The Aylesford Skull (54 page)

THE JAM POT

T
he afternoon weather was particularly fine – a warm breeze out of the west, perfect for eating outdoors. St. Ives contemplated birthdays, his own having come round again, time passing away. They’d had some shrewdly hard knocks, including a cool and bewildered acknowledgement from the Crown. There would be no recompense for the destroyed airship despite the arrest of Guido Fox, betrayed by de Groot along with Lord Moorgate, who was assumed to have fled.

But there was much to celebrate, most of it assembled before his eyes at this very moment. Eddie practiced throwing a boomerang that was a gift from Bill Kraken, who had carried it out of Port Jackson when he had fled Australia. He had given Cleo a kite decorated with a grinning moon face and with an immensely long tail. The kite rode above the broad lawn in front of the hopping huts, rising and swooping on the breeze, the sun high overhead and the sky a deep, luminous blue. Next week the huts would be full of workers, bringing in the harvest.

Eddie held his boomerang now, readying himself, squinting toward a platoon of enemy soldiers that stood in neat ranks on a distant crate, threatening the peace of the quiet afternoon. He threw the boomerang smoothly, and instead of wheeling off into the roses and smashing blossoms as it had the habit of doing, it described a neat circle, rising and then dipping toward the ranked enemy troops, falling upon them soundlessly and destroying them. St. Ives applauded, shouted encouragement to Cleo, and then turned his attention to Gilbert Frobisher who was telling Alice that he had finally seen the great bustard, on the wing over the marsh just yesterday, the creature’s body the size of a Smithfield ham. Hodgson had sought out the nest after seeing the bird take flight and had photographed a wonderful golden egg like something out of the Arabian Nights.

Mother Laswell and Mrs. Langley came out through the open door of the gallery now and down the several steps, carrying covered dishes toward three great tables set up on the broad lawn. Hasbro carried a tray bristling with bottles of French wine – Chateau Latour, which Gilbert and Tubby had brought from the marsh along with crates of Gilbert’s pale ale, two vast pheasant-and-mushroom pies, and a tremendous treacle and cream pudding. Arthur Doyle and Jack Owlesby, seeing the train of food and drink crossing the lawn, gave off their game of Irish skittles and hurried forward. Dorothy had just knocked another pin out of the circle, and so accused them of abandoning the game from fear of losing to a woman.

St. Ives regarded the food and drink with an openly gluttonous look and thought of Tubby Frobisher’s signifying jam pot. Abruptly he wondered what had become of Finn Conrad, who had been away this past hour and a half on a mysterious errand. Hot food wanted eating, after all, but he didn’t like the idea of sitting down to it without Finn in the company.

Cleo let out a sudden shriek, handed her roll of kite string to Bill Kraken, and set out at a run toward the wisteria alley, catching and passing her brother, who waved his boomerang as he ran. St. Ives heard Alice laugh, and he stood up, feeling her hand on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, darling,” she said to him.

Across the lawn, coming in from the direction of Aylesford, Finn rode atop an immense Indian elephant draped in scarlet and gold cloth decorated with bangles. It came into St. Ives’s head that he was quite possibly dreaming, but Alice’s touch and her happy laughter were far too real to be a figment. The beast skirted the rose garden with an admirable delicacy and walked placidly toward them, looking around with what appeared to be satisfaction on its wrinkled face before raising its trunk so that Finn Conrad could hand it a length of sugar cane.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
’m immensely thankful to a number of people who helped bring this novel into being: Tim Powers, who generated ideas for the book over long lunches while I took frantic notes: a lot of pizzas under the bridge; my wife, Viki, who once again tirelessly and patiently corrected and commented on various drafts as yet another story came into being; and my friend Paul Buchanan, who read and reacted to early drafts and late drafts over plates of
juevos rancheros
at the Filling Station.

I’m especially thankful to John Berlyne, who put me up to writing this book in the first place.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J
ames Paul Blaylock was born in Long Beach, California in 1950, and attended California State University, where he received an MA. He was befriended and mentored by Philip K. Dick, along with his contemporaries K.W. Jeter and Tim Powers, and is regarded – along with Powers and Jeter – as one of the founding fathers of the steampunk movement. Winner of two World Fantasy Awards and a Philip K. Dick Award, he is currently director of the Creative Writing Conservatory at the Orange County High School of the Arts, where Tim Powers is Writer in Residence. Blaylock lives in Orange CA with his wife, they have two sons.