Bats of the Republic Read online

  v3.1

  I can do nothing but fly in the wake of my kin.

  I will soar onward undaunted and die on the wing.

  —Alasdair Roberts

  And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour…

  —Joanna Newsom

  I’m not happy.

  —Favorite saying of my grandfather’s

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  BATS OF THE REPUBLIC: An Illuminated Novel

  About the Author

  It was the third massacre I’d witnessed.

  It was by far the worst.

  Those men who had met with death were strewn about me, in grotesque geometries, inky blood leaking from bent limbs. I scratched my way through the desert scrub, the smoke breaking on a clearing.

  I could see the streaming bats in the sky again. Tumbling toward a certain death, panicked. As was I. I watched my life’s work, all the species I had discovered, escape over my head. The sharp clap of musket fire, though I could not see its source. Slow and beautiful, the bats fell from the sky. The burnt husks of extinguished stars.

  Texas, the last outpost on my beastly errand, so big and strong, was collapsing around me. The Republic would fail.

  Even if it meant my death, I was determined not to likewise fail. I had no one left. Nothing. I had no weapon.

  Only the letter to deliver into his hands.

  It was then, in that fresh graveyard, that I saw him, and the veil fell from my eyes. It was then that I saw the future.

  To those who brewed my blood,

  in particular

  MY GRANDFATHER

  ∧∧ When Zeke received news of his grandfather’s death, he retrieved the sabre that hung on his mantel and used it to sever the power lines to his house. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The sabre was heavy, with a silver handle. It was very old. The power lines were shiny copper tubes, full of pressurized steam. They ran up the side of a watchpost that towered over his home like a tree. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ It took three good swings. The first severed the casing and dented the door. The second broke the semaphore and phosphor lines clustered inside. The third severed the main power tube and a blast of steam fissed into the still evening. ∧∧ The force of the expulsion hit him square in the chest, right over his heart. He took two backward steps. His white dress shirt was soaked. The taste of phosphor filled his mouth. ∧∧ The pressure meter spun backward and the watchpost slowly exhaled the last of its steam. The phosphor lamps lining his block flickered and their green light faded to dull dark. Quiet took the street, as all the pressurized steam vacated the block’s power lines. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ It took little physical energy, but Zeke was exhausted. His arm went limp and the sabre clattered to the street. He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ His cousin Bic had told him the news. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Dust blew through the city-state around him. A flat dread overtook him. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ I could not feel. I was bright blank inside. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke shuffled indoors, leaving the sabre in the street. ∧∧ His body collapsed onto the floor mat. The clockwork clicked to a halt inside the timepiece on his mantel. The hour was frozen. He removed his boots and his dress shirt, which was ruined. ∧∧ ∧∧ He sat, waiting in his perfect dark. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He waited for a knock at the door. He waited for the whistling alert of the Law. He waited for someone watching to notice what he had done. ∧∧ ∧∧ He thought he could hear the blood pulsing heavy in his veins. He scanned his apartment. It seemed foreign. There were the rounded white walls and simple furniture, identical to every unit on his block. There was the kitchen, with neat little cabinets. A porcelain sink and a single dirty teacup. Eliza had rolled the mats and lined them up along the baseboards. He loved her, even at her most fastidious. There was the mantel with the stopped timepiece. And pegs to hold the sabre, now missing. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The weapon had belonged to his grandfather. And his grandfather before him. He did not know how many generations it had been passed down through his family. He wondered which of his ancestors was the last to use it. He wished his grandfather were still alive so he could ask him. He sat for a long time. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Eliza came home. Her brown work uniform was buttoned up tight. Her face was flush, her dark eyebrows twisted. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “What’s going on? How long has the power been out?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke stared at the timepiece. “About an hour.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Did you check the box on the watchpost outside?” Zeke didn’t answer. Eliza dropped her satchel and went outside. Copper tubes clattered in the street. He heard her drag the heavy sabre back up their walk. She locked the door and pulled the shades. ∧∧ ∧∧ “You’d better hope no one was in that watchpost. You’ll go to jail.” She stood in the darkened livingroom, peering out through the shades. The air fluttered. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, what is wrong? You are not acting like yourself.” ∧∧ ∧∧ He slowly uncurled his back, lying down flat on the floor. He closed his eyes and waited. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “We need to get out of Texas.” She put the sabre back in its place above the mantel and ran her finger along the dull edge. ∧

  ∧∧ Eliza changed out of her work uniform in the bedroom. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I have to go back to Chicago-Land for the funeral,” Zeke said. ∧∧ “Of course,” Eliza said. “I’m sure your grandmother can get clearance for you to travel.” ∧∧ Zeke stuffed clothes into his bag robotically. His hand-kerchiefs were limp and drab. ∧∧ ∧∧ Eliza stood up behind him, and cautiously touched his shoulder.

