by Jim Musgrave
Chapter 6: Containing the Secret Destiny of the Ultimate Science
The following day, Bessie Mergenthaler, Seth and I were all dressed up for our meeting with the Grand Inquisitor of the World Scientific Advancement Society for Progress, or whatever asinine title he or she gave him or herself. I wore my black overcoat with its black velvet collar, wide lapels, and deep cuffs over a frock coat, waistcoat, and tweed trousers. To complete my British ensemble, I also had leather gloves and a silk top hat. Bessie was outfitted with her clothing of the Court of Queen Victoria, which was all black, because the widow queen had all her ladies dress the same as she. She had on a crepe dress with a plain collar and broad weeper cuffs made of white muslin, a bombazine mantle cloak, and a crepe bonnet with a widow’s cap. Seth wore gray knee pants, matching coat, white ruffled shirt and a black bowed tie. As he was going to be invisible, his wardrobe did not matter.
We took Bessie’s formal black carriage over to the Society’s mansion. Her driver, Terrance, enjoyed the little game of dress-up. He was quite used to his mistress dressing in all sorts of attire due to her different occupations around the city. She dressed for her society parties and hospital and other charity work. She also had her variety of costumes when she attended masquerades. “Who are you supposed to be this time, Missus?” he asked her, as he set down the platform of wood steps for her to get up into the carriage.
“I am Dowager Jane Churchill of Queen Victoria’s Royal Court, and Mister O’Malley is visiting Oxford Professor Ronald Wentworth, who is my escort. If the need arises, please address us as such,” she said, stepping up into the closed carriage and sliding across the seat. I followed her. Terrance, grinning, nodded at both of us and closed the door.
As we drove over to 625 Fifth Avenue, I kept looking out the window to see if I could observe any more signs of the steam city infusion upon our New York environs. The main purpose for my investigation, as I informed Bessie, was to pretend we had connections in England with the court and with the British upper classes who wanted to invest in their new enterprise out here “in the colonies.” If we could ingratiate ourselves by promising to invest heavily, then we might also be privy to the underlying plans or philosophy behind the entire enterprise. If we knew why they wanted to do things, then we could plan our strategies more carefully to stop them.
The inside of the Italianate mansion was right out of furnishing from the Roman Caesars as we walked down the hallway on a magnificent Asian rug that had a scene from the ancient Bhagavad Gita portrayed on its long tapestry. Arjuna was standing astride his horse-drawn chariot talking to God Krishna. And below them, the armies were clashing in a deathly struggle. Statues of Roman generals began in the foyer, and there were a succession of gods, from Plutus, God of Wealth, to King Jupiter.
On the walls were drawings of all varieties of steam-powered inventions. It began with a copper jet engine toy called the Aeolipile invented by Hero of Alexandria around 100 BCE. Next, was a steam engine used to pump water from coal mines, followed by a succession of steam-powered locomotives, boats, automobiles, farming vehicles, and, of course steam heating systems. I made note that there was not a single weapon of war on the wall.
Our escort was a short, hunch-backed midget whose face resembled that of a pug-nosed canine. He wore a tiny Roman Legion uniform, complete with a full brush silver helmet and scarlet sash draped across his tiny silver breast plate. As he led us into the main drawing room where our host was, he looked back and up at us. “The Vicereine calls me Cerberus, but really, I don’t bite,” he explained, and his upper-lip curled up in a smile that displayed larger than normal human canines. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small man. I was worried that Seth might actually appear to play with this midget, but thankfully, he did not.
“I am Professor Ronald Wentworth of Oxford, and this is Dowager Jane Churchill of the Queen’s Court,” I told the butler. I almost queried him about whether he knew Superintendent John Kennedy’s butler, but I held my tongue. I still wanted to know about the midget connection, as this was beyond coincidental.
Bessie leaned over to whisper, “This should be interesting.”
“If she represents royalty, then she should be quite impressed with you,” I whispered back.
