by Paul F Gwyn
Even if, by some miracle, the prof was successful in disposing of the plate and they were able to escape the pull of the aether tear, Fenn didn’t fancy their chances of continuing on to Mars. There would soon be no means by which to propel Esmeralda. The propeller was burning out, the governor was overworked, and in the vacuum the liftwood slats were of no use at all. At worst she would drift listlessly in the aether, and at the best she’d be espied by some passing craft. If they made it to Mars at all, it would not be in this flyer.
He barely had a chance to close his eyes in supplication when the boiler burst and he was covered in superheated steam. As his nerves were shredded by the pain of his epidermis peeling and bubbling, his final thought was not of his betrayal of Stone or the Navy, but rather the thought that he had somehow let down his grandfather…
3.
ITEMS ONCE SECURE had been shaken free and were floating around the lab like slow moving projectiles. Arnaud batted aside a test tube. By some miracle his toujours had survived his brush with the aether and the plate was gone—not that it had saved Esmeralda. Together they stood in each other’s embrace, looking through the glass of the porthole, watching in horror as the purple energy of the aether tear lashed out towards the flyer. Each lick of its tendril rocked the flyer more, causing the two men to stagger backwards despite the magnets in their shoes.
“This is it,” Arnaud said, his voice calmer than his heart rate would have suggested. He looked up at Nathaniel, but his toujours was looking away, his grey eyes resting on the porthole, his brows knotted in thought.
“We will have only a few seconds of consciousness,” he said, his voice even calmer than Arnaud’s. Even his heart was calm; the steady beat of it vibrated against Arnaud’s hand which rested gently against Nathaniel’s chest. It was as if this was nothing more than a science experiment for him, not the end of his life. “Ebullism will come as a consequence of our sudden exposure to the vacuum; gas bubbles will form in our bodily fluids, the membranes of our eyes and mouths will…”
“Nathaniel! Stop!” Arnaud did not wish to hear his forthcoming death dissected so. He knew enough to realise it would be, for a few seconds, excruciating as they fell into unconsciousness. Fortunately, they would not be aware of their own deaths minutes later from hypoxia.
“I’m sorry. This distresses you?”
“Of course it does!”
“Ah.” Nathaniel nodded, his expression neutral. “But death is a natural consequence of life. Why would it distress you?”
Arnaud could not believe his ears. He, too, could show clinical detachment at times of stress—it wasn’t unknown—but not when faced with his certain death. And worse, the death of the man he had fallen in love with. Her remembered stories his father told him of his mother’s death, of the void left by her absence. He would, at least, be spared that.
Crack!
His eyes snapped back to the porthole. The crack spread across the glass, until it was a spider web of lines. “Nathaniel,” he said softly. “Je suis content…”
The rest of his sentence vanished with his last breath as the porthole glass erupted into the aether tear.
4.
JACOB FOLKARD KNEW only one way to face death—head on and with dignity. So he had angled Esmeralda to face the aether tear. Looking directly into the maw of death, he had made his peace. He’d lived a long and fruitful life. And he was ready to meet both his Maker and his dear Charlotte. If he were facing this alone, he’d have no regrets.
But he wasn’t alone.
Miss Annabelle sat adjacent to him, fastened tightly to her seat, her eyes closed. He supposed she was making her own peace. Not even twenty-one yet, she had lived a short life, but in the past year or so she had led a very eventful one. Seen and done more than most women her age. And yet she still had so much life in front of her. He had made a promise to Bedford to keep her safe, to ensure he returned her so that they could be wed. But Bedford knew him well, and he would know that Folkard would have been by Miss Annabelle’s side until the end.
There was some peace to be found there.
Now it was time to meet Charlotte again…
5.
