So awestruck was I at the scene that I had not noticed the Egyptian withdraw a weapon similar to that of a revolver, from beneath his coat, and aim the barrel of it at my chest. The design of the pistol was rather exotic, being void of any manner of mechanism for the firing of its rounds and constructed of rather curious materials not altogether unlike brass, silver, and copper, which shone with an odd lustre in the dim light of the inner temple.
“Goodbye, Edgar. I shall be sure to send your father my sincerest condolences,” the Egyptian said.
Without a moment’s pause, I hurtled over top of the large sacrificial table even as the Egyptian fired upon me a single round which struck with precision the centre of the solid stone altar, sending it to pieces and myself flying across the chamber, where I came to rest within a mound of rubble as debris continued down upon me.
I soon realized that I had sustained injury in the extreme, for I felt a warmth of blood creep down my cheek from a large gash aside my skull. I reasoned that the state in which the Egyptian had left me was sufficient to do me in, for he attempted not a second shot but turned instead and, taking Ophelia by her arm, made his way toward the celestial fissure and the city of red, half dragging the entranced girl behind him.
Upon the threshold of unconsciousness, my wits almost, though not altogether, departed from me, I managed but a single question, “Who are you?”
“Who am I? That is a better question, Edgar, asked of yourself.”
At that the Egyptian disappeared with Ophelia beyond the ethereal door, which upon closing found me confused of thought and near to death. I had failed to do the very thing which I had sworn to do, and all that remained for me now was to lie upon the cold stone floor as the life left within me drained away.
Nevertheless, the fates had decided that I would not perish there that day, for within moments of the sealing of the fissure there above me stood a figure garbed in a long brown coat, a large contraption strapped upon his back, illuminated with a number of various coloured lights and adorned with numerous gears and dials which hummed and clicked in ceaseless fashion. Bending low, with fresh bandages as though he were expecting to find me there in such condition and had prepared afore, he stayed the flow of blood issuing from my wound, binding it well.
Before the mysterious brown-clad figure departed down the steps into the darkened passageways below, his benevolent work complete, he pressed into my hand a small scrap of paper and drawing near, I, as I drifted into blackness, heard the whispered words: “Twelve-thirteen.”
Epilogue
I next awoke in the infirmary of the Stratos with a quite concerned Coleman hovering over my sedate form, repeating my name as though to wake me from some over-long slumber. Upon the clearing of my head, Coleman recounted all that had occurred from the moment I had cut loose the Stratos from the Arkeo until the present moment, and as I suspected the Stratos and her crew did an admirable job of it once the ship’s ability to manoeuvre was restored. Coleman also reported that the Chaos was sent down in a fiery display, never to be seen again in the skies, for it was so destroyed as to leave no hope for her salvage.
Concerning my retrieval Coleman informed me that I had been found by himself and a small number of the crew several hours after I had boarded the Arkeo, and that the state of my health when discovered was rather tenuous. He also informed me that I had been unconscious but several hours short of two full days and that we were now but half a day’s journey from Dover, where there had been arrangement made for a hansom to deliver me to the London hospital, if I so desired, upon my arrival. I chose to eschew the visit and indicated rather that on reaching Dover I wished to ride straight to my residence in Willesden, a request which Coleman was hesitant to fulfil, as I had suffered great injury to my head. It was his opinion that I should be examined by a proper physician. Though Coleman protested at great length, he relented nonetheless, and so we agreed that I would be taken home without delay upon reaching Dover.
The remainder of the journey I spent in the infirmary without incident and, as agreed upon, was delivered to my residence in Willesden as promised, arriving late into the evening of a close August day; my head throbbed and all within me ached with a dullness I thought I should never again be free from lest I slept a fortnight and more undisturbed.
