by Paul F Gwyn
His admiration at the sight was interrupted. There was a snapping sound nearby. Arnaud turned to look. There was another house to the right roughly ten feet away. Only this one was made of not just wood, but sticks, too. The bizarre choice of building material bothered Arnaud’s sense of engineering. How the structure maintained its integrity was a mystery, with sticks piled up to form walls, longer sticks sloping down to create the roof.
Such a structure could not be water-tight, or even resistant to the elements. Even the “windows” seemed to be only constructed of two thin slivers of stick, crossed over one other.
Then he saw him. Through one of the gaps in the walls, a tall man slumped on a chair made of a similar ramshackle wooden design.
“Nathanial,” Arnaud whispered.
Before he had even a chance to react, a large, dark, hairy beast emerged from behind the stick house.
Arnaud would have sworn he could almost name it, but couldn’t say why. Eyes like onyx met Arnaud’s gaze. Its mouth crept up, forming what could only be described as a mangled smile. But was happiness the emotion that this creature was trying to convey? Did this beast even have the capacity to convey such a thing?
Without warning the beast swung a colossal arm at the house and it sent splinters flying. Arnaud flinched so much so that he fell backward, landing on his posterior.
“Merde!” No, this was not right! “Arrêter! You know better than this!”
The beast looked straight at him. Arnaud looked deeper into its eyes and recognition flushed through the Frenchman, but they appeared to be blacker than the last time Arnaud had seen them; the kind of black that was devoid of all reason and logic. For a moment they bathed in each other’s gaze, only to be broken when Arnaud turned to look back through the gap in the house’s wall, searching for his…
There! It was definitely Nathanial, Arnaud had no doubt about that, but something was amiss about him.
All his features were present; his head of red hair, his rich whiskers. But he seemed to be drained of colour. He almost looked like a daguerreotype, unmoving and…
Was he alive?
Adrenaline seared through Arnaud as he bolted for the door, powering through the thick layer of snow the ground was coated in. He was nearly there when he saw a lumbering movement on his periphery and he dropped out of instinct.
As he fell, he saw a huge arm swing over him and then crash into the house once again.
It sounded like a giant breaking a twig.
Shielding his eyes from a mist of splinter, Arnaud scrambled for the door handle while rising from the floor to his knees. The beast pulled his fist out of the wall, leaving a gaping gash big enough for a man to pass through.
Arnaud dived through it.
Inside, the room was cramped and unpleasant. The beast continued to tear through walls but Arnaud was more preoccupied with his friend lifelessly perched on the chair. He scrambled over to Nathanial, planted his hands on each shoulder and shook. “Nathanial, we must leave this place!” But there was no response, only a vacant stare fixing on nothing.
There was a huge smashing sound. The beast was now inside.
“Listen to me, Nathanial! We are not safe.” Arnaud grabbed his hand; he was icy cold to the touch. He tried to wrench Nathanial out of the chair, but he seemed to be fixed in place.
The beast could be heard getting closer, breathing heavily.
Arnaud was not leaving without Nathanial. He turned his head, just in time to see the tusked maw that was moving to envelope him…
He woke violently, thrashing out, clammy from the heat of the lab.
“Have you quite finished?” asked a sleepy voice nearby.
Arnaud was out of breath; he had never had a dream quite like that before. “I had nightmare,” he managed between gasps.
“That much was evident, I assure you.”
Arnaud saw a ginger head emerge from near his feet. Prior to leaving Earth, Nathanial had allowed Arnaud free use of the cot he had set up in the lab, due to the illness that had ailed him since Ceres, but now that he was well again Arnaud had insisted that they equally share the cot. At first Nathanial was against the idea: “really, Arnaud, what would the captain say at such an idea?” But Arnaud pointed out, with his usual irrérvérence, that he did not require the captain’s presence in his bed, too. Nathanial had soon relented.