ATMOSPHERE SUITS. SHE still held that they should have all worn them. Surely those extra seconds of air would have counted, given them a chance to prepare for the next life? The captain was right in so much as they would die horribly regardless, once the aether tear enveloped the flyer, the atmosphere suits would provide little protection. Still she could see the cracks appearing in the glass before her; soon they would be blown out and the vacuum would kill them within minutes. Not that they would be conscious at the time.
Annabelle knew she should be more dignified in this approach to her death, but as the certainty took hold of her she realised she was scared. She didn’t want to die. She had so much to live for. She had to find that girl seen in her dreams, the one who had invaded her thoughts ever since Peregrine. Her daughter she was sure. And then there was George. She would die never having known him fully.
Such thoughts!
She should be ashamed, but what did it matter? She would be dead soon, all she had was her thoughts.
Annabelle looked over at Folkard. His eyes were resolutely fixed on the crackling maw of the aether tear, his lips moving, intoning words she could not hear. Perhaps it was a prayer, a final supplication before he met his God. Annabelle wasn’t so sure she believed in such an entity. Once maybe, but since she saw her parents killed by the Apaches such faith eluded her. She believed in people; in Uncle Cyrus, in Nathaniel Stone, in George Bedford… Men who had showed her much love and faith. She would miss them all so very dearly.
She reached into the pocket of her blouse and fingered the pocket watch nestling there. She knew not what was to greet her after death, but she hoped she would finally be reunited with her parents.
“Captain, I just wish to say…”
A tendril of crimson smashed against the windows, shattering them in an instant. Any words Annabelle wished to speak were sucked away with the air…
Chapter Ten
“The Measure of Healing”
1.
“…THAT I’M VERY GLAD TO…” Annabelle stopped, looking around at her surroundings. She was no longer on the control deck of Esmeralda. Indeed, she was standing in the open, in the distance a range of mountains stood proud. There was something familiar about them.
Her hand covered her mouth. It couldn’t be! But it was—the Chiricahua Mountains. She had not seen them since she had been a child, a teenager escaping the Apaches. She had never harboured a desire to visit them again; even now the image of her parents’ bodies falling to the dust of a mountain cave, a tomahawk imbedded in both of their skulls, was strong in her mind. No, there was no reason to return here.
For a few moments she stood there, pondering how she came to be in Arizona. Perhaps she was dreaming? The final minutes of her life spent returning to her home. If she was indeed home, then perhaps so were her parents.
She looked around her, getting her bearings, and turned in the direction she remembered her father’s ranch being in. It had been eight years since she had been to the ranch—it had long ago been sold on—but this was a dream. If she wanted the ranch to be as it had when she was child, then it would be so.
Annabelle stopped, looking down at her legs. Yes, legs, two of them! She moved her toes. It felt so long since she was able to do that with both feet.
Truly she was dreaming.
She let out a loud laugh, quite beside herself with delirium. This was amazing. For her final moments she would be whole. Just one thing was missing.
Gathering all her strength, she ran off across the Arizonian plane.
She slowed to a jog as she neared the ranch, her heart beating faster than it had in a long time. Not that she was out of breath; indeed, she felt more alive now than she had since her first trip to Luna with Uncle Cyrus. The ranch was a joy to behold. It was exactly as she remembered.
She
walked up the small path towards her childhood home, feeling an odd sense of contentment, savouring the sound of the dirt beneath her feet. She sniffed the clear air, and a broad smile spread across her face. There was another aroma in the air, something that brought with it a sense of joy.
Muster gingerbread, as only her mother could cook it. Which meant…
Annabelle stopped as she entered the side door to the kitchen, her hand unconsciously rising to cover her mouth. For a few moments she stood there, watching as a slightly older woman went about adding the mixed molasses and beaten egg to the pan. Alerted by the swinging of the door behind Annabelle, the woman turned her head slightly and regarded Annabelle with a smile.
“Well now, I just thought the smell of muster would get you running. Hope young Master Jackson didn’t mind?” The voice was just as Annabelle remembered it, soft and gentle, always with an edge of playfulness about it.
