Goggles, Gears, and Gremlins (SteamGoth Anthology Book 3) Read online

  “Ah yes, the so-called ‘bed.’”

  “You will be amazed!” The Professor whispered, as much to himself as to the rest of us.

  “And richly reimbursed, I would trust!” responded Mr. Reynard.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  The next several months were extraordinarily busy at Old Fenby Farm. The Professor had me hire a number of hands from the village and bring several of our dependencies and outbuildings up to snuff. It got so that my wife grew tired of the hammering and workmen wandering about, and all of the reconstruction, none of which actually was of much benefit to the household. Still; as assistant and agent for the Professor, there were fees and small profits acquired to my financial benefit.

  Leaky thatched roofs were replaced with wood and slates; floors were replaced or rebuilt, and then covered with expensive tin sheeting, or in one case copper, which would at other times have been consigned to Her Majesty’s naval establishments for bottom sheathing. Walls were plastered and whitewashed, and windows repaired, or enlarged and replaced.

  The workmen were duly informed that we would be working on the sanitary breeding of animals (true enough, as far as it went), and that cleanliness was of the greatest importance. There was some grumbling at changing their boots for slippers, back and forth from indoors to outdoors, but on the whole the progress was smooth.

  Then came the supplies and apparatus pouring into the farm through the floodgates of Mr. Reynard’s very deep purse. Chemicals in jeroboams, microscopes, glassware, equipment for creating electricity, and a number of oddities too many to mention and too queer for me to understand, all came through my gates in both quantity and shining glass and brass quality. The Professor told me where to put it, how to set things up, and how to handle the more dangerous substances, but he did not bother to inform me of the whys or wherefores of any of it. Every time I would ask about the details, the Professor would reply: “All in good time.” I and the hands put our backs to it, and he had no complaints regarding my performance.

  Meanwhile, Reynard’s factors would accompany some of the more “sensitive,” by which I mean expensive, shipments, trying to poke about as we hoisted the items off the wagons and into the various buildings; or stowed supplies in the barn for further, future allocation. From what they could see from their snooping I was confident that they would have nothing to report, but that the growing establishment was shipshape and Bristol fashion; everything neat and clean, even if none of us had the slightest glimmer of what the Professor was doing.

  Once the establishment was complete; my role was reduced considerably, and I could concentrate on farm affairs and familial duties. From time to time the Professor would call on me to assist in holding and pouring some vials, or provide me a schedule for the insertion of some potion or turning some glassware or turning on and off some heater; but except for occasional vile smells, and some not-so-vile, life at Old Fenby Farm had firmly settled back into its seasonal routines.

  A year passed, and then 18 months, and I was starting to worry about the patience of our financial benefactor (my assistant’s income being a small, but useful, portion I was consequently adding a number of other improvements to both household and farmhold). Mr. Reynard “blessed” us with a number of visits; all bluster and impatience, acting more like a landlord with a wayward Irish tenant than an investor. On one trip he not only insulted one of my farm workers and my wife, but also made disparaging reference to the quality and condition of my livestock! None of our efforts were good enough or fast enough to satisfy him; and I think he enjoyed playing the Turk.

  The Professor, of course, took it all in stride, despite Mr. Reynard’s tendency to single him out for additional abuse; mostly about hoity-toity scholars and their expensive impracticalities and fussy exactness. The Professor would listen patiently, calmly explain that the expense would be well worth the results, and return to his tasks in the privacy of one of several laboratories where only he and I could be admitted due to the risk of contamination.

  But finally, after what seemed an eternity of abuse, Professor Wilkinson declared the prototype finished, and himself pleased with the results, and invited Mr. Reynard for the first demonstration.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “Well;” the financier looked skeptically at the bed without sheets, “this is what all the time and treasure is about? Your time and MY treasure, I might add!”

  The bed stood four-square, plain and unimpressive in the middle of the room of the main laboratory. It was a simple iron bedstead with a steel and copper sub-frame holding up the mattress where the wooden slats would otherwise be. It was the mattress itself that looked remarkable. It was like a great slab of marble, but of a uniform very light grey, with no striations or patterns at all. The corners and edges were as crisp as those on an unused anvil, as straight and sharp as if they had been machined by one of the new engines used in the shipyards or railyards. It looked extremely uncomfortable.

