Kang stopped in the middle of the room and unbuttoned his shirt and undershirt. He tapped a nail on his pale, leathery chest and a distinct metal clank answered back.
Perhaps Celwyn was rendered speechless, although he would have denied it. Several moments passed before Kang’s superior smile finally got on his nerves. “You are made of metal?” Celwyn asked.
“A type of metal, yes.” Kang held out his arm and the bird swooped off the pianoforte to land on his wrist. “Many centuries ago near the Mar Maggior, the Black Sea, artificers made automats for wealthy kings and princes for their wars, and amusement. Our strength is extraordinary. We are mechanical, similar to a sophisticated clock, but with much more ability. Like a chess piece that can think on its own and has come to life. The artificers built bears, lions, and other animals, too.”
“Ah.” Celwyn looked at the bird, right at its diamond-like eye. “Come here.”
The bird tilted its head one way, then the other, shaking itself before streaking upward in a blur. Then it plunged down again to land on the desk beside Celwyn. As it waddled closer, Celwyn tilted his head, one way and then the other, mimicking the bird. The bird hopped onto the magician’s shoulder.
“Qing fancies you.”
“Of course.” Celwyn stroked the bird’s feathers. “Why does Talos want you captured?”
“Hatred. Brotherly jealousy.” Kang buttoned his shirt. “The artificers who made us are long dead.”
“You can’t die if you are not alive.”
“Over the years, we’ve acquired many traits. Such as the feelings of love and the ability to grieve. That is part of living, wouldn’t you say?” Kang nodded. “Talos may have also begun to feel greed. He could want an army of automatons again for war. Only this time he would want something spectacular to guarantee he would win.”
“Such as your discovery?” Celwyn extended a long finger to point at the portfolio of papers on the desk. As he did so, the ship began a sickening slide toward starboard.
Kang gripped the pianoforte. The wind roared like howling devils chasing the ship, and he raised his voice above the tumult. “If you’ve read my study, then you know that it is a design for a weapon the world should not have right now. If ever.” The wind rattled the cabin door. “For years I have had more science at my disposal than my contemporaries.” Kang turned to face Celwyn. “If Talos builds a weapon from my discovery, many will be dead, or wish that they were.”
The ship stilled, and the wind quieted. “Why are you traveling to Singapore when you know he hunts you? Why board this ship, knowing he is probably here?” Celwyn shook his head and stood up. “Your wife was very worried about him earlier.”
“You spoke to my wife?”
“Not with words.” The creaking of the ship resumed as it twisted against the wind. “Why are you here, sir?”
Kang stared at his hands a long time before whispering, “Because he killed my wife’s father, trying to lure us back.” He added even more solemnly, “He is now poisoning her mother. Slowly.” Kang gripped the magician’s arms. “Promise me you will protect Elizabeth,” he implored Celwyn.
The man did not have to beg. Celwyn freed a hand and patted him on the back. He planned to do more than protect what was dear to Kang.
Removing a small brown object from his pocket, he offered it to Kang. “Care to partake?”
“Peyote?”
“Of the finest kind.”
“On me, it would be a waste, without effect.”
“True.” The magician popped the disk into his mouth and began to chew.
“It would help if you knew more about Talos,” Kang murmured.
Celwyn’s brows rose. “Do tell.”
* * *
—
The storm had worsened ten-fold in the last hour. As he watched Kang stagger against the squall and enter the salon, the wind stole Celwyn’s hat, carrying it away into the night.
With one graceful movement, the magician gained the lowest spar of the main mast. The rain blasted the ship, bringing the first chill of arctic cold. High above, a few sailors remained in the rigging, dodging the canvasses that blew upward off the masts like enormous wings. The captain and first mate manned the bridge, holding on to the wheel as another wave swamped the ship from bow to stern and the Zelda dipped so low the waves licked the deck rail on the leeward side. Then she righted herself, spinning clockwise in the wind. A row of lightning arose beside the ship like an illuminated stage.
