Steemjammer: Through the Verltgaat (20 page)

Will got up, and then winced from a brief but sharp jolt of pain in his side. He had to grab the chair to steady himself.

“You didn’t take your remedy yet, didn’t you?” Tante Klazee chided as he frowned in anticipation of the horrible taste. “To the kooken.” Kitchen. “Oytsel het de deef de teed.”
Procrastination is the thief of time
.

It was an old saying his father’d used many a time, but it didn’t make Will feel any better about facing the dreaded spoonful of awful black glop. He hoped she had a radish, because it really did help with the foul taste.

***

At the Steem Museum, Donell was busy but hinted that they’d find something in the locker room, where they’d left their protective clothing. After a quick search, Will found a note in the pocket of his oilskin duster. It was from Tante Stefana, but it said she’d made no progress, which they took to mean the verltgaat timer. She also told them to be careful but also to be seen acting normally.

That was the first of many disappointments that Friday. Another long search of the storage room turned up nothing, and Will grew irritated as they pretended to do some chores to “be seen.” Compared to finding his father, this seemed of little importance. He feared they were the only ones taking this issue seriously, and the lack of progress frustrated him greatly.

During lunch they worked on the steemtrap with Cobee and his friends, which only served to irritate Will further. At least Angelica had made a friend, he noted, as she and Rachel sat together, deep in conversation. But they weren’t here for that, he told himself. They had to find Dad, or at the very least get some sense of what these Rasmussens were doing.

“Ten-point-nine percent,” Sully said wryly. He’d just finished straightening out the steam pipes and had taken a pressure measurement. “Not bad.”

Will tensed, recalling how he’d disturbed them the day before, but Sully didn’t make anything of it. No one else seemed to pay attention, except for Kate, who sat in a corner with her hair covering her face. Only this time, Will noticed an eye peering through a gap in her hair, staring right at him. She didn’t look away, either, which surprised him.

***

For the rest of the day, they searched another storage room where Cobee had seen Hendrelmus but found nothing. Looking out a window, they did notice an expensive, chauffeured locomobile returning Bram and his bodyguard after lunch. Cobee explained that the young Raz was “too good to eat with us” and went to their base on Texel Island for his meals.

“Hey,” Will said excitedly, “I have an idea. We all know Bram’s here to spy and cause trouble, and he must know something. Why don’t
we
spy on
him
?”

To his dismay, the others talked him out of it. When they reminded him of Tante Stefana’s request, he realized maybe it wasn’t worth the risk. If the young Raz caught them, he might realize their identities, and so far he seemed to be ignoring them.

The next morning, after another gigantic dinner and ridiculously large breakfast from Tante Klazee, they found themselves back in the Steem Museum lobby. They’d planned on insisting that Donell take them to Tante Stefana, but he was nowhere to be seen. Mildred, who looked flustered, had the task of handing out assignments to kids in the Apprentice and Youth Volunteer programs. A dozen of them stood around her, badgering her with questions.

“Finish the assignment,” she called to Cobee, “that you were given yesterday.”

“That’s odd,” Will whispered. “There wasn’t one.”

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Cobee answered, leading them quickly away, “in case she realizes that.”

As they went down a wide corridor to go back to the large junk room and resume searching, Will stopped.

“Why are we doing this?” he said.

“It was your idea,” Cobee replied.

“No, my idea was to make Donell take us to Tante Stefana, so we could try to get some answers.”

“It was your idea,” Angelica said, “to look for clues to find Dad.”

“But we did that, and there was nothing.” Will sighed, wishing he could better explain how he felt. “Look, I don’t want to waste another day here.”

“What else can we do?”

“I don’t know, except that Dad wrote he had to find ‘it’ or risk losing all. We’re running out of time. I think we have to try something different.”

He looked around to make sure no one else could hear.

“How long do you think we have?” Cobee said worriedly.

Will shrugged. “Marteenus said he wasn’t going to feed Onkel Deet.”

Giselle tensed, and Will immediately felt guilty for bringing that up.

“I hope,” he continued, “he was only bluffing and will give him food.”

“A big man like my dad could go weeks without eating,” Giselle said bravely. “I worry about that little creep getting into Beverkenhaas and finding the machine. Did we even shut the trap door?”

