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According to the official British statement, which not released until the end of 1919, HMS Audacious struck a German mine and was sunk, September of 1914. Her demise was kept secret for the intervening three years and eight months, though no plausible explanation was ever given for the delay.
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As told in Brimstone, Garret’s paternal family originated in Germany. However, Garret’s mother, Aerona Vilner (nee Davies) was born Dec. 30, 1875 in Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, Wales. She insisted upon changing the traditional German spelling of her son’s name, which meant “strong spear.” Though Aerona never told her husband, this was not a corruption of the name, but the Welsh spelling.
The Welsh “Garret,” lacking the replicate letter “t,” means “gentle.”
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Garret Vilner will return in Whitemetal, because his snippet of history is not yet complete. History is not built on the monumental happenings, but on the small, moment to moment decisions of individuals. The rise of fall of the kingdom will always turn on the point of the horseshoe nail. Garret is that nail.
So are you.
A man I saw in town today,
An unkind word he said.
So oft’ it seemed he spoke this way
That I stopped and scratched my head.
Long I thought in the busy square,
My hands upon my hips.
But in every mem’ry, an unkind word,
There was upon his lips.
O’er winter’s white and harvest gold,
Back and back I thought.
Upon this fractious soul it seemed
Ne’er a smile, had I caught.
The baker shook his head and shrugged
As he wrapped my fragrant loaf,
Nor the butcher knew why this man
Was only cut, and boast.
But as the cobbler took my shoes
And sighing, did he say,
“Judge not, poor soul, his father a drunk
Sore beat him, every day.”
From then on did I watch the man,
With a different set of eyes.
And could I see them ever on him:
The yelling and hitting and lies
Five children did he have, this man
And four, I saw that day
Sons they were so like their father
Unkind in every way.
To my wife and daughter did I go home,
Took their hands and said,
“Dearests I am ill of heart
For what in man has bred?
“For my mother’s look or my father’s word,
Forgive me, I know I’ve said.
I see now, the unseen can be
That we think we’ve fled.”
On the morrow the sun rose slow and clean
O’er a stream of frolicking glass
With rod and reel there in my hand
I sat in summer’s grass.
The other man I did not see
Til light brought him full and clear
He’d been there I knew not how long
But his tears to his heart were near
I froze in silence unwont to move
To disturb this hurting soul
I needn’t have worried, he knew not of me
As he shook like a new born foal
His head was bowed, his hands were spread
To beg surcease of grief
As if nothing more could bless his sleep
Than plain and simple relief
“God,” said he, “I hope you’re here,
Whoever you may be,
If you are, I need you now,
To hear my fervent plea.”
“God,” said he, “This thing I fear,
Is stronger than I can be,
And more it lays upon my heart
Than I alone can free.”
“God,” said he, “Whoever you are,
Wherever your home may be,
God above, around, within or without,
Deliver my hands and feet.”
“Deliver my hand from striking another,
Deliver my feet from the dark
In which my father’s so long have trod.
Remake my wayward heart.”
“Do this, I ask, not for myself
But for the child in my wife’s arms
For I would have died as I have lived
But he cannot come to harm.”
“Do this, I ask, save my child
And I will stay by their side.
I will give what I have, if you save them from me,
I promise, I will not hide.”
“I will not hide from what I’ve done
I will not run from who I’ve been.
I will stand and face the man in the mirror
I will flee from my family’s sin.”
Up he got, and away he went,
But not before I saw,
The fifth son he was, and looked soul-bent
On his hope to stand or fall.
Months later again I saw the man
In the square by the butcher’s stall
An unkind word upon his lips,
But he stopped, said nothing at all.
Ten minutes later did I happen by,
And still with the butcher he talked.
It would be, I knew, a long long way
But steadily he would walk.
From time to time I would see him there
As the sun rose o’er the brook.
I do not know if he saw me or not
But I saw the courage it took.
He faced himself again and again
He dealt with who he was
And slowly, the best within him began
To grow and kindle his cause
One day I know I will not forget,
Hoary frost covered the earth
The laugh of the brook was turned to stone
Frozen in glittering mirth.
In his arms he carried a swaddled thing
Small and precious above law
He knelt and said these few words
To the dawn that comes to us all
“I brought him here, for you to see
O one, above the earth.
Whoever you are, I know now you care
For I’ve glimpsed my own rebirth.”
“This child I have, and his mother beside,
They keep me warm at night.
But more than that they make me a man
They give me the reasons to fight.”
But the war, I feel, is subsiding now,
My anger dies away.
And in its place I find a rest
A home, new peace, each day.