Celwyn loved the sea. Even more, he loved a fierce and flamboyant storm.
The magician raised his hands, conducting the expanse of lightning as it gyrated, dancing to an unheard melody. He bowed, and the thunder boomed directly overhead, threatening to bounce him off the spar. Celwyn laughed, relishing the display of so much beauty and power. But with a sigh, he knew it had to end. He closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, holding them steady until the winds calmed.
When he opened them again the Zelda floated on a hushed sea, so calm not a ripple crossed the glasslike surface. The rain continued to fall, silently turning to snow.
* * *
—
Under banks of low clouds, dawn bled orange and pink on the edge of the horizon. Chunks of ice as big as small boats floated in the snow surrounding the ship and a towering iceberg glimmered just off starboard. Many more icebergs loomed out of the shadows. The Zelda had been blown far north, where they grew as high as castles. Masses of canvas draped off the main mast and into the water, while fragile threads of ice formed a crystalline spiderweb above the bridge, where the captain and first mate began to stir.
The salon door creaked open, and the passengers stumbled out to the deck. From below, the first of the sailors poked their heads out and joined the others. The Tarrytons made their way starboard to Celwyn, and the others followed. Kang escorted his wife with a watchful eye.
With her hair undone and a general air of dishevelment, Annabelle resembled a drowned cat. She opened and shut her mouth several times before pointing at the ice. As she did so, the crew unstrapped long poles from the bulkheads. Just as they took positions at the rail, First Officer Gray arrived with a bow and reassurances.
“They will push us away from the ice. The others”—he turned and issued orders—“will get the ship ready so we can catch the first breeze out of here.”
Celwyn sighed. It would take hours to get the sails set and underway. The crew would require some unexplainable help. And enough wind to set them on course again.
Mrs. Porter appeared at the magician’s elbow, seemingly invigorated, or still tipsy from the night before, wobbling like a marionette even on the calm deck. She looked beyond Celwyn with the glassy-eyed stare of one of the drunks on Cannery Row.
“Officer Gray, what is that?”
Through lowered clouds, the shadows had darkened and become distinct against the background of soaring ice floes. Another ship drifted out of the mist, floating toward the Zelda.
Mrs. Porter began to scream.
The cabin door under the bridge flew open. Talos stepped out with a pistol in each hand. Without hesitation, he shot Officer Gray through the heart. Before the body hit the deck, he turned the gun on Elizabeth Kang.
Just as quickly, Kang stepped in front of her. The bullet ricocheted off him with a solid clang.
The Zelda lurched starboard as a loud rending ripped along the leeward side of the stern: Talos’s ship had run into them. Kang regained his feet as the other ship floated away. A dozen deadly cannons, all capable of punching a fatal hole in the Zelda, became visible, and hundreds of small men with black hair and elfin ears swarmed the deck of the other ship. They chattered among themselves, identical of voice and words.
Annabelle pulled a still-screaming Mrs. Porter across the deck to join the other passengers hiding behind the bulkheads. The Zelda’s crew retreated to t
he far end of the bow, leaving Talos, the Kangs, and Celwyn alone on deck.
Kang held Elizabeth behind him as he faced his brother. Although the two of them couldn’t stop glaring at each other, it was Celwyn that Talos addressed.
“Mr. Celwyn, would you be so kind as to do what we agreed upon?” His smile was triumphant. “We have reached that moment.”
Celwyn’s fingers flexed as he studied the other ship.
Talos growled. “Now, Mr. Celwyn, or my crew will blow holes through this ship and the passengers will die.”
“Because it is your brother who is evil?” Celwyn murmured.
Talos’s laugh echoed in the cold air. “You must desire bloodshed, Mr. Celwyn. That is unfortunate because—”
Celwyn breathed deeply, hands flexing, and a deluge began, a veil of rain so thick nothing could be seen. From across the water, forlorn violin music could be heard: five notes repeated softly and growing into a crescendo surrounding the Zelda.