“I think so,” Angelica said, who’d been the last to use it, “but I’m not sure.”

“See?” Will said. “We have to do something now.”

A high pitched shout echoed down the corridor. Concerned, they ran to a dimly lit side hallway and saw a woman in Museum overalls on the floor. She tried to push herself up, but her hands slipped out from under her.

“Vervlookte grappenmaakers!” she muttered.
Cursed pranksters!

“Are you hurt?” Angelica asked.

The woman switched to mildly accented English. “Just a bruise, I think, but I could have broken my neck! Look. This isn’t an accidental spill.”

She ran her hands over a thin film of oil that was very hard to see on the poorly lit tiles.

“Someone,” Will said, examining a brass lamp on the wall, “took oil from here and spread it on the floor. The fuel reservoir cap is loose.”

“But why?” the woman said as Cobee and Giselle helped her to her feet after she took off her oil-stained shoes. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I think I know,” Will said, carefully skirting the oil slick and running down the hall.

Soon, he reached a doorway, and on the other side, a wide open staircase wound its way up several floors into darkness. Hearing someone snickering, he dared to stick his head inside to look. Up a few flights, shapes moved, silhouetted by dim lamp light. He caught a brief glimpse of a familiar face.

Will pulled back, pretty sure he hadn’t been noticed. Angelica, Giselle and Cobee came up behind him.

“It’s Bram,” Will whispered. “You can stay or come with me. Either way, I’m going.”

Chapter
19

The halls of history

“Stupid diamond,” Marteenus muttered to himself, almost tossing the marquis cut, two carat gem over the side into the Mad River, which flowed below.

High over the Ohio countryside in the small gondola of his dirigible, he sorted through the pile of loot he’d stolen from a big house in the suburbs the night before. Burglary had become so routine he found it boring. Whenever he needed supplies, he drifted silently across the dark sky, searching for likely targets.

Satisfied that a house was empty, he’d land on the roof and tear off shingles. Once he had a hole, he was in. His only real problem was knowing what this maddeningly indecipherable culture thought valuable.

That night he’d set off an alarm – blasted screeching electrical contraption, threatening to blow holes through his eardrums. He’d learned to just plug his ears with paper and continue - that it usually took at least fifteen minutes for someone to come investigate.

He’d stolen a box of silverware, jewelry, some food, and, most important of all, two cans of gasoline from the garage. Taking his time, he’d gone back to the roof and, hanging from the rope ladder, drifted silently away as the first police car, lights flashing idiotically, arrived.

They never look up
!

Diamonds are valuable here, he reminded himself, pocketing the gem. In spite of the complete incomprehensibility of paper money, he’d come to understand that the absurd population of this backwards world valued it greatly. At night he could fly unseen into Cleveland and tie off above a 24 hour pawn shop whose unscrupulous one-eyed owner would buy anything, no questions asked.

With the ridiculous rectangles of printed paper, Marteenus could get things he needed, like sensible clothing. His current outfit had been acquired from some sort of military organization with a strange name – the “Salvation Army,” if he remembered correctly. Why excellently tailored outfits should be found on a rack labeled “used marching band uniforms” was beyond him: more of this strange world’s insanity. Money also allowed him to obtain the special tools and materials he needed to keep his airship going.

Gasoline, he had to admit, was a rather clever invention, and he wondered if there was some way to produce it on Beverkenverlt. He used it to power his airship’s boiler – made from a low mass but tough Beverkenverltish alloy – and to keep his gas bag hot and buoyant.

“But what about Hendrelmus?” he asked himself, his mind drifting back to the prime issue. “Did that boy give him the note? He must have, but the man hasn’t put out a white flag.

“But of course he hasn’t surrendered! I knew he wouldn’t, didn’t I? At least not right away, right?”

Yes, he’d worked it all out in his head. If anything, Henry was stubborn - stubborn and dangerous. He shuddered at the prospect of facing him. It had been hard enough going after Deet, but he’d had some luck there, as the man had let him silently drift right up behind him. And Deetricus wasn’t nearly as intense as Hendrelmus.

“Patience,” he soothed himself. It would take at least a few days for Hendrelmus to begin to fear he might really lose his brother. And then, negotiations could start in earnest. The little girl would have been a much better hostage, but Deet was good enough. He knew in the end Henry would do anything to get his brother back.

