Caller of Lightning Read online

  Polly squirmed in place as she thought. Her eyes looked to all the nooks and crannies of the library. She fidgeted with the white fabric of her dress, then picked through the books in the stack before her until she reached the one on the bottom, which happened to be William Gilbert’s 1600 treatise On the Magnet and Magnetic Bodies, and on the Great Magnet the Earth. The text was actually in Latin, but Polly translated the title quite without thinking, Latin having been one of the first things that Mr. Overton had taught her.

  “Well . . . ” She finally looked back to her tutor. “There is a problem with that.”

  “Go on.” Robert Overton was a gaunt and angular man, with eyes that seemed to see beyond his apparent thirty-odd years of age. Despite fashion favoring a clean face, he wore a short beard, which, along with a knowing smile, was currently concealed behind steepled fingers.

  Polly took a deep breath as she idly flipped through the pages of the Gilbert book without looking at them. “What do I do if the question has more than one answer, please?”

  Overton unsteepled his fingers and beamed. “If you believe there is more than one answer, you must share all those you have identified.” He ran a finger around the orrery’s copper base, then turned the key again a single time, renewing the vigor with which the tiny planets orbited the miniature sun. “Tell me, Polly, have you found that which you think can answer the question?”

  The girl nodded. “The orrery moves, as do the planets, according to Newton’s First Law. By the first law, you acted upon it by winding the key. The gears inside push each other as the spring unwinds. When it is unwinding, it keeps pushing, which we see as the planet’s moving. That’s why it is no longer at rest?”

  Overton nodded encouragingly. “Correct. Please continue.”

  “By the third law, it moved in an opposite reaction to the winding of the key, I think? Or maybe the gear? Or . . . ” Polly chewed her lip, thinking carefully. “Newton’s first plainly covers the mechanics of the situation. If you had asked me about the planets themselves, and not the orrery, I could stop there and be whole. But I think this is a trick question. Myrddin Emræs addresses things more fundamentally.”

  Polly held up her hands and made a rough circle with her fingers, squinting as she tried to visualize the gears. Her tongue poked out between her lips, and she moved her hands around, fiddling with imaginary clockworks. “So . . . by the law of your choice. The law of your will. The planets move as they shall, and it is not in human hands to change their course. But this is different. You decided to wind the key. A thought—intangible, formless, weightless, without measurable being—is what set the orrery in motion.”

  “And how, exactly, is that observation meaningful? The key is there. Anyone could wind it. It wasn’t my thought that did the winding. That was the work of three fingers and a wrist.”

  “Your fingers would have been just as still as the orrery, without the original generative thought. In Myrddin’s terms there is more to consider here. I don’t know what . . . but something. I’m sure of it.”

  “While being somewhat inaccurate, that was quite well done, Polly! Your interpretation of the laws is faulty, however. While you see past the simple into the complex, your vision is still clouded. We will address that in other lessons. When you can verbalize this insight more clearly, and in greater depth, the—”

  He stopped abruptly, blinking, and went pale.

  “No. It cannot be . . . ”

  Polly tilted her head, staring at Mr. Overton. This was odd. Her tutor had never done anything like this before. It seemed to her, suddenly, though his body was in the room with her, his eyes stared at something leagues away.

  Then he shook himself and was back as though nothing at all had happened. “Please excuse me, Polly. I’m sorry. I abandoned your instruction mid-sentence.”

  Polly waited expectantly, intensely curious about what had made her tutor lose focus.

  As he opened his mouth to resume, there was a rapping at the door.

  “Mr. Overton?” The voice of Polly’s mother, Margaret Stevenson, came faintly through the thick oak. “Can you take a moment? An important missive has just been delivered for you.”

  “Of course,” he called back. As he opened the door he looked toward Polly with an expression too stern to be taken seriously. “Reflect upon your answers and the text, please,” he instructed her.

  Margaret peered around the doorframe and caught her daughter’s eye, smiling encouragingly.

  Once both adults had stepped out of the room, Polly scrunched her eyebrows. “What are your secrets, Myrddin Emræs?” she said to herself as she stared at the orrery. The spring inside had almost completely unwound—the device barely moved, now.

  After a moment a bead of sweat dripped from her brow down along her cheek. “Laws of motion dictate that motion can be calculated, but the calculating act itself . . . the thought . . . ” she murmured, tracing imaginary letters in the air. With no visible touch, the orrery began to speed up. Polly smiled and leaned forward, narrowing the focus of her attention. Inside the metal base the crunch of a breaking gear could be heard.

  The orrery halted abruptly.

  Polly rocked back and almost fell off her stool. “Bugger,” she said, regaining her balance and smoothing her skirt. She guiltily glanced around the room to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, ready to yell at her for cursing. Realizing how silly that was, she sheepishly looked back to the broken orrery. Her little secret sometimes had unexpected results.

  Nodding once to herself, she squared her shoulders and sat primly, awaiting her tutor’s return, pretending nothing had happened.

  The

  Loxley Home

  Philadelphia,

  Pennsylvania Colony

  June 10th

  3

  He Must Be Told

  The storm outside was finally abating. Clouds passed, leaving a starry night in their wake.