  “It looks extremely uncomfortable, if you ask me.” opined Mr. Reynard; “Would you like to demonstrate why this is so much better than your average bed and sheets; and why we shall make a great profit from it?”

  The Professor smiled. “You really have to experience it for yourself.” He leaned over and stroked the surface. “But here, feel for yourselves.”

  Mr. Reynard and I leaned over and stroked the surface of the bed. It was extraordinary! It was like nothing I ever felt before. It was soft but firm, and radiated a smooth, easy warmth to the skin of my hand. I pushed a bit and it yielded under my hand, but then grew subtly firmer. I started to sit down on it; when the Professor abruptly interrupted me.

  “Ah; Mr. Dent! Please don’t! I think this honor belongs to our benefactor.”

  Mr. Reynard smiled broadly. It was the first time I had seen him smile when the expression of happiness had actually reached his eyes. I could tell that he had been seduced at first touch, as had I. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and turned towards the Professor.

  “This really is delightful! What is it; I mean, what is it made of?”

  “Something I whipped together from fungus and microbes and various small creatures, plus a touch of warm-blooded animal, um, ‘heritage’ I would say; just to keep it simple.”

  “Ah; it’s wonderful.” continued the financier and he stretched himself out full length upon the bed. Part of the bed rose up to meet his head as a pillow, as the rest conformed to his clothed body.

  “You see, you don’t even have to undress to be comfortable.” The Professor said with a confident smile.

  “Our fortunes are made!” replied Mr. Reynard and his face assumed an expression of beatific bliss that I had seldom seen in a man of his status and bearing. His eyes closed and he immediately fell into a restful sleep; as fast as one might blow-out a candle. The bed turned from a uniform grey to a pleasant shade of yellow.

  I noticed that he was sinking further into the bed, and looked to the Professor.

  “Dear me! Professor, he appears…”

  “All perfectly normal.”

  “…but should not he be awakened so that we can plan?”

  Reynard now seemed to be even deeper in the bed.

  “Oh, there shall be plenty of time for planning; soon.”

  Reynard was breathing easily, easing ever deeper into the bed.

  “But what will happen if he goes too deep?”

  “I guess we shall just have to see, won’t we?”

  Reynard’s face and chest and the toes of his shoes became islands in the quiet but sure embrace of the bed, then only his face projected, and then his nose, and then nothing. The bed leveled out to its slab-like configuration. I turned wide-eyed to Professor Wilkinson.

  “Is he…”

  Then I heard it, first a little clatter, then a couple of “tings” and a rattle from under the bed, then another light clatter. I looked at the Professor, then kneeled down and looked under the bed. A scattering of metal studs and b
uttons and coins scattered about, some small nails lay on the floor near the foot of the bed from the shoe heels. I spotted the professor looking across from the other side of the bed.

  “Hmmm, all metallic, nothing organic; not even teeth. That is quite interesting.”

  He reached across, under the bed, and pulled an object towards him. He knelt and examined it. It was a substantial gold pocket watch. He pushed the stem, and the cover flicked open with a click.

  “Still ticking.” he said, with mild amazement.

  We both stood up and stared at each other across the bed without sheets. He closed the watch and put it in his waistcoat pocket, giving it a couple of possessive pats.

  “I trust that you will mention nothing about the unfortunate incident that you witnessed tonight?”

  I nodded my head in assent.

  “Good. Now, have a seat, here.” And he proffered me a place in a well-upholstered armchair.

  “I think you need to relax; can I offer you a drink? Rum; or perhaps gin?’

  I nodded agreement. The chair was pleasantly warm, and very, very comfortable.

