Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (23 page)

Terrence boarded the train and frowned at the commotion as a thief was dragged away. “It never fails that someone tries to sneak on,” he said and sighed. He glanced at the mother and son climbing up and offered them a hand.

“Allow me,” he said, taking the suitcase from her.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied. He noticed her mourning veil and the drawn look on the young boy’s all-too weathered face. So many lost loved ones these days. It tore at his heart. He carried the suitcase onto the train car and made sure they were situated before he placed the luggage in the overhead compartment.

“Now if you need anything, just let me know.”

She smiled. “Thank you, sir.” Then she turned to her boy and dabbed at a bit of soot that had gotten on his cheek.

“My pleasure, miss,” Terrence said before he moved on to check the other passengers.

After the train began moving, he kept a watchful eye on the mother and child. After a time, he came back to check on them. “How are you and your boy doing, miss?”

“His name is Alexander,” she said, soothing the boy’s hair. “He’s had it rough of late. His father—well, his father won’t be coming home.”

Terrence nodded. “If you don’t mind my asking, was it the war?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. “We just found out a few months ago. Everything of his is gone. I even had to sell our home to move out west because we have nowhere else to go.”

Terrence glanced at Alexander’s face, which seemed so full of sadness. His father wasn’t going to return home. It had to be hard on him.

“Excuse me, could you tell me the time?” she asked him. “It’s his birthday today and I want to toast him at the hour he was born.”

“Of course.” He opened the watch and noticed with a frown that the hands had stopped moving. “Hmm . . .” he murmured. He tried winding the watch, but the hands didn't move. He stared at it for a long moment, and ran his thumb across the surface. He couldn't help but think of his lovely wife and how hard she must have worked to afford such a luxurious watch.

When he had proposed to her, he promised a life different from the smoke and soot of the city. He believed the train would take him around the world. Then the war had broken out. It had changed everything. So many broken promises, lives lost, hope forgotten.

Grace had been his salvation, his light in a world that had forgotten its purpose. Even if the watch never worked again, he knew the memory of her gift was the keeping of her promise to him; to always love him and be by his side.

He turned the watch over and opened the back compartment. “Ah!” he said, noting a bit of dust had gotten into the gears. He blew it out carefully and was pleased to see the hands start to move again. That’s when he saw the small image of a boy within, with writing on the back.

“
For my son, Alexander. I’ll always be with you
,” he read aloud. “Alexander? Well now, that’s interesting. Same as your name. And this picture . . . it’s you!”

The mother looked up and stared at the watch in surprise. “That watch! That was Jim's watch. His father gave it to him many years ago. But—I don’t understand? I thought it would have been lost along with his body. How is it that you have it?”

“My wife gave it to me as an anniversary gift.”

“To think it traveled all this way . . .” she said, tears forming in her eyes. She turned to Alexander and hugged him tightly. “You see, Alex? Your father is always with us. He’ll never leave us alone. Things will be all right now. I promise.” Then she turned back to the conductor, grateful for one last moment with something of her husband’s. “God bless you. I think he can rest now knowing we’ll be all right.”

Terrence stared at the grieving widow as she spoke and hugged her child. He could see Grace in her. He glanced back down at the watch and felt a whisper that he couldn't quite make out, but in his heart, he knew. Slowly he smiled. “Here,” he said. “I believe this belongs to you.” He tenderly handed the watch to the boy.

Alexander stared down at it in surprise. His mother stared at the watch before gazing up at Terrence again. “But, sir, we couldn’t possibly . . . I mean, are you sure? I can’t prove that this is my husband’s, and I didn’t mean to insinuate—”

Terrence’s smile broadened. “I believe my wife would approve. Besides, I think the little boy's dad made sure this watch found its way back to him.” He smiled at Alexander, who cradled the watch gently in his small hands. Then Terrence tipped his conductor hat. “You take care now, miss. You and Alexander. Happy birthday, son.”

Alexander stared after the conductor. Somehow his father had kept his promise. He couldn’t come home, but in a way, he would always be with them. That was enough. He held the watch to his heart, thinking of his father and his voice. He missed him so much.

In the reflection of the train window, a mother and son held each other. “It’s going to be all right. I promise, Alex.” Behind them, for the briefest of moments, a man could be seen standing in a brown uniform, smiling lovingly down on them.

“I know, Mom.”

Winnie tried to ignore the unsettling yet familiar buzz that became audible as the noise of the departing train receded. To her ears, it sounded like a muffled conversation with a familiar cadence, as maddening as a half-remembered name on the tip of the tongue.

Winnie’s cousin, Grace, had arranged to meet her at the station but was nowhere to be found. As children, Grace had never been known for her punctuality. While a simple delay was the most likely explanation, an irrational, gnawing worry of being lost with little money or prospects forced Winnie to double-check the platform.

