The Sunken (2 page)

I’ve been in the mountains for nearly three years, studying architecture with some of the foremost European masters, but circumstances permitted that I return to England with haste, and I hope to find work there under a new name. I will not burden you with the details of my illicit journey, lest this letter fall into the wrong hands. Suffice to say that at the time of writing, I am in the North, and it does my heart well to once more walk on English soil.

I arrive in London on Tuesday, and would greatly desire to meet you for dinner, at 6pm at the Butchers Hall Beef House. You must come alone, and tell no one who you are seeing.

You cannot write to me in return, but I shall wait for you on the appointed day.

Yours

Nicholas Rose

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

The history books — the thick sort written by
real
historians — will tell you England’s troubles began when Isambard Kingdom Brunel knocked Robert Stephenson from the post of Messiah of the Sect of the Great Conductor, and became overnight the most powerful engineer in England. But they do not have the full story.

The
true
origin began many years before that, with George III — the Vampire King — and the damage wrought by his naval defeats, and his madness. His depravity might have been held in check were it not for a mild spring afternoon in 1830, when a dragon wandered into Kensington Gardens and ate two women and a Grenadier Guard.

I happened to witness this occurrence, although witness, my critics would say, is a word I am not permitted to use, on account of my complete blindness. I had been granted a day’s leave from my duties at Windsor Castle to come into the city. In my left hand, I clutched two envelopes. One contained a thick, pleading letter to my publisher, written on my Noctograph in large, loopy letters to arouse their sympathies, humbly requesting a payment for royalties due on my book. The second contained a request for a period of extended leave to travel to Europe, addressed to the Duke and signed by my doctor. In my other hand, I held the brass ball atop my walking stick, rapping the pavement and listening for the echoes whenever I felt myself veer from my path.

I arrived at the offices of F., C., and J. Rivington, my publishers, a little after four, and was surprised to find their offices empty, the door locked, and no one about. I ran my fingers over the door, but could find no notice. Perhaps they had taken an extended luncheon? I sniffed the air, remembering the delicious pie shop on the corner beneath the barbershop. Yes, perhaps I should look for them there.

I had no sooner taken a step across the street, my mouth watering with the anticipation of pie, when coach bells jangled, whistles blew, hooves thundered, and a great commotion rumbled down the street — a carriage speeding over the cobbles, the inhabitants crying out as they were flung back in their seats. I yanked my boot back just as the carriage screamed past and several Bobbies blew their whistles at me. Boots pounded along the street as the usual gaggle of reporters, thrill-seekers, and layabouts chased after the carriage, anxious to see the cause of the commotion.

Of course, being somewhat of a thrill-seeker myself, I shoved the letters into my jacket pocket and followed. I didn’t need my stick to follow the sound of the carriage, and I fell in step amongst the crowd and allowed the jostles of the nosy to pull me along. I collected details in my mental map — a right turn here, a left there, the rough cobbles giving way to silken lawn and neat, paved paths. We’d entered Kensington Gardens, tearing through the squared hedges of close-cropped yew and prim holly, cut and shaped to mimic the bastions and fortifications of war. Hydrangea and rose perfumes drifted on the breeze, until the coo of songbirds was interrupted by piercing screams as women scuttled between the hedges, looking for a place to hide.

Then, I heard the roar.

The sound was so low it shook my insides about, so my organs felt as though they had sunk into my socks. The crowd around me, only moments ago hell-bent on moving forward in search of the commotion, scattered in fear, diving into the trees flanking the Round Pond and leaving me in the centre of the path to confront the scene before me.

Though I could only hear and not see what unfolded, the vivid accounts read aloud to me by friends from the papers allow me to picture it now as clearly as anything. A female swamp-dragon (
Megalosaurus bucklandii,
in the new taxonomy) appeared from nowhere beside the Round Pond, obviously in need of a drink. She bent down, fifteen feet of her, to lap at the water with her thick tongue, her leathery green skin catching the midday sun. The gentlemen who had been preparing to launch their boats on the water scattered, but their women were busy setting up the picnic tables and laying out the tea settings, and did not notice the commotion until the beast was upon them.

A woman cowered under her table, clutching a crying baby and trying to muffle its sobs beneath her skirt. But the dragon — like me — saw the world with her ears. She drove her wide snout under the table and tore at the unfortunate woman, tearing out her pretty arms and staining her dress with blood.