  Sometimes wishes do come true…

  To Serve and He Provide

  © 2013, Rebecca Barnhardt

  Sheamus Saunders followed the dirt road back from the inlet. His city feet were swollen and blistered; his hands had begun to callus and his freckles were now hardly visible on his frequently and presently burned skin. Sheamus followed this road every day, twice. A sack of netting twisted in knots, and a single all steel rod with a fixed linen line were his tools. Sheamus was born in the city three decades before, to a run of the mill mother and a swindler for a father. Seeing and experiencing many heartbreaking events, Sheamus became a mean and inflexible man. Through his life he both cheated and lied, not thinking once of another before he acted, and yet he managed to do one thing right despite himself. As a merchant some years before Sheamus met and married a beautiful and intelligent women named Margaret Mely, but not for her beauty or intelligence. He cared only for her family name, coincidently attached to a very popular fishery of the time. Owned by her father and later passed to Margaret after his death; the Mely Fishery was, in its day, the most known and popular fishery on this side of the country. Once known for its reliable and timely service, time and bad luck had reduced it to a single man and his straight steel rod with a linen line.

  As Sheamus walked home he felt the weight of the work that his days now entailed. Sheamus shoved his way into his home. He dumped his load of nets, and discarded his pole carelessly to the floor while letting out a bombardment of words that made Margaret go red in the cheeks. The sight of his empty hands made her stomach tense and growl. She lowered her head afraid to show her disappointment in him. Sheamus threw himself in his chair, unblinking, and began a sort of low growl. Margaret knelt by his feet and began unlacing his boots. He was drenched in seawater from head to toe, a constant dripping from his hair to the carpet. Anxious that an inquiry would only enrage him, Margaret remained silent. She placed his boots by the door and went for dry clothes. When she returned her patience was rewarded; Sheamus began his story slowly. Sure that his boat had been attacked, or crashed on the rocks; Sheamus had been thrown from the deck into his own nets. He had one free arm that he had frantically tried to right himself with but the waves had continually knocked him from side to side. The weight of the nets must have torn them from the boat and Sheamus described the light at the surface as it began to fade. He looked at Margaret then, both confused and a little scared, speaking faster as he went. Sheamus explained that he didn’t believe that he had just been sinking; that it felt like he had been pulled, that the water had rushed by him and his ears had felt as if they’d burst. He held his hands on either side of his head; sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. Then the decent had been stopped; two old fishermen arrived and caught the boat being pulled around the inlet by a single thread of netting. They had pulled Sheamus from the water, helped him dock and sent him on his way, laughing all the while. Sheamus suddenly rose and kicked the footstool into the fireplace, embers exploding in every direction. He screamed in frustration, his fists balled at his sides. Afraid of upsetting him further Margaret helped Sheamus into bed. She watched him for several hours and thought of a life where she had not fallen for his deceptions. A life where this rat had not destroyed her fathers’ life work and her life along with it. If only those men had not pulled that net from the sea. Margaret immediately scolded herself for such a thought, but it wasn’t the first time she’d wished for Sheamus’ death. Unfortunately for Margaret, a wish was only a wish. It was not the responsibility of a wife to change a husband, only to serve and he provide. She dressed for bed and joined her husband.

  Sheamus swam with an outstanding school of fish. So large in size and brilliant in color, surely just one would bring a hefty sum at market. Sheamus twisted and kicked. He swam as hard as he could, getting closer and closer and closer, he reached but the school effortlessly turned and darted away. He quickly lost his patience. No fish being worth this amount of work. Sheamus renounced his chase and immediately began to drown. His kicking sustained, this time to reach the surface; but Sheamus could find no top, no bottom. He couldn’t distinguish any up from down, there was only cold empty darkness in every direction as far as he could see, the fish were gone; everything was gone. A hand entered his and he started. Completely stunned by the exquisiteness of the women that pulled him towards the light; the light that was now very clearly there. Sheamus’ face broke the surface and he gulped in the air. He turned quickly to find his rescuer but found only Margaret; wide-eyed with worry and shaking, wisps of red hair escaping her sleeping bonnet. Without looking back he dressed and gathered his things, stomping and slamming the doors on his way out.