The station itself wasn't much more than a wooden walkway alongside the recessed train rails. A sign above the telegraph office—which doubled as the ticketing office—announced the town's name, Carlton, with unassuming, roughly painted letters. Aside from being home to Winnie's remaining family and of De Falco Electrical Works—which Winnie considered famous even though no one else seemed to have heard of it—there was nothing to set it apart from any of the other dozens of towns the train had passed on its way here.

A young man in tattered clothes occupied the only bench in the station, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Winnie had heard the expression “slack-jawed stare” before, but she'd never seen such a literal example of it. The young man's mouth hung partway open and his eyes were unfocused. Winnie wasn't sure what was more unsettling, his vacuous stare, or the tantalizingly indecipherable buzzing.

The other occupant of the minimalist station was a balding man who stood inside the telegraph office, leaning out the window to catch whatever faint breeze might blow his way. He, too, stared blankly into space, but his expression seemed more familiar. She'd borne it herself in the most painfully dull moments in her own telegraph office in New Jersey.

Thinking that the operator might be able to provide her with directions, Winnie approached the office. As she did, she realized that the buzzing sound was coming from inside, and she forgot all about asking for directions. Curiosity replaced the brain-needling mystery, and she hoped to catch a glimpse of the new machine that was the source of the sound.

The machine, or its twin in New Jersey, could arguably be called her successor.

The operator glanced at her without much enthusiasm as she approached, and asked, “Got a message, miss?”

Winnie shook her head. “I was curious about your telegraph machine, sir. I am—that is, I used to be—a telegraph operator.”

“I used to be one, too,” the man said, offering a grim smile. “What would you like to know?”

“The messages are much faster than I'm used to. Can you actually understand them?”

“No ma'am. Nobody can. The machine takes care of almost everything. Sending, receiving, routing. I just take care of the machine.”

“Can you still send messages manually?”

“I'm not allowed to, unless the machine breaks down and I can't fix it, and I have to message New York about it. Otherwise, I just maintain it, transcribe incoming messages for delivery, and submit outgoing messages. But it's a lot faster and more accurate than human operators. Even overseas messages are faster and cheaper now. We get a lot more international cables now. Like India; I get and send those probably twice a week.”

“May I come in and take a look?”

He shook his head. “They are really strict about the rules now, miss. How long ago did you work for the telegraph?”

“Until just last week. They are installing the new machine in my office, and I decided to move on. I came here to be closer to family. My cousin is getting married on Sunday.”

“Oh! Are you Grace Anderson's cousin?”

“Yes.”

He motioned just past Winnie's shoulder. “It looks like she's here for you.”

Winnie turned. Grace hastened onto the train platform as quickly as decorum and her shoes would allow. As teenagers, Grace had been a tomboy, more so than Winnie. A redhead given to wearing boy's shirts and overalls, the younger Grace wouldn't have cared who saw her barefoot in a flat-out run. Now she wore a dress and carried a parasol. 

Winnie bid the telegraph operator a hasty farewell, and crossed to meet her cousin. She embraced her old playmate with sincere pleasure and a wide smile.

“Winnie, it's wonderful to see you,” said Grace. “Mama is so glad to have you stay with us.” She motioned to Winnie's carpetbag. “Where's the rest of your luggage?”

“This is it,” Winnie admitted, suddenly self-conscious. “I sold everything I could before I left. I'm starting fresh.” The last was a bit of fiction she told herself when she discovered that her room full of books, slicks, and odd mechanical tinkering projects—her life for three years—wouldn't sell for much more than the price of her train ticket.

“I just realized that it was time to . . .” Winnie hesitated, realizing she was invoking her late mother's words, but couldn't come up with a better way of phrasing it. “To settle down, I suppose.”

Grace cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Is that so? It's funny. I didn't think that would ever happen when we were girls. As I recall, you were never happy unless you were getting us both into trouble.”

“As I recall, you had few objections.”

“None at all. I wouldn't trade those times for the world! Mama used to call you an 'instigator.' You pulled everyone around you into your adventures.” Before Winnie could protest, Grace added, “But now I'm pulling you into mine. I can't tell you how happy I am to have you here for the wedding. And if you want to settle down, Mama is already making preparations for you.”

They started down the road into town. Before losing sight of the railroad station, Winnie glanced over her shoulder. The slack-jawed young man sitting on the bench had not changed his expression, but he'd turned to stare after the two of them. Winnie looked away.

As they made their way into town towards Grace's family's home, they caught up on family events, and Grace listed some of the people in town that Winnie should meet—mostly eligible bachelors. Winnie found herself only half paying attention, preoccupied by the memory of the disturbing stare.

Winnie asked, “Did you notice that young man sitting by the telegraph office?”

“Oh, that's just Joshua Sayre. Don't worry about him. He's harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“He's not altogether right in the head, as Mama likes to say. He's been dumb since birth. Can’t speak a word. Poor kid. I don't think he understands what is going on most of the time. One of God's special children, Mama says.”

“Why is he at the train station?”

“I think he goes there every day. I don't know why. I suppose he is happy there, and he doesn't make trouble.”