“Mama,” Annabelle said, the word barely coming out as a breath of choked air.
Once again Joan Somerset smiled, before returning her attention to her cooking. “Have you seen your father? I believe he has something for you.”
“He…” Annabelle swallowed and tried again. “He is here?”
“Well of course he is, darling. Where else would he be?”
Not wishing to leave her mother’s side, Annabelle instead took a seat at the nearby table and played idly with the rolling pin. Joan shook her head with a laugh.
“Don’t tell me you finally want to learn how to make these?”
Cooking had never been of much interest to the younger Annabelle; she was much more interested in helping Joseph Jackson and the other ranch hands, or exploring with her father and Uncle Cyrus. But now…Annabelle didn’t understand it, but perhaps she could now learn everything from her mother, all the things she had never done before. “Yes, Mama, do show me how.”
It was not long after that both of them were covered in flower and the muster gingerbread was in the oven. When later asked, Annabelle would not be able to recall the conversation they had, only the sense of complete joy and love at being with her mother one last time. It was at this point that her father, Ezekiel Somerset, entered the kitchen himself. He stopped to look at the two most important women in his life, and was almost knocked off his feet when Annabelle cannon-balled into him with a hug.
She held on to him as he addressed his wife. “I have been thinking that today we should go out walking.”
“And where do you have in mind?” Joan asked.
“Why the Chiricahua Mountains of course.” He looked at Annabelle. “What do you think? All those caves, maybe even some mountain goats.”
This was the day. It was her interest in the goats that had led her to the caves, to that tribe of Apaches… And it was there that her parents had followed her. Annabelle shook her head. No, this could not happen again. She would not allow it.
She held her father’s hand and led him to the table. “Let us stay here. The mountains are going nowhere.”
“Yes, but Annabelle, my dear, wouldn’t you like to see…?”
Annabelle shook her head. “I would not. I just want to stay home, with you and Mama? Can we not just do that?”
Her father looked to her mother, who shrugged a smile at him. “Well, if that’s what you want.”
“I do,” Annabelle said, knowing that finally everything was going to be okay.
2.
“…DE T’AVOIR RENCONTRER,” Arnaud finished, and blinked.
He looked around, finding his surroundings familiar. The Café Procope in Paris; it was here he was working when he had been called to Mercury in the summer of 1889. He shook his head at the memory. It had been a glorious day, drifting from table to table, talking to the writers and poets who frequented the café, when he had been visited by a fellow from the Sorbonne who informed him of Professor Fournier’s untimely death. His presence had been requested on Mercury, and although he had no inclination to leave Earth, he realised he owed it to his old mentor to finish her work and perhaps discover the mystery of her death. If only he had known the path he was about to step on.
Arnaud smiled. A path that had led him to…
“Garçon!”
He turned to the source of the melodious voice, clear above the background natter which was always so prevalent in the Procope. The woman sitting alone at an outside table, looking out at rue de l’Ancienne Comédie, was a beauty to behold. Sublime in her appearance, she smiled at Arnaud and beckoned him over. As he drew closer he could not deny the way his heart wept to see her; Yvette Fontaine, his mother, who had died peacefully in her sleep some fifteen years ago. She was exactly as he remembered her, which was to be expected, Arnaud supposed, as this was clearly some kind of afterlife. He had never been much of a believer in God, or Heaven, indeed he had often ridiculed many men for belief in such, but he remembered his death clearly.
He stopped at his mother’s table and offered her the glass which sat upon the tray he was holding. “A finer angel could not be sent,” he said.
His mother raised an eyebrow at him, sipping the wine delicately. “An angel, mon Diamant, why what could you mean?”
Arnaud looked around, but no one seemed to notice him. It was as if he no longer existed to those inside the café. This suited him fine. He would rather sit and talk to his mother, than listen to the latest metaphorical obliquities of Stephane Mallarme, and so he did, pulling up a metal seat and resting himself upon it.
