Mainspring
Authors: Jay Lake
Table of Contents
For Kristine Kathryn Rusch,
Dean Wesley Smith,
and Loren Coleman,
who made me do it in the first place,
in a place called Lincoln City
Dean Wesley Smith,
and Loren Coleman,
who made me do it in the first place,
in a place called Lincoln City
This book would not have been possible without the kind assistance of many people, including Kelly Buehler and Daniel Spector, Sarah Bryant, Michael Curry, Rose Fox, Tami Gierloff, Anna Hawley, Robin Hill, Carolyn Lachance, Ken Scholes, my entire LiveJournal community, and many others I have doubtless neglected to name. I also want to recognize the Brooklyn Post Office here in Portland, Oregon, as well as the Fireside Coffee Lodge and Lowell's Print-Inn for all their help and support. Special thanks go to Jennifer Jackson, Beth Meacham, and Deanna Hoak. Any errors and omissions are entirely my own.
THE ANGEL
gleamed in the light of Hethor's reading candle bright as any brasswork automaton. The young man clutched his threadbare coverlet in the irrational hope that the quilted cotton scraps could shield him from whatever power had invaded his attic room. Trembling, he closed his eyes.
gleamed in the light of Hethor's reading candle bright as any brasswork automaton. The young man clutched his threadbare coverlet in the irrational hope that the quilted cotton scraps could shield him from whatever power had invaded his attic room. Trembling, he closed his eyes.
His master, the clockmaker Franklin Bodean, had taught Hethor to listen to the mechanisms of their work. But he'd found that he could listen to life, too. Hethor heard first and always his own breathing, even now heavy and slow despite his burgeoning sense of fear.
The old house on New Haven's King George III Street creaked as it always did. A horse clopped past outside, buggy wheels rattling along with the echo of hooves on cobbles. Great steam-driven foghorns echoed over Long Island Sound. The new electrick lamps lighting the street outside hissed and popped. Underneath the noises of the city lay the ticking of Master Bodean's clocks, and under that, if he listened very hard, the rattle of the world's turning.
But there was no one in the room with him. No one else drew breath; no floorboard creaked. No strange
smells either. Merely his own familiar sweat, the hot-tallow scent of his candle, the oils of the house-wood and machineâand a ribbon of salt air from the nearby sea.
smells either. Merely his own familiar sweat, the hot-tallow scent of his candle, the oils of the house-wood and machineâand a ribbon of salt air from the nearby sea.
Was this a dream?
“I am alone.” He said it as something between a prayer and the kind of spell he used to try to cast in the summer woods when he was a boyâcatting on Indian lore and God's word and dark magic from the Southern Earth and the timeless power of stone walls and spreading oaks.
Finally Hethor opened his eyes.
The angel was still there.
It no longer seemed made of brasswork. Rather, it looked almost human, save for the height, tall as his ceiling at the attic's peak, close to seven feet. The great wings crowded the angel's back to sweep close across its body like a cloak, feathers white as a swan. Its skin was pale as Hethor's own, but the face was narrow, shaped like the nib of a fountain pen, with a pointed chin and gleaming black eyes. The lines and planes of the angel's visage were sheer masterwork, finer than the statues of saints in the great churches of New Haven.
Hethor held his breath, afraid to even share the air with such perfection. No dream, this, but perhaps yet a nightmare.
The angel smiled. For the first time it appeared to be more than a statue. “Greetings, Hethor Jacques.”
With voice came breath, though the angel's scent was still that of a statueâcold marble and damp stone. Or perhaps old metal, like a well-made clock.
Hethor dropped his grip on the blanket to grab the chain around his neck and traced the wheel-and-gear of Christ's horofixion. “G-g-greetings ⦠,” he stammered. “And welcome.” Though that last was a lie, he felt he must say it.
“I am Gabriel,” said the angel, “come to charge you with a duty.”
“Duty.” Hethor sucked air between his teeth and lips,
finally filling aching lungs with breath he had not even realized he had been holding in the strangeness of the moment. “My life is filled with duty, sir.” Duty to Master Bodean, to his studies at New Haven Latin Grammar School, to his late parents and the church and the crown.
finally filling aching lungs with breath he had not even realized he had been holding in the strangeness of the moment. “My life is filled with duty, sir.” Duty to Master Bodean, to his studies at New Haven Latin Grammar School, to his late parents and the church and the crown.
The angel appeared to ignore Hethor's statement. “The Key Perilous is lost.”
Key Perilous? Hethor had never heard of it. “I ⦔
“The Mainspring of the world winds down,” the angel continued. “Only a man, created in the image of the Tetragrammaton, can set it right. Only you, Hethor.”
