Steampunk Fairy Tales (9 page)

Takashi hesitated. “Two?” He’d calculated
less for everything he needed and could only pay for the rice. Or
only the fruit.

“
Prices had to go up
again.”

“
Then I cannot pay for
both, I’m sorry, Kenji. Keep the fruit; tomorrow I
will—”

“
Let me,” a woman’s voice
interrupted.

Nishimura’s daughter stood
beside him. She held out a few smooth pieces of gold to Kenji, who
accepted the
ryō
with a bow. “Lady Nishimura.”

“
You know I prefer ‘Chou’,
Kenji.”

An older woman stood behind Chou; she
clicked her tongue. “And the young lady should not be troubling
either of you.”

“
It’s no trouble,” Chou
smiled. She set a jar upon the bench as she spoke. Ants covered the
inside, moving in and out of the earthen shapes within. “Aren’t
they wonderful?” she asked when she noticed his gaze. “Look at how
well they work together.”

He nodded. Perhaps they were, in their own
way. “Do you keep them?”

“
Yes, I’m building them a
home, only I need a bigger jar already.”

The older woman sighed. “And we should
continue that task now, My Lady.”

Chou waved a hand. “Soon, Kama. You’re one
of the men from the factory, aren’t you?” she asked Takashi. “I’m
glad I could help you, especially now that Father is closing it
down.”

Takashi nodded. “I am, but I cannot accept,
Lady Nishimura.” He bowed.

“
Don’t be foolish.” She
smiled up at him. “Let me. In fact, tell your friends if they will
meet at the harbour, by the wreck, tomorrow at dawn, I will help
them too.”

Chou’s servant frowned but only pulled Chou
away from the stall. The young lady’s yellow and purple kimono was
swallowed by the crowd. Takashi looked to Kenji. “How could a man
such as Nishimura have a daughter like that?”

Kenji raised a steel tin and spun its
handle. Cogs ground within, and the lid flipped open. He slipped
the coins inside. “He is not her father by blood, you know. Orphan.
Took her in at the insistence of his late wife. Few talk of it
anymore.”

“
I see.” Perhaps that
explained why the man didn’t seem to care for her.

He drifted away from the market, visiting
the Smith, who wasn’t able to make any promises. “It all depends on
who stays. Maybe you should look at Geinmo. Or further south?” And
then Takashi found as many of the old workers as he could, urging
them to meet Chou at the harbour come dawn. Few seemed to believe
much would come of her offer. Some seemed as desolate as
he—especially the older men—while others were packing their
possessions.

And still he could not join them.

Instead, he headed for the glistening water.
Better than sitting at home—the empty walls, the empty table, the
flowerbed shrinking to grey.

His footsteps counted the syllables:

thistles dancing –

an autumn wind

drowns out my heart

###

Before dawn he met several more men where
they stood together in the grey light by one of the old
submersibles. Rust ran from its huge rivets. Patina discoloured the
body and grime ringed the portholes, obscuring the controls within:
a forest of levers and gear shifts, none of which he’d ever truly
understood.

Maybe it would be better never to see
another made here.

Deadly machines. Not just for the navigators
and passengers, but whole towns, like Baigan, where they had left
only misery in the frothing wake of their waves. He greeted a few
of the men and listened to their talk. There was little confidence
in Chou but the same thing brought them here – desperation,
perhaps, more than curiosity.

And she did come.

Before the sun broke free of the horizon
Chou appeared, her servant in tow. The older woman carried a chest,
her weary face tight with strain. She dropped it to the deck with a
sigh. Muffled clinking followed, and the men exchanged glances.

Chou smiled at them.
“Thank you for trusting Takashi; I am glad you have come to meet
me. I know my father has made your lives difficult in closing the
factory. In a small way, I hope to help.” She paused to nod to her
servant. “Kama has
small piles of
ryō
wrapped in cloth.
Each of you take one and let it help you on your way; for if you
take gold you must leave Baigan. My father will not be
pleased.”