Our little Roman soldier stopped at the entrance to the grand room. “Presenting Professor Ronald Wentworth escorting her royal Dowager Missus Jane Churchill of England! Vicereine Lela Rossetti-Dusteby of the World Scientific Advancement Society for Progress!”
The woman who marched up to us grabbed both of our hands and dragged us into the room. Her head moved back-and-forth as she walked between us, and the large peacock feather in her purple hat kept swerving under my nose so that I sneezed. “Dio vi benedica!” she told me.
“Please, call me ‘Dusty.’ Oh, it’s true. I am a representative for foreign royalty, but the purpose of our organization necessitates my taking on the vernacular of our chosen country. I was born in Italy, but my father, who is American, locked us all up inside his portable laboratory and snuck us out of the country!” The vicereine’s violet summer dress swished along the red carpet as she sped us up to one steam device exhibit after another. Each of these demonstrations of working steam-powered genius had its own pedestal, stand or other tableau. “This little thingee irons clothes,” she said, sweeping it across the shirt on the board. Moving to the next exhibit, “This contraption is a bicycle that runs by steam.” On we followed her, stopping at each one, listening to her unique explanations. Steam scissors, steam sewing machine, steam massager, steam toys, steam whistles, steam automobile, steam tractor, steam boat, steam roller skates and many other devices that she had no name to give us so she called them “vapore,” which is “steam” in Italian.
However interesting each of these inventions was, however, it was this raven-haired woman’s physical person that was the most startlingly provocative display of all. After the first minute in her presence, I saw that steam was emanating from her body! At first, I thought she might have caught on fire from one of the steam-powered gas lanterns that were spaced every five feet inside this big room. This was not the case. As she passed before me, I could feel the misty moisture of the “smoke” against my face, and I knew she had a more unsettling aura about her person than any of these devices could ever possess.
“I noticed, Dusty, that you seem to be emitting a moist fog,” I said in my practiced English accent. “Is this perhaps a cooling device?”
She seemed quite nonplussed. “No. It’s rather more complicated than your excellent guess. My father, you see, was both an inventor and a surgeon. Our leader, who shall remain anonymous because of security reasons, is attempting to establish a society wherein human beings are elevated by technology. Not just any technology, mind you, but a technology that is the safest, most natural source of power and healthy living ever conceived by the mind of invention. I was dying of consumption in Italia. Each one of my days was a coughing fit of bloody saliva and sore ribs. My parents were frantic. I was ten years old, and my father thought I might die soon. This is when mi padre met him.”
“Him?” Bessie spoke for the first time. Her English accent was quite good. “My dear madam, could you be referring to your reclusive leader?”
“Yes, it was he who told my father about the technological revolution happening all over the world. My father, who was quite desperate with worry over my condition, listened with rapt attention. This man explained that he had the device which could save my young life. It was an ingenious steam engine powered by a tiny magnet from a source that was kept secret. This magnet was so powerful that it ran this tiny engine for years. The magnet need only be replaced every twenty-five years. The steam power was placed inside my chest cavity to replace my lungs. This is why I have steam coming from my pores as if I were a human geyser. My lungs are inflating and deflating, powered by the source of all that is good. Steam!” Dusty twirled around on her feet, and the steam circled around with her.
“Go
od heavens!” said Bessie. “That’s quite a remarkable story. Was your father employed thereafter?”
“Yes, he was. That’s when we moved here, and I was awarded this appointment as Vicereine. Padre is working in the Society’s laboratories inventing other such devices to aide in the longevity of humankind. He and I are quite proud of our association with such a humanitarian group. Are you, by chance, here to inquire about what investments can be made to advance the progress of our goals?” Dusty smiled and waved her hand around the room. “This is only the beginning! We are constantly bringing newer inventions to the fore, and we shall continue until the world has been made over anew.”
Bessie, who was quite familiar with medical research and the technical problems therein, began to breathe audibly. I could tell she was exasperated by something. She walked over to the woman and looked her squarely in her brown eyes. “I would assume, Dusty, that your lungs needed replacement. How was this possible? The lung tissue is very fine and made of blood vessels that branch down to a diameter less than one-fourth of human hair. Does this steam pump function with some kind of transplanted lung?”
