Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  Ridley raised his hand, but didn’t wait to be called on. “Which did Guy Pearce play in the movie? Because that guy is fantastic!”

  Wells’ lips pinched in a thin white line, his mustache twitching his annoyance. “I forgot I’m speaking to those more versed in pop culture than literary merit. Well, perhaps this will help that.” Winding his watch in four full rotations, he positioned it into a specially made cradle atop the sliver boiler drum.

  Blue light sparked from the watch’s power source, darts of color arcing out to band across the walls. With a steady hum the bands grew, uniting into a wall of light that whipped around them in a steady current. None of them moved an inch, yet the optical illusion created made it appear they were spinning wildly. Ireland, Noah, and Malachi stumbled to keep their footing. Sister Peyton grasped the table in front of her and leaned to the side to counter the non-existent force she feared might suck her off the bench at any moment. Ridley simply dropped Ireland’s hand and watched the display with mild interest.

  Grasping his knees, Noah’s shoulders curled in a dry heave. “Ugh …I wanna curl up in a ball so I don’t yack.”

  “Go ahead,” Ireland placed a hand on his back, primarily to steady herself, “this is a judgment free zone of whirling terror.”

  “My girlfriend is the Headless Horseman,” he grumbled to his work-boots. “I go fetal and I lose my man-card by default.”

  “I don’t see what the big issue is.” Ridley turned in a slow circle, nodding his approval. “I like it. The spirits can’t seem to get past it—which I’m sure Rip will bitch about the second this is over. But, for me, this is the most peace I can get without clinging to Ireland like a Remora on a shark. If Sky-mall made a smaller, nightlight-sized version of this, I would buy them by the case.”

  “I find this place comforting, as well,” Wells professed in a tone that was oddly wistful for a man of science. Extracting a hand-held tool no larger than a remote control from his satchel, he pointed the sensor on its face at the wall of light. Following its ticking meter, he pinpointed a specific band and strummed it between his thumb and forefinger.

  A flurry of translucent particles exploded out around them, fluttering and floating back together in the form of a magnificent spectral beauty. Dressed in primitive animal skins, strands of silk smooth hair caught in a breeze and danced around the fine features of her face. Crouching down, she stalked over an unseen landscape with a natural grace, her dark eyes trained and focused on her target.

  Catching himself gazing at her with deep longing, Wells righted himself with a series of rapid blinks and began his explanation with the knowledge based proficiency of a college professor. “The Eloi were not the fragile people that I portrayed them to be. I would describe them more as delicate and trusting. Their culture was based around the land they were native to, and they treated it as sacred. The truth of their brutish Morlock counterparts was that they would feed on any Eloi they could capture. The woman you see before you is Weena, an Eloi.”

  “In your book she was killed by a pack of Morlocks.” Malachi’s jaw clenched in accusation.

  “I hid the truth in plain sight, just as Irving, Poe, and Hawthorn did.” With a loving caress, Wells swept his hand over the curve of the hologram’s cheek. Her image altered, rippling like a pond after a stone skipped over its surface. When it came back into focus, Weena had undergone a transformation into a modern woman of the Victorian time. Her hair was twisted up on her head, lose strands brushing against her slender neck. Animal skins had been traded for a regal gown of billowing satin and lace. Her free-spirited nature was visibly stifled by the restrictions of fabric and forced society norms.

  Wells’ head listed to the side, adoration sparkling in his crystal blue eyes. “She was a beautiful flower that I plucked from her garden of happiness because of my own selfish desire to keep her close to me … to possess her.”

  “I’ve had a few plucks of my own go wrong,” Ridley leered, elbowing Ireland in the ribs.

  “Read the mood of the room,” she chastised him with a look.

  Wells circled the ghostlike hologram, the specific recipe of angst only love can create slicing deep valleys of sorrow between his brows. “Unable and unwilling to leave her behind, I brought her home with me to Regents Park in London. I failed to figure how miserable the hustle and bustle of such a large metropolis would make her. It was too much for my tender flower. All I wanted was to make her happy.” His chin quaking, he steadied it only by grinding his teeth tight. “At that time people were traveling to the new world in search of fresh opportunities. I did my research, as I always do, and found a settlement being colonized that offered a more simplistic lifestyle. It was a small island in Roanoke, Virginia.”