As the rain cleared, five tall men encircled Talos, all of them Celwyn. The music became deafening, reverberating until the walls of ice cracked, the sound like gunshots that repeated, causing more fissures, and more immense icebergs to split open.
All of the Celwyns moved closer to Talos, circling faster and faster. Each of them moved deliberately, orchestrated to confuse, illusions designed to kill. In a swarm they covered Talos like insects. He fought them until one cut through his shirt and removed a metal disc.
As the violins grew quiet, the four illusions faded into a gray mist, dissolving into the frigid air. Celwyn handed the piece of metal to Kang.
Kang bowed. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The flurry of activity on the other ship increased as Talos’s automatons threw lines across to the Zelda, ready to board her. Still others stuffed the cannons with explosives.
“Excuse me.” Celwyn turned to the Zelda’s main mast, climbing high to the eagle’s nest.
The magician faced the other ship. As if pushed by a celestial hand, Talos’s ship spun away and began to move toward the ice. Celwyn concentrated his gaze on the other ship’s main mast. With a tremendous roar it exploded into flames. The burning canvasses blew upward as the blazing vessel was propelled into the immense field of ice.
Celwyn shook his fists, and from the belly of the other ship came a rumble, and then its magazine detonated, the heat from the conflagration melting the nearby ice floes. In moments the ice refroze and the last of the automatons became still inside the crystal tomb of ice. The explosions echoed into the distance as great walls of ice fell into the sea.
The iridescent bird hovered above Talos’s unmoving body, and then soared high, orbiting the Zelda, flying between the masts and streaking upward again, diamond eyes glittering.
A moment more, and the bird landed on Celwyn’s shoulder as the violin music began again.
Forlornly, triumphantly, in celebration of the sea.
What Ever Happened to Lorna Winters?
LISA MORTON
For some, it’s the handshake at the end of the meeting. The smile at the restaurant table that tells you the answer is “yes” before you even ask. The email that makes you laugh. The sure knowledge—the kind that’s so sure you feel it in every fiber—that the person next to you will do something great, but only when they work with you.
For me, it was that moment when I realized the blonde getting murdered in the old 16mm film was Lorna Winters. I knew then that those three minutes of black-and-white footage were going to become an important scene in the story of my life.
* * *
—
The battered old steel reel holding the nearly sixty-year-old footage arrived at my workstation the way most movies arrived there: in a box with other films and the accompanying paperwork.
I’d worked for BobsConversionMagic.com for two years and an odd number of days. When I’d taken the job, I’d been stupid enough to think it was a temporary fix for my unemployment problem. Since graduating with a film degree, I’d somehow failed to set Hollywood on fire. I’d tried all the usual approaches to getting a foot in the film industry door: I’d made two short films that I’d entered into festivals (the second one, Raw Material, had won a runner-up prize somewhere in Michigan), I’d written three feature screenplays that I kept in the trunk of my car at all times, I’d joined a writers’ group that gathered once a week for breakfast at a Westside eatery, but everyone I’d met had been other writers as desperate as I was. I wrote a blog on the history of film noir that had a few dozen followers but had yet to lead to anything else.
And I was flat broke. I was a terrible waiter, an even-worse burger-flipper, and my car was so badly in need of a paint job that signing up for some driving app just seemed useless.
So the day my old college buddy Elliott called and said he could get me a film job, I jumped at the chance.
It turned out the “film job” was actually working for a place that converted old home movies into DVDs. And the company was in San Bernardino. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of leaving Hollywood behind for the Inland Empire, but I was even less thrilled at the thought of living on ramen and friends’ futons forever. The pay was decent, I figured apartments in that area would be cheaper than L.A., and maybe six months of transferring Uncle Harold’s old Christmas movies to digital would be enough to finance one more short film that I thought had a great script.
And two years later, I was still pulling battered reels out of boxes and threading them through Bob’s old telecine.