Crème scones and Wedgewood china flew through the air as the beast charged the picnic tables, snapping up morsels of womanly flesh. The screams brought more bystanders — lovers strolling along the Serpentine, the Royal Horticultural Society, who’d been admiring the hydrangea beds, and, finally, a nearby guard on duty with his shiny blunderbuss.

The shots rang in my ears for several moments, and I leaned on my stick, suddenly blinded to the world around me. The ground trembled as feet thundered past, and I turned to move after them, but a voice broke through my panic.

“You sir, don’t move!”

I froze. Now I heard the hiss of air escaping the dragon’s nostril, and the click of its claws as it stalked across the garden path toward me. The air grew hot, carrying with it the smell of butchery — blood and flesh mingled with the beast’s fetid breath. At any moment it would be upon me. The panic rose in my throat, and I fought the urge to run.

“Easy does it, girl.” The man murmured, and I heard the footsteps slow. The creature stopped and sniffed the air. It grunted, turned, and thundered off into the trees.

I dared not move, sucking a silent breath and listening for her return. Something grabbed my arm, and I lost my composure, sobbing to be spared.

“Woah, easy, chap!” It was the man’s voice, the man who had driven the dragon away. “I don’t mean any harm!”

The voice was husky from sucking in coal dust and engine fumes, and his hands were rough. He was a worker, probably a servant of one of the engineering sects. I allowed him to take my hand and lead me to a nearby bench, where I sank to my knees, confounded.

“How did you defeat the monster?” I asked, wiping my sweating face with my kerchief.

“That is a secret of mine,” the man said. “But she shant be coming back again, of that I am certain.”

I knew he had used no weapon, for I would have heard the shot fired or the slice of steel pulled from a scabbard, and the creature had given no sign of a struggle. It had simply changed its mind. This man had turned the creature away with naught but his own mind.

Interesting.

“Tell me, good fellow,” I leaned forward. “Did you
think
the dragon away?”

“Such a thing is preposterous.” There was the hint of a smile in his voice.

“Not so preposterous, especially as you have saved my life. I have a friend, whom I think you should meet. We served as lieutenants together in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and he has just returned to London after spending some years abroad. He too can influence the minds of animals from his own thoughts.”

The man leaned forward also, intrigued by my bold statement. But when he spoke, there was hesitation in his voice.

“I should not think any man of your acquaintance would speak to the likes of me. I’m a Stoker, sir, born amongst the rail trenches and boiler boxes of the Engine Ward, a servant of the Great Conductor.”

I should have known him a Stoker by the scent of coal on his clothes. Although the Stokers performed one of the most important and dangerous jobs — they were the mechanics of Engine Ward, maintaining the machines and furnaces of London’s engineering churches — their dirty, underground work and insular, fanatical society meant Londoners both hated and feared them. “The Dirty Folk” were shunned by polite society and thought to be incapable of innovation until recently. Isambard Kingdom Brunel — the boy I’d left behind in Engine Ward and had not seen for ten years — invented a new type of steam locomotive and took for himself the title of “Engineer”, a title protected by law and never before given to a Stoker. Brunel’s innovation had ignited the religious and scientific elite, and this man was right to assume most men would prefer not to associate with a Stoker.

“I think you’ll find Nicholas and I most accommodating. My mother was a Stoker, although she was fortunate to marry a rich Aetherian so I did not grow up inside the Ward, though it holds a place in my heart. Nicholas sheltered there for a year as a boy, hiding from a cruel father. Both he and I were childhood friends of your engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel.” I used the word
engineer
— a word many say Brunel should not be allowed to use — to show I harboured no ill will. I extended my hand. “James Holman, at your service. I am eternally grateful.”

He took my hand and gave it a firm tug. “I am Aaron Williams, and it is an honour to meet you. Forgive me, but am I speaking to
the
James Holman, the celebrated Blind Physician?”

His statement surprised me. Not many Stokers could read, and my book — a treatise on the effectiveness of various “cures” for blindness — was hardly a popular volume. “I wouldn’t say celebrated, sir. My book was rubbished by the critics. The
Times
concluded a blind man had no right to pen a medical treatise.”