One of the men spoke. “And we can simply
take them and owe you nothing?”

“
Yes.”

Takashi frowned. “Lady, if you have taken
this from your father ....”

“
Do not worry. By the time
he discovers it missing it will be too late.”

A voice spoke from the end of the pier. “Or
very nearly too late.”

Nishimura raised a
lantern, turning a tiny lever to increase the brightness. It lit
the dull faces of half a dozen men, all armed with long
tachi
and smaller
knives. Two also carried modified matchlock rifles. A thin shaft
jutted from above each weapon, a dial on the side. With it, each
man could load and fire half a dozen rounds far quicker than usual.
Another terror of the new world.

The gathered factory workers fell silent,
and Chou let out a gasp.

Nishimura gestured for two of his men to
take the chest; a third he directed to Chou, after a glance to
Kama. The servant’s wrinkled face did not change, but Chou spun on
the older woman. “Why?”

Kama glanced away.

The third man took Chou by the arm,
wrenching her around and dragging the young woman toward her
father. She cried out, and Takashi took a step forward.

One of the riflemen raised his weapon.

Taskashi stopped.

“
And now, gentlemen, I
trust you will continue to seek employment elsewhere.” Nishimura
turned his glare upon his daughter, then cut the lantern light. He
turned to leave, and their shadows receded along the boards, the
figure of Chou struggling against them.

Takashi ground his teeth but did not
follow.

They’d only shoot him—or worse, hurt
Chou.

###

Two days passed, and he ate the rest of his
food and spent the last of his money. And not once did she appear
in the market, nor did anyone in Baigan hear from her. Not Kenji or
any of the other shopkeepers. Not even Ito, who Takashi stopped as
the man attempted to close his door on the second evening.
“Takashi, listen to me: I don’t know anything. I’m sure she’s
well.” The man’s jowls seemed to sink further toward his chin, and
he could not meet Takashi’s gaze.

“
Ito, don’t lie. You dined
there last night at Nishimura’s invitation; you must know
something.”

“
I know he’s offering to
move me and my family to Geinmo.”

Of course. “But you didn’t see her?”

“
No, Takashi. Now go home.
And change your clothes for God’s sake. You smell terrible.” He
slammed his door.

Takashi shook his head. Not at the comment
about his clothing—it was true, he needed to change—but at the lie.
Ito knew something. And of course the man was afraid to speak: his
future depended upon staying on Nishimura’s good side.

Takashi wove through the front garden with
its red maples and turned down the lane beside the house, angling
toward the square. He’d reached the edge when a creak echoed in the
lane. A gate swung open, and a woman stepped out. Ito’s wife.

She waved him closer, hands slipping from
the sleeves of her blue kimono. She had tied her obi in some haste,
as her sash sat a little crooked.

“
Haru-san?”

“
Quickly,” she said. Her
voice was hard to hear over the murmuring from the market and the
roar of a steam-wheel passing somewhere nearby. “My husband was
upset when he came home last night—I fear Nishimura has hurt
Chou.”

A chill spread across Takashi’s body. “He
what?”

“
Yes. But do not ask any
more, Takashi. A darkness hangs over him since his wife
died.”

He folded his arms. “Then you should not
have told me.”

“
No, that is
why
I tell you. Your
name was mentioned:
Shachō
doesn’t like that you are asking after Chou. Make
your peace with it, return to your life.”

Takashi smiled. “I have had no peace for
years.” He thanked her and headed for the square.

“
You cannot bring them
back, Takashi, not this way, not any way,” she called.

He offered no answer.

Instead, he returned home, lit his lamps and
removed his clothes. He wiped himself down with a wet rag, stepped
into a fresh kosode, then brushed at the sleeves of his haori
before pulling the coat on too. Then he ran a razor across his jaw.
A tiny spot of red bloomed in the mirror, and he wiped his cheek
with the back of his hand.

Finally, he knelt by a screen then slid it
aside.

And blinked.