“Not the pride of life, nor the pain of death
Could have brought me to my knees.
But this child, this babe has laid me low
And I thank you for his peace.”
Never he saw me, never I moved
But I thought I might say a word
It seemed so wrong to let him go
Without one to say “I heard.”
Someone I thought, should tell this man
That his struggle had changed the world
Someway, somehow he need to know
That their love was most deserved
But before I could say or utter a sound
And reveal my foolish self,
He stood and with his bundle, was gone
And I knew that all would be well.
— The Baile Bearer
Chapter 40
The rippling sound of the river filled the early morning. Like many Appalachian rivers, this one was wide and slow, its eddies and currents pulling smoothly at the rocks which they had rounded over the centuries. The river’s banks were wide and shallow, also made of rounded stones of all sizes. At the edges of both
banks, the Appalachian forest rose steeply away, becoming cliffs and mountains.
Snatches and wisps of mist hung in the trees, like gauze which the morning would soon wipe away, but at the moment nothing stirred. The light was diffuse and weak, and the fog hung, unmoving.
It was the Moment Between, the infinitesimal breath that somehow stretches to a minute or more, if one is patient enough to wait for it. It occupies the space that is neither morning nor night, but between them both. The sun was climbing towards its place for the day, but it had not yet broken the horizon. The night had lifted, but its somnolence still permeated the trees. Not a leaf fell, not an insect stirred.
The Moment Between contains all of our world, and yet none of it. Because of this, it is the moment—the only moment—when things that are not of our world can sometimes find their way here.
As the moment drew and drew, near to breaking into the motion of day, a rock tumbled on the riverbank, though nothing had touched it. Far above the rock, nearly hidden in the mist, a railroad trestle stretched across the gorge through which the river ran. Parts of the iron trestle were newly rebuilt.
The trestle had been rebuilt because of what had happened to it, and what had fallen from it onto the rocks far below. More specifically, it had fallen onto one round boulder in particular, smashing it to fragments. It was one of these fragments which had just tumbled, its movement making a harsh clatter through the trees.
The Moment stretched to the breaking point, but just before it snapped, two more of the boulder fragments fell over, and one tumbled. Then two more. They all began to roll away because the damp silt beneath them was shifting.
The dirt bulged, as if pressed from below, cracking, pushing the fragments of the boulder rudely aside. The cracks widened, and a long black claw emerged up through the earth. Another rose near it, then two more. Each claw protruded from the end of a long black appendage, thin, sticklike, and singular of purpose. The ground bulged higher, crumbling, and a green eye shown through a crevice. Then long grey hands and arms reached through, grabbing the ground and pulling.
Together, the two abominations fought their way free of the earth, pulling themselves into our world. They stood on the bank, muddy silt sliding down their chests and over their reverse jointed legs. They had green eyes in their chests and down their arms. They eyes fluttered, adjusting to the light. Though they had no visible mouths or noses, the abominations drew breath, tasting our air for the first time.
A bird chirped somewhere in the trees, and on the other side of the river, a twig fell from a dead branch. The Moment Between was gone. Day had begun.
Both of the abominations turned to the southeast, and blood began to trickle down the horns that curved down in front of their faces. Neither of them moved until the first drop of Garret’s blood fell to the silt, sealing their stolen passage into this world, and setting them free to roam. Then they began to walk, their backwards jointed legs and long arms moving in ways that nothing in our world should move. They were an aberration, a desecration that should never have been, and that was exactly why they had been sent.
Miles later, they rose up a slope and into the backyard of a wooden house with a tin roof. At the edge of the woods lay the skeleton of a deer, partially crushed beneath a tree. Shreds of grey-rotten fur hung from it. Other than that, the scavengers had picked the bones clean.
The blood that had dripped from their horn began to trickle now, began to flow, pattering steadily to the grass. Blood began to leech from their pores until it covered them in sheets of the sticky red fluid. Their steps and the swing of their arms began to synchronize, then their joints began to move within them, and the two abominations were drawn together as if by a magnet. They met shoulder to shoulder, and their forms began to meld, shrinking and reshaping while the blood ran freely over them, coating every inch of their unifying bodies in glistening red.
Their legs realigned and their proportions altered, becoming human. They shrank and shrank until they stood 5’10” tall, one small young man. The abominations continued to move up the incline into the yard, leaving bloody human footprints in the grass. Once the change was complete, the blood began to retreat, being drawn back into every pore and vessel from which it had come, leaving fresh young skin behind, and scars.