Perhaps, he thought, he should fly back to the remote cave where he had Deetricus locked away and prod him for information. Outside of some rather blunt and crude curses, he’d gotten nothing from Henry’s younger twin. But with hunger, Marteenus reflected, that might change.

“Yes,” he told himself, changing course southeast towards Kentucky. “That’s what I should do.”

As he pushed the wooden tiller, he remembered something. The day before, when he’d flown near Beverkenhaas to check for a white flag, the place had seemed particularly still. Thin smoke came out the large chimney, but he’d seen no movement. A peculiar notion struck him, that perhaps the house was empty.

“Nonsense,” he told himself, but the gnawing doubt never quite left him.

***

“I thought you said you didn’t want to waste another day here,” Angelica complained.

Unable to talk Will out of pursuing Bram, she and the others had followed him up the stairs and down a wide hallway. Finding an oily rag that had been tossed on the floor, Will was sure they were going the right way, but after a passing several doors and intersections, he began losing confidence.

“This is no waste,” he said quietly, “if we can find him. Bram knows something.”

“What if he sees us?” Cobee said nervously.

Will held up the oily rag. “We confront him with this and accuse him of hurting people.”

“I don’t know if that would be wise,” Giselle said. “It would be better if he didn’t think about us at all.”

“But he’s searching for something ‘hidden in plain sight.’ The more I think about it, we should have been spying on him right from day one.”

“He definitely said that,” Angelica offered, “but it can’t be the same thing Dad’s looking for, could it?”

Will looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “What if it is? How long’s it been since Beverkenfort fell? Eleven years?”

“Ya,” Cobee said.

“That’s how long they’ve had to search for clues in our stronghold. There’s no telling what they’ve found.”

“Verdoor!” Angelica said. “Bram and Dad really could be looking for the same thing.”

A grim look set upon Will’s face. “That’s why we have to see what he’s up to. He might accidentally lead us to Dad. Or we might figure out what it is they’re looking for and stop the Raz from getting it. Maybe that’s what we need to focus on.”

Angelica frowned. “What? You’d stop looking for Dad? How are we going to find Mom and Onkel Deet without him?”

He looked away, wishing he could lie and tell her what she wanted to hear, but he couldn’t.

“Angie-bee,” he said delicately, “this might be bigger than our parents. We have to keep in mind what’s most important and deal with that, first. That’s the deeper truth that Dad would want us to see, isn’t it?”

She looked away, unable to argue but still unhappy.

He smiled. “I’d never really stop looking for them.”

“But Will,” Giselle said, holding back emotion, “we’re running out of time.”

“Right. Let’s do our best and hope it’s enough. He went through here, by the way. Bram did.”

They’d reached a set of large double doors blocking the hallway, and Will pointed. A faint, oily handprint could just be seen on the polished wood.

***

The double doors opened to the grand entrance of the Halls of History, which featured a medieval gatehouse and towers flanked by steemguns and all sorts of artifacts. They crossed a drawbridge over a water-filled moat and walked past seemingly endless exhibits, each tantalizing and making them want to stay and learn.

One discussed exploration and cartography, especially the controversy over whether Beverkenverlt was a giant, flat disk or a dish that was slightly concave in the center. As they forced themselves to go past, Cobee explained that no one had ever gone to the edge, where presumably the great dome of the sky came down and fused with the ground. Even Steemjammers had failed. Everything seemed to get unstable as one traveled outwards, including verltgaats.

It was even more difficult to pass an exhibit on the “Great Lunar Expedition,” but Will told them he had a gut feeling that Bram hadn’t gone there. The main walkway took them through a section dedicated to the early pioneering days, when people had just moved to B’verlt, and all sorts of strange and hostile creatures posed a near constant threat. That, Will felt certain, is where the young Rasmussen had gone.

Will had to remind himself to stay on the lookout for Bram, but it was hard because the displays were so enticing. If Bram saw them first, that could be disastrous. He peeked cautiously into another large hall that stretched before them but only saw a couple of visitors.

“I promise you,” Cobee whispered, “he isn’t here.”

“What?” Will said.

“For one thing, it’s Saturday. Bram never comes on weekends. He’s too lazy.”