“What could have occurred in that dream of yours that I should receive such a thrashing?” Nathanial asked, with a tone of annoyance tinged with sympathy.
Arnaud realised that some of the erratic movements in his dreams must have translated into the real world. “Sorry, mon cher ami, it was slightly distressing.”
At this Nathanial sat up, his brows creasing in concern. “So… What of the dream?”
“Oh, nothing, it just a dream, non?” Arnaud batted away the question quickly. He was still rife with the emotion of the dream itself, so he couldn’t discuss it. “Let us rest, though. It will not do well for us to have our sleep being disturbed.” Arnaud turned over and hoped that he would forget the dream.
Chapter Two
“Nature Vs Man-Made”
1.
THE MORNINGS ON board the flyer were often bizarre for Nathanial; the lack of both sunrise and sunset while travelling the aether sometimes upset his sleep pattern. Although Nathanial’s sleep had been disturbed by Arnaud’s thrashing, something else was niggling away at his mind, keeping him from sleep.
The Frenchman lay splayed out in an uncomfortable looking position on the cot while Nathanial dressed.
“Did you sleep well, or is that a question that you may find too intrusive?” Nathanial asked before turning away to continue readying himself for the day.
Arnaud yawned rather inelegantly and rubbed his face before talking. “It is no secret that sharing such a small cot between us is far from ideal. Were you expecting it to be cosy?” Arnaud asked, waggling an eyebrow.
Nathanial felt his cheeks flush. “Arnaud, can you cease the jesting for just a moment? You were clearly in distress while you slept last night, and I am merely expressing a little bit of concern.”
Arnaud frowned and heaved himself into a sitting position. “Well perhaps your concern is not required at the moment, mon cher.”
Frustration continued to grow. “You think calling my name in your sleep is nothing of concern?”
Arnaud froze and cleared his throat (rather melodramatically, Nathanial thought). He rose from the cot and floated over to one of the equipment cabinets. “What did I say exactly?”
Nathanial sighed exasperatedly while pulling on his frock coat. “Just my name, I suppose, and also something like mina or minor.”
Arnaud raised an eyebrow. “And these words I spoke were sufficient evidence for you to be concerned?”
“You sounded distressed enough!”
“I don’t remember you being a part of it, but I did have a bad dream. It happens sometimes. I assure you, I am fine.” Arnaud gave his trademark smirk.
Nathanial put on his metal slippers and decided he had had enough. “Very well. I am just popping out to get some fresh air.”
“Where will you go to get this air, Nathanial?”
“The green house will suffice.”
Nathanial plodded his way out of the lab, already feeling his frustration at Arnaud fading rapidly. No doubt they would be at perfect peace later, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the bloody Frenchman would be the end of him!
2.
ANNABELLE SAT STARING out of the window of her cabin, lost in daydreams. Her mind wandered aboard Sovereign, imagining seeing her beloved George in action, seeing his face again. He stood at the helm; passing out orders, then turned away from his duties to look at her, holding out his hand. As their hands merged, a rapping noise came at the door, jolting her out of her thoughts. “Come in,” she called out to the intruder.
The door opened and Arnaud slipped in. “Bonjour, Annabelle,” he said jovially.
“Hello, Arn
aud,” she replied with a forced smile. “Is there something the matter?”
“I was looking for a distraction from certain…ah…problems. I thought we could partake in some zero-gravity dancing?”
Annabelle took a moment before answering. Perhaps that was just what she needed at the moment. “I would love to join you.”
Arnaud smiled, and led the way out of her room. Annabelle stood up from her bedside and followed him out, down the gangway, and into the common room. She took a seat and watched as Arnaud wandered over to the device on the cabinet. The device, which he had referred to as a phonograph, began to play music.
Arnaud walked over to her side, offering his hand with a bow. Annabelle smiled and placed her right hand in his. With a gentle pull, he lifted her from her seat and into a standing position.
“Are you ready, ma chère?”