  Sheamus arrived at the inlet well before sunrise having thought of nothing but the women from his dream. Not thoughts of her eyes or who she might be, but of her bare breasts and how her skin had been the color of caramel. Sheamus had reached the dock and apprehensively made his way to an unsavory little boat. A single mast and sail, a small bench and a crudely built box, presumably for fish were the contents of the dinghy. In chipped paint, hardly legible, read “My Little Margaret” along one side. The two older fishermen from the day before, bearded and gray sniggered as they watched Sheamus cast off. He overturned his bag and set to untangling his nets. He again recalled the way the light had silhouetted the women’s long, lean body. How her dark hair had flowed in all directions around her, reaching past her behind, venturing between her legs and caressing her thighs.

  Sheamus carefully sailed alongside the outcropping of rocks that led out towards the sea. Past the entrance to the inlet, Sheamus sat for hours dreaming. His fishing line was left cast out; no doubt suspended bait-less. His nets were twisted, being pulled by the tide and not a single catch occupied his fish box. Sheamus stood to untangle the nets but a sudden shaking of the boat returned him to his previous station. He began to tremble with fear. He sat completely still, barely breathing waiting for what was coming next. Minutes past and nothing happened. Sheamus was convincing himself that it must have been a wave when he heard a small splash from the back of the boat. He turned as quickly as he could but saw nothing. Sheamus stared out at an empty ocean, a single sea bird circling ahead. A second splash soaked him through and through; his quivering began again. Seawater dripped from the tip of his nose as he whimpered. He begged for someone to save him, but no one would hear. A beautifully clear voice assured Sheamus that everything would be well; He jumped, more than anything surprised to hear a woman. She giggled and he saw her, swimming naked at the side of the boat was the women of his dreams. One gracefully toned arm after another guiding one backstroke then the next, pulling behind them a perfect form. Her breasts were playfully buoyant and her small feet kicked making one hardly visible circle after another, her thighs rubbing together with each kick.

  Sheamus stared at her, his mouth agape and his heart pounding in h
is chest. She called to Sheamus, begged for him to join her. He found himself reaching for the side of the boat. The women teased that she could feel what he wanted, that she could see what he’d done. All the while swimming around the boat smiling and giggling, a sparkle from the white of her particularly sharp teeth. She began to speak of myths and stories, about the goddess Atargatis. She said that long ago, Atargatis had fallen in love with a mortal man. She winked at Sheamus. The man, in time, deceived Atargatis leaving her heartbroken and ashamed for ever falling for the lies of a mortal man. The woman’s face changed; she was sad and pale, she seemed much thinner. She told Sheamus that Atargatis was so ashamed of her failings that she transformed herself into a creature of the sea. Sheamus watched as the women stopped circling. She was so close to him now, only a few feet away; her eyes were the color of the ocean itself, her fingers unusually long. She collected her hair and pulled it behind her back, her collarbone protruding in a most unnatural fashion. She went on, moving closer all the while never dropping eye contact with Sheamus. That day as Atargatis transformed herself into what your sailors today might call a mermaid, she swore to protect the hearts of the mortal women when she could. She swims up and down the coasts listening to their dreams and wishes and tries to grant them when she can. On occasion, she succeeds. Sheamus watched wide-eyed, not being able to help the grin he wore from ear to ear. The woman swam closer; only she wasn’t quite the woman she was before. In fact she wasn’t a woman at all. Where her skin minutes before had been a beautiful sun kissed brown it was now a disturbing grey color with blues and yellows and greens bleeding through. Large clumps of hair sat about her head and she was no longer something firm but bloated. Looking more like a waterlogged corpse than any living thing. Her eyes were rounded and bulging from nearer the sides of her head than the front, a film clouding them both making them white. She lunged for Sheamus grabbing onto both wrists, pulling slightly only to take his balance. Sheamus was leaned over the boat at an absurd angle being held up only by her strength; he couldn’t move. Tears ran down his cheeks. She placed her head next to his and whispered to him, “Your wife wishes for you not to return fisherman.” Sheamus was suddenly and violently pulled over the side of the boat. He could do nothing but see and comprehend. He watched as a woman with a fish’s tail pulled him into a dark void never to see the shore again…