“Let me just say that we have our ways, Lady Churchill. I cannot go into any more medical detail than what I have just related to you. I am living proof that our devices do work. If you wish to consider investing in our endeavors, then perhaps I could arrange a personal meeting with somebody who could show you how we are able to do these things. You would, of course, then be our emissary to the wealth of England, its Vicereine, if you will, and we shall accord you with all of the honors that this title deserves.” Dusty again smiled and touched her right hand to Bessie’s forearm.
“What kind of investment are we discussing here?” I was anxious to get down to brass tacks.
“We need a flow of monthly investment in the one hundred thousand dollar range,” said Dusty. The steam from her torso seemed appropriate at this point, as this kind of money made me quite warm under my collar.
“I shall bring this to my exchequer, and we will return to you with a beginning fee. I must say, our inspection of your lung device and other more technical information will be required at that point. Is this agreeable?” Bessie nodded her head to encourage the younger woman.
“Of course, Lady Churchill! We already have royalty who have invested, and they have all received the same exclusive treatment that you shall receive. We shall see you again in a week?” said the Vicereine.
“Indeed. Thank you very much for this informative presentation,” I said, and we began walking toward the hallway.
The little butler, Cerberus, came running down the hall at that moment. His little legs were churning like small pistons under his toga. When he reached us, he slid on the carpet and fell to his knees. His eyes were imploring as he gazed up at Dusty. “The door to the Tabernacle was open! I was doing my rounds, and I put in the combination, but it would not work. When I turned the iron lever, it had already been opened! I hurried downstairs to see who entered, but there was nobody in the chamber.”
“Was the Dreamer disturbed?” Dusty’s voice trembled.
“No, she wasn’t. Everything was properly in place. I locked the door again, but what should we do?” he asked.
Our hostess looked at us. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “I am so sorry. I was going to wait until you returned next week to show you our Dreamer, but now that her tabernacle has been violated, I suppose we can get an early start to it all.”
“Early start? I don’t believe I understand your meaning,” said Bessie.
“It all begins when you see her and understand the meaning behind it all,” she explained, and she reached out and took our hands. We were led toward a tall black door in the middle of the hallway. This was the entrance to the Tabernacle, I would assume. I kept thinking of our entrance back at Temple Emanu-El, which also led us down into a sanctuary. Was this the opposite place created to harbor the source of all evil?
As we were led down the padded stairway, we were enveloped inside a cocoon of flute music, dark and foreboding, as if these flutes were serpents with holes in them upon which a satanic musician could blow into the viper’s mouth, the fangs plunging into his lip until the sounds came out upon us. With each step, I could feel a vibration, but it was only me who was vibrating. I looked over at the others, for it was a wide stairway, and they were not vibrating at all. The lights were strong, and they reflected an orange glow throughout this room. This was not the only color, however, as our bodies and clothes were black and pale gray. We appeared to be mere specters haunting our way to the bottom of this pit.
“She dreams because of you, Patrick James O’Malley,” said the Vicereine, “and only because of you.”
My name! She knew my name, and we were not royalty to her at all. This was some kind of trap, and I needed to escape. I attempted to move my feet back up the stairs, but they were being pulled by a magnetic force coming from the pit below us. The odor of sewage, flowers and damp earth all mixed into a fragrance that one might inhale the split-second before one’s death, when one must concentrate most fully to determine one’s destiny in the next life. How did I know this? This person below me was forcing it into my brain!
When we all reached the bottom of the stairs, we were standing around a metal cage. Inside this cage, sitting on a pile of human skulls was a meditating figure with her nude, slender back to us. My first thought was about how she could sit so calmly on top of human heads. Her legs were crossed like a Buddhist, and the cage had vines growing upon the cage wire. It was all in black and white, so the entire effect was surreal and evanescent. I felt as if it all could disappear at any moment.