“Nonsense. Isambard speaks fondly of you, and he cherishes his copy of your book. I know all about you … and Nicholas. Isambard and I became friends after you left, and he always speaks of his schoolmates with reverence. I was never permitted to attend school myself, but I know all your stories as if they were my own.”

I beamed at the praise, and clasped his hand. “I cannot allow such an avid fan of my work to escape into the London gloom without buying him a drink. I am meeting Nicholas for dinner, and I’d be honoured if you would join us.”

He seemed reluctant, but I insisted, and tugged on his arm ’till his protests fell silent. I was due to meet Nicholas at the Butchers Hall Beef House at six o’clock. With Aaron leading the way through the busy streets, we made it there shortly after five, so I led Aaron to the end of a long table and paid for three pints of beer. I allowed Aaron to regale me with renditions of his favourite parts of my book ’till I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“James Holman, it’s good to see your face again.”

“And to hear your voice, old friend.” I rose and shook Nicholas’ hand. I could not see him, of course, so I did not know how his physical features had changed, but his handshake was firm, his fingers rough with the calluses of a seaman. His voice had lost none of its kindness. “It has been a long five years since I left you in Portsmouth.”

“You shouldn’t have come home so soon, James. The war only got interesting once you left. I have much to tell you — but who’s this ragamuffin sitting in my chair?”

His voice betrayed something:
Reproach? Fear?
I remembered the letter he’d sent me, asking to meet. He’d chosen his words carefully, the tone perfectly congenial — as though he had seen me only yesterday — and explaining nothing. It was as if he were afraid of being followed. Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t brought Aaron along. I should have guessed Nicholas wanted to talk privately.

Aaron must have sensed Nicholas’ apprehension, for he spoke kindly. “I am Aaron Williams, sir. Mr. Holman—”

“Call me James,” I interjected.

“Mr. Holman invited me here to speak to you, on a … private matter.”

“I see he’s already plied you with ale, so it must be a very private matter indeed.” Nicholas sat down, resting his hat on the back of the chair and grabbing the remaining glass. “Unlike most men, James Holman’s tongue clamps shut under the influence of any brew, so one cannot wrestle a secret from his lips even with the liberal application of lubricants.”

His words were jovial, but his voice trembled as he spoke. Yes, he was definitely afraid.

I grinned at his words, trying to put him at ease. “I met Aaron in Kensington gardens today—”

“Ah, yes, nasty business, that. I heard the screams all the way from the Society of Architects.” Nicholas had spent the years since the war ended training in France as an industrial architect. At least, that’s what he’d told me in his mysterious letter. “Trust the Blind Physician to be first on the scene. I see you’re not nursing a dragon-tooth-shaped wound?”

“I am fine, thanks to Mr. Williams. Nicholas,” I lowered my voice, “he
thought
the dragon away.”

Nicholas drummed his fingers against his glass. I waited for him to digest this. Aaron finished his glass and clattered it on the table.

Finally Nicholas said. “So you hear them, also?” The fear had left his voice, replaced by barely concealed excitement.

“I do, sir. It is a power I inherited from my grandfather. Apart from him, I have never met another who possessed the power.”

“Nor I, Mr. Williams,” Nicholas smiled. “The sense is a mystery. No one in my own family ever possessed it, or if they did, they kept quiet. You have, it seems, greater control of your power, as you call it, than I, for I would never be able to hold — let alone control — the mind of a fully grown dragon. You must tell me how it felt to enter her thoughts. To loosen your tongue, I’ll even buy you another drink.”

“It was quite something, sir,” said Aaron as Nicholas placed another glass in front of him. “A feat I’d experienced only once before, when I was a boy and my mother took me to see a swamp-dragon in a travelling menagerie. The sadness of the animals, trapped in tiny cages with little food, dying slowly in a land far from their home, drew me in. When my mind grasped the thoughts of the dragon, their ferocity knocked me down. I saw as it saw, smelt as it smelt, and I looked up at my mother’s stern face and imagined devouring her flesh. The thought so excited and frightened me that I
pushed,
heaving with my mind to escape the terrible thoughts, and then my head felt clear, but I had pushed too hard. The dragon and all the animals broke through their cages and tore their cruel master to pieces before the guards finally shot them down.