“But I saw his face.”

“Are you sure? It was dim. What if it was someone else, but your mind tricked you because you wanted to see Bram?”

“What about the lady who slipped,” Angelica argued. “And the oily handprint on the door?”

“It’s normal for people spill things without properly cleaning the mess,” Cobee said, “and the Steem Museum’s full of oily handprints. Believe me, when you’ve spent more time here, you’ll learn that cleaning these smears is one of our major chores.”

Will thought this over but wasn’t convinced. “We’ve gone this far. I want to see it through.”

***

“How on earth,” Angelica said moments later, “did they fight a war for
thirty
years?”

“There was an Eighty Years War, too,” Will said, pointing to another display, “and somehow these wars merged together. This is confusing.”

Will and the others found themselves in an exhibit that dealt with the period from 1568 to 1648 on Old Earth. The hall was filled with old paintings (even a few by that “Rembrandt person,” Giselle noted). Further on, there were large models showing what times were like in Holland and other Low Country provinces in that era, when an audacious and seemingly doomed rebellion broke out against the powerful empire that controlled them.

Will was enchanted by a series of dioramas. Made of painted tin figurines and model buildings, they were housed in large wooden tables covered with glass. Some depicted street riots in old Dutch cities. A mob of angry civilians armed with clubs and farm tools overwhelmed soldiers, priests and administrators, who ran for their lives. People hammered at a statue of a ruler standing on a marble dais labeled “PHILIP II,” while others broke into government buildings and swarmed a big cathedral.

The next set of dioramas showed large sieges and pitched battles. Soldiers wore colorful, baggy pantaloons with large feathers in their helmets. Formations of them stabbed at each other with long spears called pikes, while musketeers traded shots and brass cannons fired at thick, sloping fortress walls.

Further down, large glass cases held scenes of wooden ships with tall masts and white sails engaged in desperate naval battles. A badly damaged man o’ war burned fiercely while frightened sailors dove into the water.

“‘The Sea Beggars resist the Spanish,’” Will read from a plaque. “What’s a Sea Beggar? And why Spain?”

“I don’t see how any of this is going to help,” Giselle protested, lowering her voice because a couple of ladies were strolling through the next gallery.

“There’s nothing here,” Cobee agreed.

“You don’t know that,” Will said. “I want to keep looking.”

“Oh, cool!” Angelica exclaimed, pointing. “I mean
gaaf
!”

Over a doorway hung a large sign in bronze letters that read “STEEMJAMMER FAMILY HISTORY.” Will’s chest pounded with excitement as he raced through and looked around. For years frustration had built up inside him over the many unanswered questions in their lives. The feeling that he was close to getting some real answers was electrifying.

Dozens of ancient cuckoo clocks from the medieval era hung along a wall, while across the room a working grindstone spun round and round. The room’s centerpiece was a large table holding the model of a graceful half-timber mill set in the German Black Forest, with snow-capped mountains in the distance. A trickle of flowing water turned a waterwheel. Tiny mechanical people, like a toy clock, went back and forth, creating the illusion they were working.

“Dad wasn’t lying,” Angelica said excitedly. “We really are from the Black Forest!”

“Not so loud,” Giselle warned.

“No one’s around.”

“Keep your voice down, anyway.”

“Giselle’s right, and look at this,” Will whispered as he scanned a plaque printed with information. “This says we used to be millers in the Black Forest, in Germany, long ago. Our last name was Müller. Not Steemjammer.”

“What?” Angelica said. “Not Steemjammer?”

“We weren’t normal millers, either. We actually
made
the mills. And clocks.”

“Then we should be the Cuckoo family!”

They howled with laughter until they noticed a mop-haired mother with three small children staring through a doorway. The woman seemed to be trying to figure out what they found so funny, and when she couldn’t, she and her children left. The Steemjammer kids turned back to the model and remembered to keep their voices down.

“‘In medieval times,’” Giselle read off a plaque, “‘the Müllers made cuckoo clocks and toys for wealthy merchants, the nobility, and even emperors. They also crafted large town clocks, like the famous Magdeburg Glokkenspeel, which featured life-sized mechanical dancing minstrels and jousting knights. People came from miles away to see it until its destruction in 1631, when imperial forces burned the city, killing thousands.’”