  “Would this be the same Roanoke village that history remembers because all its residents mysteriously vanished?” Ireland grimaced in anticipation of the answer.

  Wells confirmed her statement with a brief nod. “One and the same.”

  Ireland wet her lips, casting a sideways glance to Noah. “Safe to say this story will not have a happy ending.”

  “Roanoke was a good fit. We were content there.” Wells shook the embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “It wasn’t long after we settled there that we learned the blessed news that we were expecting.”

  Another touch to the image by Wells, and Weena’s belly swelled before them. Her back arched at the strain, her hands lovingly caressing the baby bump. Malachi gasped, giving Ireland pause that a man so devoid of emotion could be awed by something so simple.

  Engulfed in emotion, Wells fell to his knees before the maternally blooming apparition. Tears flooded his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. “I could’ve built the crib by hand, let her quilt the receiving blankets as the other women of the village did. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing, providing for my family in the means customary back in London. Not a day has gone by since that I haven’t wished for the ability to correct that egregious error.”

  Malachi removed the bowler hat, his fingers sliding over its brim. “Even time travel has its limits. Some things cannot be changed.”

  Rising to his feet, Wells wiped his face on the back of his hand. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you. No matter what I did, I couldn’t change the fact that I traveled to Blacksburg on a two day journey. I purchased a beautiful oak crib, cherry-stained to the russet shade of deeply steeped tea, and a satin blanket lined with hand-woven cotton.” Chin falling to his chest, his face fell in a frown laden with self-loathing. “Because that is how my family would know I cared, through hand-carved wood and plush bedding.”

  Malachi stared at the wall, as if embarrassed by Wells’ display of emotion. “And when you returned, they were gone.”

  “Not just them, everyone. Not a soul remained.” Wells lined his stare with that of the Weena likeness. “My bride, my unborn child, my very reason for being … gone as if they never existed. My only goal, my only passion since then has been finding a way to get them back.”

  Ireland looped her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and pointed out the elephant in the room. “You know it’s been a few hundred years, right? Without the benefit of your time jumping gadgets they’re probably—”

  “They are very much alive!” Wells snapped, his face reddening. Forcing his proper Englishman façade back into place with a series of awkward coughs and twitches, he dragged his fingers through Weena’s hazy frame. Tendrils of smoky light swirled and coiled before launching out and recollecting into a fresh frame displayed against the radiating backdrop. “Through countless trips back in time I found an anomaly in Salem, during the witch trials, which I believe to be directly connected to the disappearance of the Roanoke residents.”

  As Wells spoke, the image of six women of varying ages lined up in the gallows that formed in the background. Their hands were bound tight behind them; the nooses around their necks not yet taut.

  He addressed the vision like a meteor
ologist forecasting a brewing storm front. “Something happened here, at this precise moment. What, I cannot say, though I do have my theories. It involved these women; however, some sort of barrier prohibits me from ever reaching the correct time to learn the truth or how it is linked to Roanoke.”

  “A magnetic field?” Malachi inquired, clasping his hands behind his back. “Or perhaps a vector shield?”

  Wells met his inquisitive gaze with patient sincerity. “Magic.”

  “But … you’re a man of science,” Malachi’s argued, eyes narrowing with disbelief.

  “And trust that I hate to use that term when I haven’t been able to adequately test and disprove it. That said, I have confirmed that this woman,” he jabbed his forefinger to a natural beauty in the center of the line-up with a curtain of mahogany hair waving down her back, “is the mother of Nathaniel Hawthorne—though the history books will dispute that claim. Whatever happened between her and John Hathorne—the married man who fathered her child—was potent enough that when the witch trials were long over John was the only one of the selectmen that would not recant his statement that convicted the witches.”