Nevertheless, I recalled the wireless I received from Father while on the Stratos and, desiring to fulfil his wishes as well as satisfy my curiosity, proceeded to his study straight away and as instructed, located the small box which he had spoken of. Upon opening the container I discovered a small round medallion which I supposed to be the same as I had witnessed my father display while visiting the apothecary some days ago. As well as the medallion I discovered a ticket of passage aboard the passenger ship Union, which was to leave London on the seventeenth of August and arrive in New York on the twenty-fifth of October. Along with the ticket was a small slip of paper with the address for a mister Bartholomew Hunter, 25 Merchant Street, New York City scrawled on it. The final item in the box was a rather lengthy letter from my father, of course, which after reading I burnt in the fireplace until nothing more than ashes remained, for the contents were of such delicate nature I dared not allow it, by any means, to fall under the scrutiny of unintended eyes.
Returning to the parlour I took up my pack from where I had deposited it upon the floor and began removing its contents for storage. As I reached into the sack to retrieve the final items my hand fell upon an object that had not been present before. I withdrew the item and was quite surprised to find that most unique and wondrous of devices, the astrolabe, entrusted to my care from the first. How it came to be in my possession once again I cannot say; however, it had become rather clear to me that I must, without doubt, travel to New York in search of Mister Hunter, for that seemed to be the course fate had so laid out for me, and perhaps once there discover the answers to the many questions that have eluded me so as well.
Thus it was with but little more than a week's rest I found myself leaned against the rail of the Union, gazing across the Atlantic at the setting sun in wonderment of what grand adventure might await me next, and indeed adventure did await, and a good many questions answered as well; nevertheless, that is a tale for another time.
Afterword
This is the part where I'm supposed to share with you some interesting fact of how this book came into being or how the idea for the book was developed. Instead I'd rather use this space to say thank you.
Writing HAWTHORNE has been an adventure, to say the least, and at times I truthfully didn't know if I was going to make it to the end. There were nights (and days too) when I just wanted to give up. Oh, with every fiber of my being I wanted to give up. But I didn't. I stuck to it. I finished the task I had set out for myself. Not because of any strength of will that I possessed or fortitude of character, but because you (and there were many of you), came along at my darkest hour and said “Don't quit! You can do it!”
Without your encouragement this book would never have been completed. I'm pretty confident about that. Without your late-night chats, emails, phone calls and meetings, this book would still be half finished with no hope of ever seeing the light of day. It's because of you that I was successful in this endeavor and so, with all sincerity, I say “Thank you.”
That being said, I'd also like to take this opportunity to give my readers a chance to say something in return. I'm very interested in receiving your feedback concerning HAWTHORNE so I've set up a special email address where you can ask me questions, make suggestions, send fan/hate mail or just say “Hi.” Here's the address: [email protected] I hope I'll be hearing from you.
Lastly, I'd like to share with you a couple of announcements. In the very near future we will be releasing a pulp fiction e-zine titled Thrilling Spectacular Tales! available quarterly starting mid April or May, 2014. Thrilling Spectacular Tales! will feature short stories by various up-and-coming pulp fiction authors in varying genres and will be made free to any
one subscribing to the HAWTHORNE newsletter. You can find out more by going to the contact page of the HAWTHORNE website at www.thehawthornebooks.com
Also, in a few months we have plans to launch Sunday Evening Radio Theatre an Internet-based old-time radio show where we will be featuring some of the best in old-time radio programming including Suspense and X Minus One, and we'll be reading original short stories live on-air from the very pages of Thrilling Spectacular Tales! as well. Updates on the Sunday Evening Radio Theatre show will also come through the newsletter.
Finally, as was briefly mentioned in the Foreword, there is a web series and an independent film based on the HAWTHORNE books currently in the works that I couldn't be more excited about. The first teaser is set to come out in the fall of 2014 and the first trailer in 2015. I'm looking forward to their production and will do my best to keep everyone informed about the progress of both, again, in the newsletter.
Well, that's all there is. I've got nothing left to say except, and this one's for you Pops, “Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”
On the Horizon
Hawthorne: Chronicles of the Brass Hand ~ Book 2: Ourania Schismi
Holliday: Vaquero Mecánica
Cin'Hartha
I Can Smell Uranus
Groundpounders
Iceriders
Among the Stars, I Sail
Futurmatic: Featuring Johnny Sonic and the SwingTones
Jehanne
I, Alone
The Greys
DragonDell
Stranger Than Fiction
HAWTHORNE: Chronicles of the Brass Hand: Mystirio Astronomiki Page 17