“You are not here to take me to the Pearly Gates?”
His mother laughed at this, and took his hands in hers. Arnaud closed his eyes, relishing the soft touch of her skin on his. “Oh, Arnaud, mon Diamant, Heaven is not for you yet. You have much more to achieve in life. Plus, I do believe a gentleman awaits your attention.”
“Mère, a gentleman?”
She looked away, and Arnaud followed her gaze. In the distance, across the rue, a man stood. He was indistinct, but Arnaud was certain he was looking at Nathanial, or at least a shadow of him. He looked back at his mother.
“How could you know?”
She tutted at him, and waved his question away. It was an act that brought a smile to Arnaud’s face; such a familiar gesture, one she had often used on him as a child, when he would tell her of the latest addition to his growing rock collection. She always seemed to know so much more than she said, certainly more than her youngest son could ever tell her.
Arnaud shook his head. “It does not matter, Mère, I, like you, have moved on from the world of mortals. There is no life for Nathanial and I. Even if I could return, which I cannot—I have never heard of any who has returned from death, certainly not after the destruction of one’s aether flyer. This was no bump on the head, Mère.”
“Arnaud, you are a brilliant man, and you make me proud in death as I was in life, but do not think you understand anything of the universe. There are secrets you have yet to learn, so very many. And that is why you must return.” For a moment his mother looked away, her blue eyes distant. “There are many trials coming your way, both for you and Nathanial Stone, and you will need each other.” She turned back to Arnaud, and squeezed his hands gently. “I am very sorry, mon Diamant, but you have much pain to endure before you will find your peace. The path you are on is not an easy one.”
“But it is one I must walk?”
Yvette Fontaine smiled softly, the depth of her sadness matching Arnaud’s love for her. “Oui, whatever may come, you must walk this path.”
3.
SHE WAS EXACTLY as he imagined her to be. The little girl, in her petticoats and blue ribbons, continued to run between the trees as Folkard and Charlotte sat on the blanket, enjoying their little picnic. This was his last happy memory of he and Charlotte; the two of them holidaying in the Americas, before she caught yellow fever, an ailment from which she never recovered. She had been heavily pregnant when she caught it, but the child did not survive, either, both dying in labour.
With the defianc
e of grief, they named their lost child Felicity.
He always imagined that Felicity would grow to be like Alice during her adventures in Wonderland. Wise beyond her years, inquisitive, and full of questions. It seemed he was not mistaken.
This was indeed Heaven.
“I do not think I have ever been this happy,” Folkard said, looking into his wife’s deep brown eyes. “For eight long years I have waited to see you again, although I did not think it would be so soon.”
“My dear Jacob, it is good that you have discovered what awaits you.” Charlotte reached for the silver tray upon which sat a buttered scone. He took it with a smile. “But it is not your time yet.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Why, this is only a small visit,” Charlotte said, brushing the crumbs off Folkard’s shirt. “Felicity wanted to see you, she has heard so much about her father, the hero of the British Empire, and I arranged for this visit.”
Folkard shook his head. It was unlike Charlotte to speak so, to contradict what he knew to be true. He remembered clearly being on the control deck of Esmeralda 2, and knew that death had finally taken him. In the line of duty, such as it was. “Really, Charlotte, I do not see how you could have had a hand in what occurred on Esmeralda. I find myself here as a result of a most unfortunate series of events, which you could not possibly have been involved in.”
“Of course not. But we are all at the whim of a greater power.”
“A greater power?” Folkard shook his head. This was absurd. There was no greater power involved in the events leading to his death, unless one wished to ascribe that title to the aether tear and the Mercurian plate, and he had no intention of doing so. He was reminded of his earlier thought, how everything seemed connected. The Heart, Hermes, the aether tear… If Charlotte’s words carried any weight at all, then perhaps the connection was this “greater power”? “Do you mean God?” he asked, shocked at the incredulity of his tone.