  “Guess we know where Nathaniel got the idea for The Scarlett Letter—his own father’s extracurricular bow-chicka-bow-wow.” Ridley punctuated his sentiment with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

  Deafening silence followed as five sets of eyes glared at him like a misbehaving child.

  Ridley’s hands fell to his side. Turning to Ireland, he dropped his voice to a whisper, “It’s because there’s a nun here. That’s what makes it wrong. I get that now.”

  Ireland slapped a comforting hand on his shoulder and prompted Wells to continue with an expectant raise of her brow.

  “Nathaniel became a dear friend in our mutual search for the truth in the past. When he learned that his real mother was found guilty of witchcraft and his own father had played a part in her conviction, he sought to distance himself from that painful legacy. That is when he altered the spelling of his name and added the W to Hawthorne.”

  Ireland finger-combed her shower damp hair and flipped it from her eyes. “That W actually was his scarlet letter, a reminder of the sins of his father. It’s pretty poetic, actually.”

  “That it is.” Wells rose on tiptoe to pluck a higher blue band, resetting the cybernetic slide show. “The island of Roanoke still exists today, thriving along with today’s modern standards; however, I believe there to be another layer beneath it. A parallel dimension that hovers there, forever cloaked by a force I have yet to find a science strong enough to overpower. That is why the three of you are here. I have spent incalculable hours building and developing a team skilled enough to shatter that barrier.”

  “You think there’s another world beneath the world?” Noah questioned. With one hand over the opposite fist, he brought them to his lips in contemplation. “And your plan is to use a homicidal horseman, a mad medium, and a rookie witch to break through and save your wife?”

  Scooting her legs over the edge of the booth, Peyton pivoted around to shoot him a scowl. “Shouldn’t there be a ‘no offense’ tagged on to the end of that?”

  A smirk and a shrug were his only rebuttal.

  “Not … just … my wife,” Wells stumbled over the claim, as if hearing how ludicrous it sounded for the first time, “but every villager that had the misfortune of being on that island has been held prisoner there for centuries.”

  Flickering images streaked behind him: a fuzzy-haired man shrugging on a crimson cloak, Poe huddled in a corner rocking, Washington Irving playing bad cop in her living room.

  “How do they fit into this?” Ireland asked, pointing to the literary geniuses.

  Wells didn’t have to turn around to know who she was referring to. The flush that rose from his cheeks to his earlobes gave away the guilt that haunted him on the matter. “They were all to be players in folklore legends that would be told ’round campfires for years to come; the survivor of the Headless Horseman, the man with the life-giving touch, and the orphan of a Salem witch. Their stories would have been exploited, their lives put on exhibit. It was Nathaniel, whom I met and befriended at a literary conference, who suggested we band together in a brotherhood of sorts to hide the truth of our tragedies within novels labeled as fiction. Anyone that claimed otherwise would be scoffed at for rehashing a fantastical book as truth. It was genius, really.”

  “And Irving and Poe?” Malachi prompted.

  “Nathaniel and I watched their sagas unfold through news clippings and bar anecdotes,” Wells continued, smoothing his well-trimmed mustache with the side of his finger. “Through time jumping and research we had both traced our stories back to Roanoke and had exhausted all measures trying to unveil its alternate reality. Supernatural means seemed the next logical step. I traveled back, to immediately after Ichabod was lost and right after Poe had buried Lenore, and convinced them both to join our cause.” Dropping his gaze to the floor, he pushed his suitcoat aside to stuff his hands in his pockets. “For a while they were the closest thing I had to family. I even took them on journeys through time with me. We lost Poe first, when he was consumed by his curse and perished under the oddest of circumstance.”

  “He still stops by from time to time,” Ridley interjected, leaning against the back of a booth, “seems in good spirits.”

  “Oh?” Wells’ eyebrows rose in the happy surprise of running into an old friend in the supermarket. “That is good to hear. Nathaniel married and settle in with his family. I promised to return back and tell him of his mother if I ever learned what happened to her—or if she made it out of Salem at all. Irving, I had to stop time traveling with after he proved he couldn’t play well with others. From then on, it became my job alone to test potential Horsemen.”

