Mainspring (5 page)
Authors: Jay Lake
Le Roy's voice was suddenly thick, driven by passion, or perhaps anger. “Mudge bade me tell you this, for the sake of the white bird and them what set you on this road: If you give up on the viceroy, there's a man drinks at Anthony's on Pier Four in Boston when he's in port. Goes by name of Malgus. Might tell your story to him, boy. He might even listen. And now, off with you.”
Hethor hopped down from the wagon's bench seat. “I thought you were to send me on to Boston,” he said uncertainly.
“And if you wait here, I shall.” The old farmer was just a silhouette now, looming above Hethor as the sweat-stinking mules chuffed in the darkness. “Someone will be along presently to take you further. Won't do to show you around the livery where I'm headed right now. Farewell, boy.”
As Le Roy drove away, Hethor realized he'd never given the old man his name, nor as far as he knew had Mudge done so. It felt strange to hide who he was from someone who had shown him kindness. Hethor's life had never been about fear before.
Had it become so now?
He was not sorry that the archangel Gabriel had chosen him, but this was a hard road. In a few short days his world had already come to ruin. He sat on the edge of a boardwalk and tried to remember his father. Only the sad, defeated face of Franklin Bodean would come to mind, as his master had looked when turning Hethor out.
LE ROY'S
“presently” turned into the better part of two hours. Hethor's sense of time was always with him, always accurate. Several times he considered simply walking away, following the road east and north, but the long, slow prospect made his feet ache even more. Hethor chose to continue waiting. His journey so far had been difficult, but not nearly so bad as it might have been. The hand of Librarian Childress had reached far, perhaps.
“presently” turned into the better part of two hours. Hethor's sense of time was always with him, always accurate. Several times he considered simply walking away, following the road east and north, but the long, slow prospect made his feet ache even more. Hethor chose to continue waiting. His journey so far had been difficult, but not nearly so bad as it might have been. The hand of Librarian Childress had reached far, perhaps.
He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God, Gabriel, and the secret company of librarians.
The old moon was nearly gone, and gave little enough light. Eventually a wagonâan odd, oblong thing shiny even in the dark of the eveningâcame for him. As it stopped, smelling of sawdust and polishing oils, Hethor realized his next conveyance was a hearse straight from the manufactory.
“Come on, then,” said a boy, voice piping high. “If you're old Le Roy's friend in need of a ride, here's your coach-and-four.”
It was more of a coach-and-two, but Hethor smiled at the joke. “Never been on one of these,” he said apologetically, pulling himself up the iron step to the driver's bench. It smelled of leather, but crinkled when he sat.
“I should hope you haven't,” said the boy. “Most people make this journey only once. Mind the newsprint, now. Protects the seat. She's newly built, and I'm to deliver her to Foxboro over Massachusetts way two days hence.”
That was when Hethor realized that the boy was a young woman. Not from her voice, nor her clothes, which were lumpy and boyish enough as far he could tell in the dark, but something in her smell and the way she sat with the reins in hand, knees too close together and leaning forward not quite the right way.
A
girl.
There weren't any girls in Hethor's life, not at Master Bodean's, not at New Haven Latin. And here he was alone in the dark ⦠. What was he supposed to do? Hethor could feel his face flushing hot and red, and was profoundly glad of the shadows.
girl.
There weren't any girls in Hethor's life, not at Master Bodean's, not at New Haven Latin. And here he was alone in the dark ⦠. What was he supposed to do? Hethor could feel his face flushing hot and red, and was profoundly glad of the shadows.
“I ⦠I ⦔ He was lost for words.
“Don't worry. Don't scratch up the lacquer or the brightwork and you'll be fine. Le Roy slipped me a pound note for your vittles on the way, so you'll eat in style. English pound at that, not one of our American pounds.”
Le Roy slipped her a
pound note?
Hidden eyes
were
watching him. Librarian Childress had given him an unexpected gift, with the password of the albino toucan. It
had called forth great favor by the fire in Hartford. Who were these people, farmers and librarians andâapparentlyâa coach girl?
pound note?
Hidden eyes
were
watching him. Librarian Childress had given him an unexpected gift, with the password of the albino toucan. It
had called forth great favor by the fire in Hartford. Who were these people, farmers and librarians andâapparentlyâa coach girl?
“I'm Darby, by the way.”