Hethor's fists clenched so tight he felt the tendons stand out. His pulse hissed in his ears. This was a trick, a trap, some fiendish silliness dreamt up by Bodean's dreadful sons and their Yale friends. “There are no angels. Not anymore.”
Gabriel extended a fist toward Hethor, nearing the apprentice in his bed without seeming to move. The angel's wings parted to reveal a body of marbled perfection clothed in a state of nature. The angel twisted its hand palm up and opened its fingers.
A tiny feather lay there. It was not much larger than the goose down from Hethor's often-patched pillow. The angel pursed its lips, blew a breath that sparkled like shooting stars in a summer sky, then vanished. A thunderclap nearly deafened Hethor. As he shook his head to clear the noise, he heard all the bells of the house and shop below him ringing, clanging, bangingâhundreds of clocks chiming heaven's hour at once.
Master Bodean's sleep-muddled curses rose through the floor as the tiny feather circled where the angel had stood.
Hethor scooped it up, cutting his right palm in the process. As he struggled left-handed into his breeches, he looked at what he had caught.
The feather was solid silver, with razored edges. It gleamed in the candlelight. The cut on his palm was in the shape of a key.
“Hethor!” bellowed Master Bodean from below. “Are yer alive up there, boy?”
“Coming, sir,” Hethor yelled back. Setting the feather on his writing desk, he stepped into his bootsâtwo sizes too smallâgrabbed his coat, which was a size too small, and raced out the little door and down the attic stairs.
IT TOOK
more than an hour to settle all the clocks in Master Bodean's workshop. Some had sounded out the sum of the hoursâthe holy number twelveâthen resumed their ticking slumber. Others, especially the smaller, more delicate mechanisms, had been possessed of a nervous tinkling that could only be dampened by careful attention with rubber mallets and soft chamois. Hethor and Master Bodean moved from clock to clock, ministering to their brass and copper hearts, right through the chiming of eleven o'clock of the evening.
more than an hour to settle all the clocks in Master Bodean's workshop. Some had sounded out the sum of the hoursâthe holy number twelveâthen resumed their ticking slumber. Others, especially the smaller, more delicate mechanisms, had been possessed of a nervous tinkling that could only be dampened by careful attention with rubber mallets and soft chamois. Hethor and Master Bodean moved from clock to clock, ministering to their brass and copper hearts, right through the chiming of eleven o'clock of the evening.
Finally they stood in the workroom. Both were exhausted from the hour and the work. Master Bodean, red-faced and round-bodied in his nightshirt and gray cable-knit sweater, nodded to Hethor. “Good work, boy.” He was always a fair man, even in meting out punishments.
“Thank you, sir.” Hethor glanced around the workroom. All was in comforting and familiar order. A tiny furnace, newly powered by electricks. Casting slugs. Tools, ranging from hammers almost too small to see to vises large enough to crack a man's head. And parts in their bins; springs and gears and escapements, all the myriad incarnations of brass, steel, and movement jewels.
It seemed as if the angel Gabrielâarchangel? Hethor suddenly wonderedâhad risen from the genius loci of this workshop. He had felt a sense of deliberation, precision, even power, from his visitor that reminded him of the greatest and slowest of clocks.
“Yer all right, boy?” Bodean asked, interrupting
Hethor's reverie. “You're ordinarily a bit more talkish than this.”
Hethor's reverie. “You're ordinarily a bit more talkish than this.”
Hethor found himself unwilling to mention the angel. Bodean would have thought him mad, for one thing. The very idea sounded horrendously self-important. He needed to sort his own thoughts, try to understand what had taken place. “I ⦠it was the lightning, Master. It frightened me.”
“Lightning, eh? Some bolt that must've been. Never seen a storm set all the clocks a-chiming before.” Bodean shook his head. “Lightning and more than lightning. One of the good Lord's mysteries, I'll warrant.” He walked over to his locked cupboards and pulled a set of keys from a pocket in his nightshirt. He took down a small pewter flask and two tumblers. “Sounds like you need a little lightning of your own, boy.” Golden liquid splashed into each glass. “This'll help you sleep.”
Hethor had never tasted anything stronger than table wine. The whiskey, or whatever it was, had no attraction for him. Yet here was Master Bodean, holding out the little glass, smiling. Hethor took it and sniffed. He almost choked on the sharp scent alone.
“This is true lightning,” said Master Bodean with a broken-toothed grin. He tipped the glass to his lips and drank it all in one quick swallow.
Hethor tried to imitate Bodean. It was like drinking fire. The whiskey went down, barely. He had to cup his hand over his lips to keep from coughing some of it out. It tasted like he imagined lamp oil might tasteâfoul and sharp and strange.
Laughing, Master Bodean slapped Hethor's back, which only made the choking worse. “Never fear, lad, this will all seem less than a dream to yer in the morning.”