“Did you not realize, Detective O’Malley, that each of us is a mystery unto ourselves? What we believe we experience is exactly what the dreamer creates for us. What we determine to be real as we struggle through our own pain is simply the product of each of our dreamers.” Her voice now seemed to be coming from the pit. “In fact, I would like you to meet your dreamer right now,” the voice said.
All was dark at that moment, and then it became light, and the woman on the pile of skulls was facing me. I looked hard at her face, as her eyes were closed in sleep or deep meditation, or both, and then I recognized her. It was her nakedness that caused me to not see who she was at first. Her breasts rose with each breath she inhaled, her wrinkled stomach sagged from childbirth experiences, and her hair was blowing inside the cage from a breeze that only she could feel. It was the face of my mother, who had died from starvation in Kilkenny, Ireland, before we came to America.
“How did you make this?” I asked, stupefied by the uncanny resemblance. It was much more realistic than any wax figure Madame Tussaud could ever create.
“Make? We do not make the dreamer, Detective. You do. The dreamer, you see, is the physical manifestation of that which most causes you to cling to this world of illusion and pain. It is her dream, however, that creates the mystery you must solve.” The steam was still rising from Dusty’s body, and it added an extra ethereal quality to this catacomb.
“What in blazes do you mean?” I felt a panic deep inside, and I wanted to run, but my feet were adhered to the floor of this pit.
Bessie Mergenthaler seemed lifeless and inert, as if by coming down these stairs with me she had defused her soul. She stared at me with uncaring, magnetized eyes.
“Each moment becomes lost upon another. We move in our lives like restless angels, and yet we are but creatures of the earth. Why do you have faith in what you believe, Detective?” Again, the voice was coming from the misty clouds that were now circling around us. The dreamer—my dreamer—was also creating steam! This steam was like an elixir that infused the hovering voice with passion and illogical meaning.
I concentrated hard. I tried not to go insane. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them this would all be gone, and I would again be back inside my little apartment on 42nd Street. There was no flying boy, no time machine, and no sanctuary beneath the tem
ple. I would be back to the everyday monotony of a city’s private investigator.
I opened my eyes, and she was still there inside the cage, seated upon the heap of Hamlet’s Yoricks, dreaming the dream for me. “What is she dreaming?” I screamed into the moist air.
“Outside this tabernacle, there is a mystery. Each life has its own tabernacle, its own mystery, but your life has become one of detection. Some minds become too insane with the possibilities of the universes out there, so they force themselves to believe in one choice and one destiny at one time. They fill their activities with an avaricious quest for material wealth, and yet they have no dreamer. They love only themselves, or their families, or their nation, and yet they do not love the endless possibilities out there. You see, Detective, your life’s puzzle is like the ones given to only a select few.”
“Puzzle? What am I doing here? How did all this happen?” I could barely get the words out of my mouth. I could see these words pour forth like iron filings, the tiny shreds hovering in front of my face, and only the magnetic force of the dreamer’s breath gave them shape and meaning.
“In your first puzzle, you were able to free the soul of the murdered Edgar Allan Poe. His dark reality and wisdom were allowed to sublimate into the world’s consciousness and continue to haunt some of the non-dreamers, the nescience crusaders, who want us to believe this world is the only reality. What did Edgar teach you on that first day you met him, Detective? Think back. You were standing in the rain, waiting for the great writer to go back into the bedroom to retrieve his manuscript so you could take it to his publisher in Manhattan. Fordham Road was dark and screaming with windy rain, like a tortured being. And yet it was at this exact moment that your destiny here, in this universe, was hatched. Your puzzles were beginning to be created by your dreamer as soon as you heard Poe’s words. Think. What were those words that sent your soul into the Mount Sinai Hospital, into those haunted slave quarters with your holy grail of panspermia, and into the deepest depravity of men’s lust with Jane the Grabber’s little business? Think, think, think! Drip, drip, dripping wet. You were afraid you would go insane then because your mother had died, and your father and brother were ignorant, racist louts. Only the thought of the looming war gave you any excitement, and even this was not enough to give you meaning. Poe’s words that day began your dreamer and led you to us and to your next puzzle.”
