said gently. “Let’s sit and talk this over.” She put her hand on Sophia’s shoulder and guided her gently toward the kitchen.

  Martin and Burr followed them and stood uncertainly by while she and Sophia sat at the long table. “Now,” she said, “tell me everything, beginning with how things were before Shadrack sent you to me.”

  Sophia explained as best she could, though it was difficult without being certain how much Veressa already knew about glass maps and railroad lines and any number of other things. Veressa stopped her to ask questions: once about Mrs. Clay’s story about the Lachrima, and a second time about Montaigne. Otherwise, she listened attentively, pressing Sophia’s hand encouragingly when the story grew confusing or difficult to tell. When Sophia was through, she sat thoughtfully for several moments. “May I see Shadrack’s two messages and the map?” she finally asked.

  Veressa read the notes briefly and then held the glass map to the light for a moment. She placed it on the table with a heavy sigh. “I had not thought it would happen this way,” she said, “though it was bound to happen.” She glanced up at her father. “I’m sorry, Papá, there are some things I have not told you that you will hear for the first time.” She looked down at the table. “I had good reason for not telling you.”

  Martin sat down abruptly, apparently more astonished by this than by anything else that had happened all day.

  Veressa touched the glass map for a moment and shuddered, as if she saw something on its surface. “I know this map,” she said quietly. “Shadrack and I came across it together, many years ago. Part of me wishes we had never found it.” She shook her head. “Let me tell you how it happened.”

  —11-Hour 31: Veressa Tells of Talisman—

  “IT WAS WHEN we were students, as Mrs. Clay told you, that we knew one another. She is right that we were close.” Veressa paused. “Very close. But something,” she continued quickly, “came between us. What Mrs. Clay did not know was the extent of our work in cartology. She could not know the dedication—the passion—with which we pursued it. Mapmaking with all materials—glass, clay, metal, cloth, and others besides—was naturally part of our studies. However, we learned in one of our courses that there were other materials for mapmaking that were forbidden in our school. Our teachers would not say what they were. But by and by we heard of a former teacher who had been dismissed because he persisted in experimenting with them. He was called Talisman, Talis for short—I do not know if that was his full name.

  “If they had told us of Talisman’s terrible experiments, we would have been disgusted and lost all interest. But our teachers’ silence only made us more curious. I can’t remember which one of us came up with the idea of finding Talisman, but once the idea had taken hold neither Shadrack nor I could shake it. Piece by piece, we put together the story, and we discovered that he lived alone not far outside of Nochtland.

  “We were wise enough to write to him beforehand. We told him we were students of cartology, and that we desired to learn something of his methods. To our surprise, he responded almost immediately. He said we would be most welcome, and that he would be happy to share his learning with us. In person, we found him just as kind and welcoming, if older and more tired, than we had expected—his face was that of someone who had lived through a time of great grief. His vast home was dilapidated, but he did his best to make us feel comfortable. He showed us the rooms where we would stay and the study where we would work. I remember that he spoke with us for only a few minutes before leaving to prepare dinner—he had no servants and seemed to live alone. Those were the only minutes we passed in relative peace.

  “Shadrack and I made our way to the dining room, as Talisman had instructed us, and we waited for nearly an hour. There was no sign of him. After the hour had passed, we began to hear a strange sound from somewhere far away within the house. It was the sound of weeping.

  “I was uneasy, but Shadrack reassured me, saying that we knew not what private grief Talisman suffered. We had only to wait, he insisted. Another hour passed, and then another. There was no sign of Talis. The sound of weeping grew louder, and finally became so inescapable that I felt desperate to leave. But then it would subside, and I would steel myself to wait a while longer. Then, suddenly, when it was almost nine-hour, Talisman appeared in
the door of the dining room. I say it was Talisman, but he was almost unrecognizable. He waved his arms furiously and shouted at us in a language we did not understand. Shadrack and I clung to one another, terrified. But we soon saw that he meant us no harm. In fact, it was almost as though he could not see us—he appeared to look right through us. He shouted at something that stood before him, railing at the empty air. Then, just as abruptly as he had arrived, he turned on his heel and left.

  “Shadrack and I fled to my room. We pushed a chair against the door and sat up the entire night. We heard the sound of weeping rising and falling through the early hours, but we did not see Talisman again.

  “We had already made our plans to escape as soon as it was light, but at dawn we heard a faint knocking on the door. Shadrack cautiously removed the chair. To our astonishment, Talisman stood in the hall—contrite and disheveled—begging our forgiveness. He seemed to have no memory of what had occurred, but he suspected that all was not right. It was painful to see how he attempted to apologize while being entirely unaware of what he had done. ‘Did you find supper to your liking?’ he asked anxiously. We answered that we had not had the chance to eat. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he said, tears filling his eyes. ‘I can’t—I don’t know how to apologize. Please, let me make it up to you with breakfast.’ It would have been cruel to deny him. We followed him to the dining room, entirely perplexed by the change in circumstances, and proceeded to have an ordinary breakfast.

  “After breakfast, Talisman seemed to regain some of his energy, and without being asked he turned to the topic of cartology. ‘I am honored that you have shown an interest in my methods,’ he said. ‘And I am only too happy to share them with you. As it stands, there are no others who practice them, and I fear that when I go’—a shadow passed over his face as he said this—‘there will be none to carry on.’ We assured him that while we knew nothing of his methods, we were enthusiastic students and open to every manner of experiment. ‘Wonderful,’ he said, his face brightening. ‘Has it not struck you as remarkable that the principal method for reading memory maps is human touch? How is it that the fingertips have this ability to transmit memories to the brain? In fact,’ he went on, his enthusiasm growing, ‘it is not only the fingertips but the entire human body which responds to the stored memories on a map. Try it—your elbow, your wrist, your nose—they are all the same. It is as if human skin were a great sponge, simply waiting to absorb memories! In fact, this is exactly the case—we are sponges and we do absorb memories.’