Annabelle nodded to him, trying to think exactly how she would do the steps of the dance; having one leg made it more challenging, but she could not wait to have a release from her cumbersome mechanical addition.
Arnaud placed his right hand on the small of her back, his left grasping her right gently in his. She rested her left hand on top of his shoulder. They stood balanced for a moment as they rose off the floor. “To warm up, a waltz.”
He counted them in with a one two three, and they were off! A grin swept across Annabelle’s face, her troubles forgotten for the first time in many months. She followed his lead, waltzing in their invisible box. Arnaud was a more than ample teacher: he was commanding but gentle, graceful and empowered all at the same time. Even with her happier thoughts, there was one that clung to her mind.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” she said. “Having one leg for the rest of my life. It is a most unnatural burden.”
“You are doing a remarkable job, ma chère. I have never met someone with as much fire in their heart as you.” Arnaud smiled warmly at Annabelle, then added; “I believe that you wear it well. Burden or not.”
“Be that as it may, my dear Arnaud, I can’t help but feel there is a great deal that I will never be able to fully appreciate anymore. I cannot pretend that it does not affect me.”
Arnaud studied her for a moment in silence. He looked as if he had no words left to comfort her. His face suddenly lit up. “I have an idea!”
Annabelle looked enquiringly at him but he merely smiled mischievously in response. He took her hand and guided her through the air, out of the common room, onto the observation walkway.
“No matter what happens to us, Annabelle, we can always find a positive light for it. You may have but one leg now, but that does not stop you from living a most fulfilling life. Look at this sight.” He waved his arm across the lengthy window. “We are here, among the stars. It is a most captivating thing. How many can say they have seen the things we have seen, done the things we have done?”
“I understand what you mean. That we can be here, looking out at all of this and visiting all of these places, is truly remarkable,” Annabelle said. “I sometimes think we ought not to be up here.”
Arnaud regarded her thoughtfully. “I could not agree more. All of these things… Ils sont incroyable; they are wonders usually reserved for dreams.”
The two looked out of the window, hovering weightlessly. Arnaud turned from the window to Annabelle. “You are a proficient waltzer, non? I feel it is time I taught you something new. Something différent.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“It is called the Minuet. It has always held a special place dans mon cœur, something taught to me as a young boy. An old dance, but there is something to be said for traditions, at least at times”
“Fair enough.” She grinned.
Arnaud smiled back, and started to teach her the movements needed for the dance. Annabelle imagined that she was dancing with Bedford at their wedding: the thought exhilarated her, making her more determined to learn the dance than ever before. As Arnaud said, there was something to be said for traditions. George would no doubt agree. The Navy had its share, after all. As did weddings.
“Thank you, my dear Arnaud.” For some reason, she could barely speak. The two of them twirled there in the starlight to the scratchy music of the phonograph, a million miles from where the song was first played. And yet, for all the distance from home and love, for the first time in far too long she felt that things were somehow just as they should be.
3.
ARNAUD HELD A plant in the palm of his left hand, the roots draped in between his fingers. He lifted it up to the light, studying its roots. They looked normal to him, but he knew how looks could be deceiving.
While Arnaud was deep in thought, Nathanial entered the lab, holding a plate of sandwiches. The two shared a look.
“I brought you some lunch,” Nathanial said. “A peace offering if you will.”
“Mon ami, there was no need.”
“This morning…”
“It was nothing, we should leave it in the past and carry on with the present.”
“Yes, the past should stay as such.” Nathanial smiled bitterly.
Arnaud pretended to ignore it and indicated the sandwiches. “So, shall we eat?”
Nathanial crossed the room and took the chair next to Arnaud, placing the plate in front of them. “Bon appetit!”
“Très bien, Nathanial,” Arnaud said. “You are learning well.”
“I have the best teacher.”
4.
FOLKARD FELT HIS eyes droop as he sat at the controls. Nathanial had been kind enough to relieve him a few hours prior and although he appreciated it, the several hours of sleep that he managed to catch seemed to have had little impact on his fatigue.