Bob Zale, who owned the company, had turned out to be a damned decent boss to work for. He was a guy in his forties who, like me, had walked away from a Hollywood crash-and-burn, and, also like me, he loved old movies. My college bud Elliott may have left the company not long after setting me up there (he moved back home to South Dakota, where his parents’ basement beckoned to him with its siren song), but Bob and I bonded over many late-night beers and Robert Mitchum, Gloria Grahame, and Humphrey Bogart. We knew every bit player, the location of every rain-soaked street, the title of every forgotten gem.
Here’s how my days usually went: I’d arrive at work around 9 A.M. (Bob didn’t freak out if I was late, so long as I got through the day’s work). There’d be a few boxes of movies waiting for me; they’d already been received and checked in by Joanne, who ran both Receiving and Reception at Bob’s (we didn’t get much walk-in; most of the business came via the website). I’d pull out a reel, load it onto spindles on a flatbed, add a take-up reel, and crank through it by hand just to inspect the film. I could do basic fixes—repair splices, simple cleaning. Then, once I’d made notes about problem areas and solved what I could, the reel was loaded onto the telecine machine. Bob had two of them, both old Marconis that were probably far from the high-tech devices most customers imagine, especially if they’d watched Blu-ray supplements about digital remastering. We weren’t sitting in front of a bank of computer screens carefully watching a transfer to color-correct and paint out imperfections; instead, I perched on a wobbly wooden stool peering into a screen the size of a paperback novel, just making sure the digitization was really happening.
That day’s first two transfers were typical stuff: faded footage of a backyard barbecue, and a family of wife and two girls horsing around on a deserted beach (Dad was presumably the cinematographer). In my two years working for Bob, I’d seen this stuff hundreds of times.
The next movie I threaded onto the machine from the same box was black-and-white. It seemed to be shot at night, on the back of a yacht. It opened on an empty deck, surrounded by a low metal railing. In the background, light glimmered on moving water.
After a few seconds, a woman entered the frame. Her back was to the camera, but she carried herself with such natural poise that I guessed she was beautiful before she turned. She walked to the edge, leaned on the railing, bent down to loo
k into the water. Her long blond hair blew in the breeze caused by the boat’s cruising. She wore an elegant sleeveless black dress; it must have been a warm night, because her exposed shoulders didn’t huddle against any cold.
She turned to face the camera at last. It was a full shot, but even on the small telecine screen I could see I’d guessed right: She was beautiful.
I squinted and leaned in, trying to get a better look. Just then a man walked into the shot. The woman reacted with surprise—not the good kind—at seeing him. In fact, she backed toward the railing, her eyes narrowing.
It was that expression—the calculating coolness hiding the alarm—that confirmed who she was. It was one of her trademarks, a look that had made her one of film noir’s greatest icons.
She was Lorna Winters.
I nearly stopped the transfer in disbelief. Lorna Winters! I watched a few more seconds to be sure, but there was no doubt. Her tall, lean figure, the long blond hair with a few streaks of light brown, and that face…Lorna Winters, who had slapped Richard Conte in Rat Trap. Lorna Winters, who had raised male temperatures across the country when she’d flirted with Sterling Hayden in Bullet’s Kiss.
Lorna Winters, who’d made seven low-budget film noir gems, one last expensive studio production (Midnight Gun), and vanished without a trace in 1960.
I watched, breathless, as she argued with the man who’d entered the scene. He was a big man, wearing a suit with no tie. Lorna tried to walk around him, but he turned to block her, facing the camera. He had a classic thug’s face, heavy features, slicked-back dark hair, white scar over one eye.
I’d seen him before: There’d been one shot of Dad in the backyard barbecue movie. He’d grinned, lifted his long fork, waved it in a jaunty way when a little girl ran up to him.
Now I was watching this same man pull a gun out of his jacket and level it at Lorna Winters.
Her chilled façade nearly cracked, but she forced a smile and a nod toward the gun. I didn’t need sound to know she was saying, “You’re not really going to use that.”
Odd Partners Page 13