Hethor stumbled to bed to lie hot and thick-skulled under his blanket waiting for sleep. He barely heard the clatter of sidereal midnight echoing through the skies, never heard the clocks of the house strike the twelfth
hour. Cotton-mouthed and woolly-headed, he dreamt all night of keys and feathers and clocks with steel teeth.
hour. Cotton-mouthed and woolly-headed, he dreamt all night of keys and feathers and clocks with steel teeth.
MORNING BROUGHT
sunlight, a headache, and the realization that he was going to be late for his studies at New Haven Latin. Hethor scrambled into his good trousers and his second-best shirt while he tried to shake the clouds out of his mind. Though he kept no clock in his attic room, Hethor always knew the time. He would be late for Master Sullivan's maths class. Knowing Master Sullivan, the door would be locked and Hethor would be forced to seek Headmaster Brownlee's indulgence.
sunlight, a headache, and the realization that he was going to be late for his studies at New Haven Latin. Hethor scrambled into his good trousers and his second-best shirt while he tried to shake the clouds out of his mind. Though he kept no clock in his attic room, Hethor always knew the time. He would be late for Master Sullivan's maths class. Knowing Master Sullivan, the door would be locked and Hethor would be forced to seek Headmaster Brownlee's indulgence.
As a mere apprentice, that was dangerous. No one would think to question Brownlee throwing a boy of Hethor's low standing out of school, even in his final year. Only Master Bodean's goodwill and the last of the money from Hethor's late father had kept him enrolled until the age of sixteen.
Hethor shrugged into his corduroy coatâyet another Bodean family hand-me-down. Boots gripped by his fingertips, he was just about to hurl himself out the door and down the stairs when something caught his eye. It was the little silver feather, glinting on his writing desk.
The previous night came back to him in a collapsing rush: the angel Gabriel and the feather and the clocks and the Key Perilous.
Duty.
He was not mad; he had not dreamed. But he needed to understand before he could explain it to Master Bodean or anyone else.
Hethor dropped the boots, stepped into them, swept up the feather, and clattered down the stairs. New Haven Latin lay fifteen minutes' walk south and east of Bodean's Finer Clocks, Repairs and Special Commissions Welcome. Instead, Hethor headed along King George III Street and left on Elm Street. West, toward
Yale University and deeper into Headmaster Brownlee's bad books.
Yale University and deeper into Headmaster Brownlee's bad books.
The angel's visit had been too real to ignore.
MASTER BODEAN'S
eldest son, Pryce, read divinity at the Berkeley School at Yale. Of Bodean's three boys, Pryce had spent the least time tormenting Hethor since he had moved into the Bodean attic at the age of eleven. In point of fact, Pryce had spent the least time paying any attention to Hethor whatsoever. On the few occasions when they had spoken, Pryce had been the most considerate, if not exactly kind.
eldest son, Pryce, read divinity at the Berkeley School at Yale. Of Bodean's three boys, Pryce had spent the least time tormenting Hethor since he had moved into the Bodean attic at the age of eleven. In point of fact, Pryce had spent the least time paying any attention to Hethor whatsoever. On the few occasions when they had spoken, Pryce had been the most considerate, if not exactly kind.
Hethor hoped his master's eldest would grant him some counsel, out of loyalty to his father. Or possibly sheer Christian virtue if nothing else.
Pryce pursued most of his studies in Yale's Fayer-weather Hall. Hethor set his course for the university, figuring on locating the building when he got there. The morning was fine, beeches and elms along Elm Street in bloom, flowerbeds beneath them bright with the colors of spring. The air tasted of May, while the dust of dozens of varietals of bloom tickled his nose. The brass ring of the Earth's orbital track glinted bright in the cloudless sky, its curve making horns that arced across the blue. There were few enough people out that the day almost seemed to belong to him. Electrick trolleys that he had never had enough spare money to ride rattled by every so often. A few horsemen passed as well, but otherwise the street was as quiet as the morning of Creation. Not even the nannies were out with their charges yet. The morning dew hadn't quite burned off, lending damp potential to the day.
The campus itself surprised Hethor. Having come to New Haven only for his apprenticeship to Master Bodeanâa seven-day-a-week affair, save for school and churchâhe'd never had the opportunity to simply wander the streets. Rushing about on his master's errands,
head down and feet pounding, Hethor didn't know much of the city except as a limited collection of well-traveled routes.
head down and feet pounding, Hethor didn't know much of the city except as a limited collection of well-traveled routes.
Yale insinuated itself in the heart of New Haven as though the university were a vital organ in its own right. First a building here or thereâa church, a students' rooming houseâeach marked by a discreet sign or a college coat of arms. Then suddenly wide-lawned parks and a bloom of towering red brick buildings with white trim. His own New Haven Latin school was but a pale imitation of these great precincts of learning.
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