Her voice was nice. Once he knew it wasn't a boy's voice, it didn't sound sissy any more. She was a girl ⦠the kind of person a boy could spoon with if he was very lucky. She might even be â¦
That vague, pleasant line of thought broke off as his common sense awoke. Darby, a girl, was driving! Hethor wanted to grab the reins from her, save the two of them from hurtling into the nearest ditch as always happened when some man was foolish enough to let a woman take to the road. But part of him remembered the cool competence of Librarian Childress.
Who seemed to be watching over him even now, in the form of Darby's English pound note.
Perhaps he was as wrong about women as Pryce and Faubus had been about him. Except that women
were
flighty, hysterical, unreliableâthey had their monthlies. Every boy was warned of that, in whispered rumor if not in the classroom. It was simple biology, not an artifice of society like the snobbery that had condemned Hethor in the eyes of Pryce.
were
flighty, hysterical, unreliableâthey had their monthlies. Every boy was warned of that, in whispered rumor if not in the classroom. It was simple biology, not an artifice of society like the snobbery that had condemned Hethor in the eyes of Pryce.
The same snobbery that would likely condemn him in the presence of the viceroy as well, Hethor thought with glum persistence.
“Would you like me to drive?” he finally said, his voice somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. His face was still hot.
“Are you a drover? I only do this a few times a month.”
Hethor wanted to say, “No, but I'm a man,” but he couldn't quite find the courage. “I ⦠I thought you might like some help is all.”
“Why? If you're half as potted as old Le Roy, you're in no condition to drive a settee, let alone a wagon.”
He gave up. The night was crisp and cool, and after a while Hethor found himself talking about spring loading
and escapements, and how the wheel train drove the measurement of time so precisely that one could not discover the errors without special instruments and training. It was something safe and neutral that Darby seemed to find interesting. He was even able to forget she was a girl, mostly, and not think about what there might be under her shapeless pea coat.
and escapements, and how the wheel train drove the measurement of time so precisely that one could not discover the errors without special instruments and training. It was something safe and neutral that Darby seemed to find interesting. He was even able to forget she was a girl, mostly, and not think about what there might be under her shapeless pea coat.
She stopped for the night, offering him the hearse's box to sleep in, but the prospect of lying where the dead would soon travel unnerved Hethor. “I'll sleep up here on the bench, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Darby shrugged, now visible in the starlight, still looking boyish. She grinned, her teeth gleaming, and climbed off the driver's seat and headed for the box.
Hethor sat a while. His pants were suddenly tight and uncomfortable, and he was embarrassed and hot all at once. He wondered what he should have said or done differently. When sleep found him, he was chased by vague dreams of looming women with fire in their eyes.
THE NEXT
day was another round of quiet chatter, with stops for stew and bread. Darby was content not to push the horses, a mismatched team of an old gray and a young, frisky roan. They talked about spring plantings and the virtues of cobbled streets as compared to brick, and why ships carry more than one clock aboard, and who the viceroy was likely to appoint as the next governor of Connecticut. Every time the sway of the hearse brought their forearms brushing together, Hethor felt his face flush again. He worked very hard on forgetting that this was the first time in his life he'd been alone with a girl ⦠well, a young woman.
day was another round of quiet chatter, with stops for stew and bread. Darby was content not to push the horses, a mismatched team of an old gray and a young, frisky roan. They talked about spring plantings and the virtues of cobbled streets as compared to brick, and why ships carry more than one clock aboard, and who the viceroy was likely to appoint as the next governor of Connecticut. Every time the sway of the hearse brought their forearms brushing together, Hethor felt his face flush again. He worked very hard on forgetting that this was the first time in his life he'd been alone with a girl ⦠well, a young woman.
In the late morning, insects droned in the trees as the day shaped up hot. Hethor stared at the damselflies darting below the railings of a little bridge as the hearse crossed. Darby's conversation had lapsed a while. Hethor
kept stealing glances at her profileâgray eyes, snub nose, wisps of brown hair under her cap.
kept stealing glances at her profileâgray eyes, snub nose, wisps of brown hair under her cap.
She drove well. Much better than he would have, though that was hard to admit. She knew her way along the roads. She was pleasant, funnyâmight have made as good a friend as a boy could have.
That was when Hethor finally blurted out what had been bothering him all along. “But ⦠but ⦠you're a girl!”
It came out sounding like an accusation of heresy.
Darby twitched the reins, slowing the horses to a halt, then turned to look at him. Her eyes were narrow under her flat cap. “Not that my nature's any business of yours, but what of it?”