The change had left more blood behind in the yard than what a human body could contain. None the less, every scar was a perfect replica, and every patch of skin in between. The abomination ran its human hands through its wavy brow locks, pulling them back away from its face. The last drop of blood retreated, and it walked up into the yard as a young man. On the way past the clothes line, it pulled down a pair of pants and a shirt. It stepped into the pants and pulled on the shirt. All of its motions were unhurried.
It rounded the porch, reached for the door knob, but stopped and knocked. It stood waiting. Steps approached the door from the other side. They were light steps, barely audible.
The door opened, and in the door facing stood Molly, wiping her hands on a towel. She froze, then burst into tears. “Garret,” she sobbed.
For indeed the abomination had become Garret, in every manner and detail. It looked down, as if ashamed. “I… I’m so sorry, Molly,” it said in Garret’s trembling voice. Then it took her in its arms while she cried and slapped it on the chest.
“How could you do that? How could you leave me like that?!” She yelled.
She pounded on its chest, and it held her gently until she pulled away. She continued to yell and cry and slap it across the shoulders. It let her do it, all the while imitating Garret’s sorrow and abasement. Eventually, though it took more than an hour of screaming and hitting, she allowed it to touch her again, though she was very far from forgiving Garret.
“How could you do that?” she said again. “How could you leave me like that?”
“Molly,” it said, still holding her, but pulling her away enough to look her in the eye. “I’ll explain everything, but right now it’s too dangerous.”
She gripped the collars of its shirt with both hands as it pulled her forehead gently to its chest.
“Molly,” it asked softly. “Where’s the baby?”
Development Excerpt from
The Dark Heart
May, 1929
Christopher had gone to sleep snuggled in warm blankets, but a sharp chill was waking him. His head was spinning too, a dizzying whirl that turned his thoughts into a slurry. Where’s my bed? He was lying on frozen ground. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but long enough that the cold had bitten into him like a thousand little teeth, sinking into his muscles, stiffening his joints.
His fingers and toes ached. As he came around, his muscles began to quiver. He stilled them. His head was clearing enough for him to begin to suspect where he was, and that meant he had to be quiet. Absolutely quiet.
He bent his stiff knuckles, blinked, drew a breath. The air was so cold that it stung his lungs. He blinked again, but his vision swam and his stomach was still doing barrel-rolls. I’m in the grey forest. He fought down panic. It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. He said it over and over in his mind. It didn’t help. Sometimes, when he found himself here, he felt disembodied, safely floating over the scene, the trees as indistinct as if he was looking at them through a pane of dirty glass, and the painful cold of the place barely touching the edge of his senses. This time he could feel the stiff pine needles beneath his back, his vision was clearing by the second, and the air was so cold that it hurt. This time he was on the ground.
Maybe I’m somewhere else this time. There were lots of cold places on earth, right? The last of the fuzz left his vision. Tall trees rose above him. For a second, he thought he was pinned to a cliff, and the trees were growing sideways, but it was only because his head hadn’t yet righted itself. Eventually it settled and he realized he was lying down on flat ground with trees growing straight up above him, like they were supposed to.
He sat up gingerly and alm
ost threw up when his stomach heaved again. He surveyed the scene, and panicked. He was definitely in the grey forest. He didn’t know what else to call it. It was dim, cold, and lifeless. It was full of charcoal-colored, rough-barked pine trees which all rose out of a deep needle bed. The bed, too, was frozen and crunched softly when he moved. The trees weren’t thick enough to interlock their branches, but it didn’t matter because the sun never seemed to shine in the grey forest. It was blotted out by the clouds, which were always low and heavy. And they never moved. As far as he could see, everything was drab, cold, and still.
There was no snow, but the needle bed and rocks were covered with frost, and the trees wore a thin coating of ice as if they had been glassed and powdered with frozen crystal. The forest had an open-air, thin feel to it, as if it was atop a high mountain. No, it was more than that. The forest felt empty. Alone, as if nothing had ever lived there.
But Christopher knew that something did. He scrambled for the nearest tree, crunching the frozen needles. The sound was jarring, but when he reached the tree and pressed himself against it, quiet returned. He listened.
Nothing.
The air never quite blew in a breeze, but it never felt quite still, either. It slipped by, just below Christopher’s hearing, hollowing out the silence. Christopher gripped the striated bark until his knuckles whitened. He had drifted to sleep with the last line of his mother’s lullaby in his head: For your mother is near, and so always she’ll be. Christopher wasn’t a little boy anymore, he was twelve years old. He teared up anyway and would have broken down were the fear of death not strong enough to keep him silent.
Ironclad Page 74