Ants.

Ants had crawled within, finding a crack, a
space between timber and earth: like smoke or water, somehow they’d
found a way. And there they covered the floorboards before a steel
chest.

Swarming in place.

They moved in a pattern, like a kanji
painted by a rough hand. It seemed to spell out the word for
‘tower.’ He leant closer; there was no doubt. That was the word.
And there was only one tower in Baigan, the tower beside the manor.
The building looked across the ocean and collected signals from the
flashing mirrors when the submersibles rose.

And so there he would go.

He lifted the lid of the
chest and drew out a blue silken scarf. A boat with a single sail
crossed the waves. This he took and tied around his forearm. “Shima
...” He could not finish. Would she approve? Yes. She had to. Next,
he lifted a child’s
hagoita
-paddle covered in cherry
blossoms. Kiku would have urged him on. “You would have liked
Chou,” he told his daughter.

He hooked the paddle in his belt.

Finally, he lifted the new smith’s hammer
from where it leant against the doorframe and walked into the
darkening night.

He did not lock or even close his door.

He did not pace out syllables nor answer
those who spoke to him. He skirted the market and climbed the small
hill to the manor where it overlooked Baigan. The grand home
sprawled: its tall stone walls were split by a huge gate of banded
wood, but the yellow glow from dozens of paper lamps within still
crept over the barrier.

The tower loomed nearby.

A black shadow against the stars, chill
silence spread from its stones. He climbed the rough-cut steps to
its twin doors. A rusty chain and lock were looped through the iron
handles. Why lock the doors? Surely the tower was still to be
manned; after all, boats and ships still sailed to the harbour.

He raised his hammer and smashed the
lock.

From the manor came
nothing but the drifting notes of court music played on flutes and
the
biwa
.

Takashi ground the doors open and stepped
within, boots crunching on gravel. The dark lay about his shoulders
as a heavy mantle. He gripped his great hammer and hefted it. Here
was the tower. Where the ants had directed him.

What lay within?

He turned to the wall and searched a
moment—a lantern. He lifted it free and struck the lever, the
little device shooting sparks. But light followed, a steady glow
that lit a cluttered room. Tables and crates lay stacked beneath a
winding staircase, but at the very back, behind a pair of torn
screens painted with snow, something glinted in the light.

Steel? He moved closer.

Brass.

Takashi crossed the floor and shoved one of
the screens aside. It clattered to the stone.

A large brass chest rested beneath a frayed
blanket. It had slipped free so that the brass caught the lantern
light. He pulled the covering aside. Another lock on the lid, but
this, too, he smashed with his hammer.

And then he could not move.

Could not lift it.

Nor even reach forth to lay a hand on the
cold, gleaming surface.

He exhaled; he’d been holding his breath,
and his throat had tightened. There’d been no such moment for Shima
or Kiku. Only the sweeping blue roaring of the ocean, waves tipped
in white. Only a terrible absence coming home. He had to open the
lid.

A yellow butterfly rested within.

Chou lay upon her side in the brass coffin;
a great, dark bruise covered her temple. Her eyes were closed and
her skin pale. No smile graced her lips. The stillness was
complete; even his shadow seemed to shrink away.

“
No.”

She had deserved better.

Takashi spun with a cry as he hurled the
lamp. It hit the wall with an orange burst. He strode back into the
night, hammer held in white knuckles as he bore down on the bright
manor.

And he counted syllables as he stalked.

my spirit set adrift –

butterflies dance on

the autumn wind

Aubrey in the World Above

Daniel Lind

O
ur stagecoach rattled across the rough ground. Then it
stopped. Father looked at me through his monocle; his solemn stare
had an unearthly quality, making my stomach quiver. The final day
had arrived.

Father sat opposite me,
holding his top hat and cane. He removed his monocle, and his
haunting eyes branded my insides like they always did.


“Your mother is a
thief. Don’t follow in her footsteps.” Father tapped his cane on my
shoulder. I flinched.