  That got Ireland’s attention with the efficiency of a scorpion dropped in the bra. “Whoa! Potential Horsemen? I thought this was a chosen one, sword in the stone type situation.”

  Wells pulled back, suddenly aware his words may offend. “There were … a few that shouldered that yolk before you.”

  The pictures flashing behind him told another story, showcasing potential suitors of her title. Burly hands covering her axe handle in sweat. Man after blood-thirsty man losing themselves to the hypnotic pull of mayhem and slashing away at victims with her sword. Ireland’s shoulders slumped at the absurdity of being jealous over what had become her own private little hell.

  Nooooo! They can’t have it, she thought with an unladylike snort, it’s my soul crushing curse.

  Extracting a pair of spectacles from his pocket, Wells slid them up the bridge of his nose to inspect the historic images of his failed Hessian experiments. “You were the first female of the Crane bloodline that I auditioned. It’s fascinating that you have fared the best. My theory is that the testosterone of the males has a more volatile reaction to the Horseman’s urges.”

  Ireland dragged her tongue over her top teeth. Her head falling back, she directed her snarky tone at the ceiling. “Or, maybe the rest of them were just a big ole bag of dicks.”

  Sister Peyton erupted in a loud caw of laughter that she attempted to stifle behind her hands. “Oh, my! That was a funny visual.” Blushing from neck to hairline, she crossed herself and turned back toward the table.

  “What about my little burden?” Ridley chimed in, supporting himself with one elbow on the back of a polished booth. “Were others able to acclimate to the maddening mind of Poe?”

  Wells sucked in his cheeks, buying himself time to formulate an answer. Eyes wide and unblinking, he opened his mouth with a loud pop. “Poe’s curse is a challenging one. I can say that you’re handling it far better than most …”

  He let the thought trail off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the truth was revealing itself behind him. A woman in a strait jacket beat her head bloody against a wall. A man foamed at the mouth, his body convulsing as electrodes fed voltage directly to his brain. Another having a hole drilled into his skull, his
blood splattering over the gloves of his surgeon.

  Wells followed the horrified stares of his audience. “Bugger!” Scurrying over to the pocket watch, he plucked it from its cradle. In an instant the bands of light and hologram display vanished. Unfortunately, there was no unseeing that.

  Ridley gulped back the bile scorching up the back of his throat. “What’s the correct reaction to learning there may be a frontal lobotomy in your future?”

  “The need to sew your name in your underwear?” Malachi offered, not a trace of emotion written anywhere on his striking features.

  Peering in the direction of the mysterious newcomer, Ridley nodded in newfound appreciation. “First joke you make and it’s at my expense. It stung, yet somehow makes me like you more.”

  An almost smile twitched at the corner of Malachi’s mouth.

  “What about Sister Peyton?” Ireland asked on the behalf of the soft-spoken nun scouring the now empty wall for answers it could no longer provide. “Is she the lucky one that will be spared this caliber of misery?”

  “Actually, yes.” Dropping the pocket watch into his breast pocket by its chain, Wells eased himself to his knees to begin disassembling the steam generator. “She’s a Hawthorne. Magic is in her blood. I anticipate her transition will be the easiest, as it was for all of her predecessors. Which is why I called on her last, after the more …” hesitating, he cast a sideways glance to Ireland and Ridley and choose his words carefully, “demanding afflictions are tested.”

  Narrowed eyes fixated on Peyton, venom dripped from Ireland’s glare. “So, she won’t have to accidentally kill a few people in her fight for control?”

  “Or make out with a decomposing ghoul to stop its deadly rampage?” Ridley tagged on, seeing Ireland’s animosity and raising it to palpable spite.

  “Luckily, no.” Oblivious to the building tension, Wells continued to tinker with his creation.

  Even Noah crossed his arms over his broad chest at the karmic injustice of it all.