  “Mr. Franklin?” Jane Loxley leaned over the snoring man. “Ben? Are you aright and just asleep?” She retreated from a particularly loud and forceful inhalation, though with a slight smile. The elder Franklin’s somnambulant soundings were answer enough. “I shall take that as a ‘yes’ then, that you are kipping down here until morning.”

  Benjamin Loxley’s study was much the opposite of Franklin’s. Where Franklin’s was dense with clutter and experiments and the tools of several trades, this room was controlled and highly organized. Books were fewer in number and contained to just one shelf, while most of the wall space was used to hang carefully levered sketches and diagrams. There were no piles of any sort. Drafting supplies sat in small crates at the back of the desk, and two chairs, as well as the divan, surrounded a small table intended to support socialization with clients.

  Jane yawned and stood. Being careful not to wake her accidental lodger, she tucked a thin cotton blanket over him. “Very well then, your further care is in the hands of my dear Benjamin. It’s too late for me.” She walked out of the study, leaving the supine Franklin, and the divan he lay upon, behind.

  In the house’s spacious kitchen, she found her husband and William Franklin engaged in intense conversation over the cook’s cutting table. Pulling out a tray from the cabinetry, she started to collect slices of bread and cheeses for the two men.

  “I don’t understand,” William said, in aggravated consternation.

  “Neither do I,” Loxley admitted.

  “I wish he’d wake up. Perhaps he could conceive an explanation.”

  Both men stared at the key on the table. It looked harmless enough, but sparked lightly whenever either of them brought their fingers near. The furrowed lines in Loxley’s brow deepened.

  “I have crafted more of the Leyden devices than I might count, as well as sundry other tools, for your father. While I haven’t his grasp of the underlying principles of the electric force—I know that nothing in those principles explains this. Ten jars and still th
e key sparks.” Loxley pointed to the counter across the way, where two ranks of Leyden jars sat in formal rows.

  William took a sliver of cheese while Loxley continued.

  “Ten! The electrostatic globe that Caspar Wistar and I built to your father’s specifications will create such a charge quickly enough, but you must turn the crank firmly and steadily to do so. This key is something else. Plain metal may convey charge, William; it doesn’t hold it. Yet we have now used this key to fill every Leyden jar in my possession, with no apparent diminution of its capacity.” He shook his head. “I admit I’m uncomfortable with its presence here. What if it discharges its load back to the heavens?”

  In the silence following this question, Jane stepped up next to her husband and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Benjamin. I love you, and honor both our friends as if they were part of my own family. But it is nearing midnight, and we have precious few hours before it will be time to wake again. I must abed.”

  “Ben shows no sign of waking?”

  “Lazarus slept less deeply before resurrection, I suspect, though he was surely quieter. Here are snacks for you and young William. If you don’t eat them, store them safely till morning in the waiter and you can have them for breakfast. As I can only guess at how late you will stay up, I’m afraid I will certainly be away by the time you rise. Until you do retire, please see to Ben and William as needed.”

  Benjamin nodded at his wife. “Once again, you are the only of us to show sense. I apologize in advance for the uselessness I will surely weigh upon you tomorrow, my dear.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Loxley,” said William. “We did not mean to impose.”

  “Hush. It will make a fine story to share,” she said, smiling. “Half the pleasure in knowing your father is getting to talk about him.” She pointed to the Leyden jars, a dimple visible in one cheek. “But please put those away, yes? I would like my kitchen back.”

  “Sleep, my dear. And don’t worry. I’m sure Ben will want to take all of them to his workshop.”

  Jane nodded, leaving the two to their muted conversation. She picked up a small tin candle lamp with ornately-holed sides and mounted the stairs to the second floor, then walked to her bedroom. By her expression, something was clearly on her mind. She took off her small blue cap and black ribbon, placing them on a wooden ball in her closet, then tied the ribbon out of habit as she spoke quietly to herself. “Just what have they done?”

  She went through her nightly ritual in a state of mild distraction, considering the problem. First she removed her gown, taking care with its rows of fabric gathered at both sides and the close-fitting elbow-length sleeves decorated with lace engageantes. This she smoothed out on the bed, straightening the crisscrossed blue ribbon over the stomacher and folded for wear on another day. Then she took off her matching petticoats, lifted the wooden busk from the front of her stays, and reached behind herself to loosen them enough to shrug out of. Lost in thought, Jane sat down at her dressing table and finally took off her stockings. Dressed now only in a plain white cotton shift, she let down her hair and was at last ready for bed. But her mind still fretted, and one finger traced the circular scar on her hip through the weave of her shift, over and over.

  He must be told, she thought.

  Jane picked up her candle lamp and left the bedroom.

  Her mending room was at the end of the second floor hallway. Once inside she closed the door, lit the waiting sconces, and pulled a small wooden chest from its hiding place under her darning station. The deep lacquer finish of the chest glowed with dark cherry accents in the flickering candle light; there was a stylized etching of a many-branched tree in the center of its lid. Opening the box she removed quill, ink, and paper, which she set to one side as she sat down before her table. She paused, gently biting her own lip, and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

  What I do now cannot be undone.