No matter, a man of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy had to be of strong spirit, and besides he had served longer periods of duty without sleep in the past. Perhaps it was the lack of anything to do. On board Sovereign there were always duties to keep a captain busy; on Esmeralda he was little more than a glorified pilot while the boat sailed the luminiferous aether.
Folkard enjoyed spending time with Annabelle; however that time often came in short intervals when she was not shut in her cabin, as she had been for most of the journey from Earth. Perhaps she and the professor had a bit of a do again? Speaking of Stone, he saw very little of him or Doctor Fontaine, save for when it was Stone’s shift at the controls. He had not seen Fenn once since leaving Earth; though he had heard plenty of his barking through the speaking tube.
“Reporting for duty, Captain.”
Folkard craned his head around and smiled when he saw Annabelle. “Ah, Miss Annabelle, feeling a tad sprightlier now, are we?” he asked as he unbuckled himself from his chair.
“As are you.”
Folkard realised that his eagerness to leave the control room may have become a little more evident than he had intended. “Ah well, you know one needs to keep his senses sharpened when at the helm of any vessel.”
Annabelle’s brow creased slightly. “You know, Captain, sometimes I think you love serving the Royal Navy a bit too much,” she said.
Folkard smiled, double checking that everything was in place and fit for Miss Annabelle before leaving her. Annabelle as usual insisted not to be fussed over and reassured Folkard of her ability to pilot an aether flyer.
Even in an environment devoid of gravity he swore he could feel fatigue literally pulling down on him. He twisted the ornate handle of his quarters and pushed into the room, closing the door behind him while simultaneously yanking of his cravat. His boots were quickly discarded underneath his cot and he prepared himself for sleep, seemingly growing more tired each second.
The creaking and groaning of flyer constantly adapting to the relentless vacuum of space soothed Folkard in a strange way as he began to take slow and deep breaths; something he often did to relax himself before sleep. His father has told him the value of breathing exercises, especially for someone in the military.
Folkard smiled as he s
ank down into his bedding. It felt almost like a luxury to rest in such peace.
He could smell a pleasant fragrance creeping up his nostrils that was both floral and sweet. This coupled with the light breeze that passed softly over his face could not have been better.
Breeze?
He opened his eyes and was taken aback by the sweeping bed of flowers and the mountains that carved shapes in the horizon far away. There was a large willow tree barely a few metres from where he was sitting that sheltered him and…
“Did you want another scone, Jacob?” The soft voice that spoke was in perfect equilibrium with the tranquil surroundings.
Folkard looked around and smiled as the large willow, a cottonwood if he wasn’t mistaken, cast playful rays of sunshine that danced on the woman’s face.
Charlotte bore a sweet smile, and her eyes narrowed while they set on Folkard. He returned a smile with as much, if not more, sweetness and politely helped himself to a scone from the silver stand on which they stood.
“It really is beautiful here, Jacob,” she said.
“Yes, it really is. Actually why did we leave before?”
A flash of blue shot past in Folkard’s periphery suddenly. He turned to see what it was.
It was a ribbon, trailing through the air, tied round the waist of a young girl. Her laughing drifted over as she skipped through the knee-high ocean of flora.
Folkard stood up so quickly that he knocked over the cast iron chair that he hadn’t even realised he was sitting on. The girl looked to be around the age of eight or nine, but making a better estimate was impossible as her face was not visible, only the back of her head, covered in long, curly hair of a deep brown hue.
He did not know why, but he began to run, only just catching Charlotte’s last comment before exiting earshot. “I shall see you soon, Jacob.”
The girl was almost upon a small cluster of trees, tall and slender pines, as Folkard bolted through the expanse of flowers, not caring for the destruction of them. He felt his heart-rate increase, the pounding causing his chest to pulsate with pain. Was his age really catching up with him? The girl vanished into the forest when he was within metres of her. He carried on running.