He felt like an idiotâclearly, she was driving, with no trouble at all. One of Master Bodean's sons could have explained it much better, with all the rigor and might of Yale logic, and probably the majesty of the law on his side as well. But for Hethor, the problem was so obvious, so self-evident, he wasn't even sure how to put it into words. Everyone knew that women couldn't be trusted with such responsibilities. Nor could men be trusted with a woman running free among them. “It ⦠women ⦠you're alone. You're not supposed to be driving the roads.”
“I'm not alone,” she said reasonably. “I'm with you. I'll ride Daisy back and lead Dapple, probably make it in one long day. Besides, most people think I'm a boy, and don't look twice at me. So why do you care?”
“There's an order to the world,” muttered Hethor darkly, his face and groin hot all over again. She was making him sweat now. That made him angry.
“Yes, and that order is that I'm driving this hearse and you're not, which means you can get out and walk if I tell you to.”
“What about your parents?”
“Mum and Da' build the hearses, along with three hired men. They can't take the time to make a delivery, and they don't have to pay me to do it because I'm family.”
Somehow Hethor doubted it was that simple, but he tried to let loose of his objections. “World's a strange place,” he managed, “and rarely fair.”
“All the more so if you're a woman, which is why I'm just as happy to pass as a boy. I'll thank you not to say more.”
As the afternoon wound on, their chatter continued, while avoiding the girl question. Hethor noticed Darby took corners a little faster, bumped into him a little more. That night she invited him into the hearse with her, to spoon a bit.
“You're a nice enough boy.” Her smile glinted in the moonlight, lips parting wide in a way that made his breath catch. “Come on, we can keep warm.”
“I ⦔ This woman kept driving him to silence. Hethor's penis felt huge, distorted, like it would drag him to the ground. He was sure she could see it straining at his pants. Why wasn't she laughing at him? “I, no!” he said, sweat pouring down his face. “I'm already too warm!” His voice was loud and clumsy.
Then Darby did laugh, but softly. It seemed she meant to be kind. “Suit yourself.” She crawled inside the hearse and tugged the door shut behind her.
Hethor sank down under a willow tree nearby, loosening the buttons on his fly, though he was careful not to touch himself. That way lay sin and madness, everyone knew.
So why was he so desperate to get closer to her?
When sleep came, it was hot and troubled. When Hethor woke later, he had to find a stream bank far from the hearse to wash his shame out of his linens. They talked very little the next morning.
TWO MORE
days of travel, including another hand-off in Foxboro to a taciturn Italian man bringing early greens into Boston, got Hethor to the Boston Common. There were no more mentions of albino toucans, but Hethor still
saw the influence of the white bird. “Court Street,” was the only thing the last drover said to him, waving generally to the east.
days of travel, including another hand-off in Foxboro to a taciturn Italian man bringing early greens into Boston, got Hethor to the Boston Common. There were no more mentions of albino toucans, but Hethor still
saw the influence of the white bird. “Court Street,” was the only thing the last drover said to him, waving generally to the east.
He was amazed to have arrived in good order.
On the Common, Hethor found himself surrounded by horse chestnuts and elms and half a dozen more sorts of trees he didn't recognize. Men and women wandered together. Families were out taking the air with hampers of food, children screeching by the ponds. He'd never been away from the Connecticut coast before, and the journey here hadn't felt quite real. Standing on the grass of the Common, staring at the brick walkways and the spring-green trees, made him terribly homesick.
“Viceroy,” said Hethor to himself and the chattering squirrels. “I must find the viceroy.” He walked to the east end of the Common, then followed Tremont Street until it met Court Street. Boston was not so different from New Haven. Bigger perhaps, but with the same gas lamps and electrick cabriolets and shouting teamsters forcing their wagons through traffic. There would be more airships looming over the nearby harbor than those that called at New Haven, of that he had no doubt. Government was here, which meant the Royal Navy.
Court Street ran east from the Common, so he followed that until he came to a brick building that had to be what he was seeking. The building's center was three stories tall, topped with a clock set within a cupola, and a lion and a unicorn rampant on brick insets to each side of the clock. Two-story brick and marbled wings extended to each side away from what was clearly, even to Hethor's untrained eye, the original facade. Little round windows below the animal figures were set about an ordinary double-hung window, and below that a balcony that had the look of something used to read proclamations, or perhaps to declare public punishments. A Union Jack flew over the clock, while the blue-on-white stars of Her Imperial Majesty's New England colonies flew to one side, and an unfamiliar yellow-and-red banner flew to the
other. The sigil of the viceroy, Hethor supposed. He hoped it meant that the man was in residence now.
other. The sigil of the viceroy, Hethor supposed. He hoped it meant that the man was in residence now.
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