  Nevertheless, she opened the bottle of ink and took quill in hand. Her conclusions were certain. I’m sorry, my dear husband, but there are powers here beyond us. We must distance ourselves from the Franklins.

  She dipped the quill’s point and began to write. By the time she was done, her first careful words were already fading from view.

  The

  Franklin Home

  Philadelphia,

  Pennsylvania Colony

  June 27th

  4

  No Good Being Trouble

  The scents of just-cut spring onion, mashed corn, and fresh baked bread filled the room. Jemima was beginning the preparations for a meat pie, minding the corn porridge on the fire as she did. She wiped a bit of sweat from her brow with her sleeve and looked over at her husband, Peter. He and King—a seventeen-year-old slave who was the most recent addition to the Franklin household—were quietly going about their duties on benches near the fire, one applying dubbin to the household’s leather shoes, the other polishing the silverware.

  Despite the similarities of their work, their demeanors could not have been more different. Peter was engaged in his task, the silver, in a contented mood. As he polished, he sang hymns. Jemima smiled softly to herself. It had taken years to get him to stop singing songs of the old gods, particularly Shango, and embrace the music of their master. She knew in his heart of hearts the Christian god sat behind the old gods, but he at least left room for both. For her.

  At this moment, he sang the hymn “The Pharisee and the Publican,” which he had learned from a hymnal his master had printed some eleven years earlier. Jemima loved her husband’s voice, but wondered if the choice was intended to provoke, rather than lift, spirits. It was easy to take it as criticism of the younger slave.

  The Lord their different language knows,

  And different answers he bestows.

  The humble soul with grace he crowns,

  Whilst on the proud his anger frowns.

  Dear Father, let me never be

  Join’d with the boasting Pharisee . . .

  King ignored Peter, or pretended to. He worked the household shoes over, as if having to clean and polish them was both insult and injury. He sighed. He fidgeted impatiently. He banged the waxy lampblack dubbin down between applications. Even the way he handled the brush was an assault, as though the bristles would cut leather instead of shine it. To Jemima, his anger was as clear a scent as anything in her cooking pot.

  “Peter!” she called when her husband finished the hymn, and before he could start another. “You have much more to do there? I could use some meat from the cellar.”

  “It’s pretty good where it is.” He examined the gleaming silver service and nodded with satisfaction. Then he went to his wife, gave her a squeeze around the waist, and headed out back to the cellar. “I’ll return real quick.”

  Jemima started slicing turnips as she turned to frown at King. She was so practiced with her cutting knife that she didn’t have to watch her hands as she prepared the vegetables. “What is it that you are up to there?” she asked.

  King bent over his work, switching from brush to rag, suddenly diligent in his efforts with the shoes.

  “You heard me.” Jemima put down the knife and stepped over to the young man. She put her hand on top of his head. “You seem a bit out of sorts, child. The Lord has blessed us with a beautiful day. Why don’t you enjoy it?”

  King used his hand holding the wax rag to sweep her hand away. “It doesn’t matter, and I’m no child.”

  “All right, then.” Jemima went back to her own work with a single sad shake of her head. Mind it, she told herself. King is not Othello. You can’t take him into your heart like he is your child, even if he is of an age. It won’t bring Othello back, and it don’t seem this one is looking for a mother. She absently rubbed her rejected hand on her apron, wiping the lampblack off. But she couldn’t let it go. “King, it may or may not seem like it matters—as need be. What does matter is your outward manner. Right now, what I see is something I’m not going to suffer all day
. I have enough to worry on without you upsetting the masters.”

  King’s jaw clenched and his grip on the shoe tightened. Jemima was about to say something more when Sally Franklin walked in carrying a half-grown ginger kitten in her hands. At just nine years old, Sally was buoyantly sure of herself. She wore a huge grin and almost skipped as she walked.

  “Miss Sally! What are you doing in my kitchen with that animal? Shoo!” Jemima fetched a broom from the corner and pretended to sweep Sally out.

  Sally giggled. “I just needed milk for Kitty. Isn’t he beautiful?” She held him up for display, his rear legs dangling in the air. The kitten yawned indifferently.

  “You know your mama said you weren’t to make this one into a favorite. We need a good mouser, not a plaything.”

  Sally nodded in solemn agreement. “Oh, but he is! Mouser is even his name. You’re going to be a mighty hunter, aren’t you, Mouser?” She looked the kitten in the eyes. It contemplated her, completely unperturbed by her awkward management.

  Jemima favored Sally with a skeptical look but put away her broom and busied herself pouring milk from the daily half-pint into a saucer. With a mock frown she handed it to the little girl. “You know there’s not a lot of milk in the house, Sally. This is supposed to be only for coffee and tea.”

  “Yes, but I want him to grow up to be big and strong, you see. Bigger than any dog! I’ll feed him and tend him every day.” Sally draped Mouser over the crook of one arm—the kitten didn’t so much as twitch at the transfer—and took hold of the full saucer carefully with her now free hand. With a happy parting shout of “Thank you, ’Mima!” she vanished back into the interior of the house.