  ∧∧ “It’s late. You can do that tomorrow.” She made the hand signal for morning. “I’m going to make a cup of tea. Let’s drink it on the roof.” ∧∧ Zeke nodded, almost imperceptibly. He could easily imagine his grandfather in Chicago-Land, at home, reading the paper. He let himself be led into the kitchen and then up onto the roof of their unit. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke and Eliza sat in their familiar chairs, placed on the roof for this purpose. It was unusually dark with the power out. Beyond their street, the dull green phosphorescent lamps slowly blinked all the way to the edge of the barrier. The city-state, and all the lights with it, stopped there. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Settling in beside Eliza, Zeke instinctively reached out for her hand. She put her hand in his, moving it around like a burrowing animal until it found a comfortable place. Eliza’s hands were small and delicate. Hand signals were a way to avoid the listening ears of the government, but Zeke sometimes preferred the way Eliza spoke with her hands. They had a precise grace that was hypnotizing. It was something Zeke loved about her. ∧∧ ∧∧ “They must be inspecting the watchpost,” Eliza said. Muddled voices rose up from the street. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “You worry me, Zeke. You’re lucky there wasn’t a Recorder in the top of it.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “There hardly ever is,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The sun had already sunk below the barrier’s false horizon. The evening was a relief from the long sharp afternoons when the blistering light bounced off the white walls of all
the buildings, creating a dry, hot haze. Dust coated everything. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “There isn’t enough funding,” Eliza said. The Law couldn’t afford to keep Recorders in every watchpost, listening and transcribing conversations. “But it isn’t worth the risk of getting caught.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “No one is listening. They just want folks to think they are. There are dead zones all over, where nothing gets recorded,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “You don’t know where those are. The Vault gets hundreds of transcripts a day. You can bet there’ll be a thread on this tomorrow.” Eliza worked in the Vault, where they kept carbon’d copies of everything that happened in the city-state. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “We’ll see,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ “I’ll check your ID tomorrow,” Eliza said. ∧∧ ∧∧ “At least something would be added to my record. I’m tired of this city-state. Nothing happens. We’re trapped inside these walls until they transfer us out.” Eliza sighed. He leaned his head on her shoulder as though he were the one in need of comforting. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “You could end that now, you know. Now that your grandfather’s seat is empty.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke stood up and peered cautiously over the edge of the roof. The watchpost was lit by Law flashers. A handful of uniformed Lawmen stood watching a lone workman try to extract the broken pipes and power lines. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke didn’t know how he’d be able to enter his grandparents’ house in Chicago-Land. He had many good memories there. His grandfather’s oft repeated stories, his black humor. They’d had a bond that no one else in his family shared. He waited for the flood of emotions to come, but there was nothing. The city-state blinked below him, unreal. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “We could move to Chicago-Land and be done with the Republic of Texas. You’d be named to the Senate before your cousin.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke pulled a small phial of laudanum out of his pocket and droppered a dram into his tea. He could feel Eliza watching him. She didn’t know how often he took the sedative now. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, we need to stay alert. There was another murder today.” ∧∧ “It wasn’t an isolated incident?” ∧∧ “No, the thread at the Vault now has three cases.

  That’s not a coincidence. It’s getting dangerous here.” ∧∧ “What are Lawmen good for if they can’t catch a murderer?” ∧∧ “They don’t have the men.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “That’s just it. I don’t want to spend my life trying to solve problems like that. Playing politics.” Zeke took a slow sip, allowing the familiar bitterness of the laudanum to sting his tongue. ∧∧ ∧∧ “You could be the Khrysalis.” Eliza had never pressed him much on their future. “It’s your duty to take the empty Senate seat.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “It should pass to Bic. He wants it.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Your grandmother loves you the best. She wouldn’t choose your cousin,” Eliza said. ∧∧ ∧∧ The seven seats of the Senate were passed down by bloodline. Only Zeke and Bic were eligible to take the Thomas seat. The decision lay with their grandmother, the Senator’s widow. ∧∧ ∧∧ “She’d be disappointed if I declined,” Zeke said. Eliza reached over to hold both of his hands. Her forehead wrinkled, her eyes searched his. ∧∧ ∧∧ “But I don’t want it. I just want to have our life. Start our family. Our own bloodline.” Eliza nodded assent. She had been left by her father as a child. She didn’t know her ancestry. ∧∧ Zeke slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. He kissed her, lightly. Zeke felt his mustache brush her lips, and she pulled away. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Sorry,” he said. ∧∧ “A kiss without a mustache is like tea without the spice.” She smiled. ∧∧ “I love you,” he said. ∧∧ “You are my blood,” she responded. ∧∧ ∧∧ It was dark enough on the roof to see a few bright stars shimmering in the sky above them. The Lawmen below made their reports, clacking loudly on the typowriters they had hooked into the communication line of the watchpost. Eliza hummed a melancholic song under her breath in time. ∧∧ “These murders scare you,” Zeke said. She nodded, just barely. ∧∧ “I don’t want anything to pull us apart. We need to be careful.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “A moment’s impulse. It’s passed,” Zeke said. ∧∧ “Drink up. The tea will relax you. Or would you like me to sing?” ∧∧ “Please.” Zeke closed his eyes. It was his favorite thing. ∧

  Eliza, I feel as though every letter I write you is an apology. It was an impossible decision, for a father to leave his daughter, his blood. It has caused me nothing but heartache since. You were a child. But it was out of my hands. Nothing else could be done.

  To write to you is the only way I can be in your life now. It makes me feel as though we’re together. I’ll put these letters in a file for you to read when I’m gone. Perhaps you’ll know me then.

  It was lucky I was given the job of Historian. I have kept the records. Tended them, pruning extraneous information, debugging biases, and training the long straight branches so that plain truth emerged, simple and strong. It is a gentle art, and one requiring patience. Once I knew how to do it well.

  I thought there were principles. Rules to govern which facts should endure and which should dissolve into dust. But now I see my criteria were arbitrary. I chose objects or moments, and they became real. I draw worlds from crumbling stacks of paper, and they are given meaning through my careful attention. The designs of the Historian become history’s lessons.

  If there was one advantage to the job, it was that I had easy access to your files. I’ve read about you, all these years. Since I abandoned you, you are missing a history. I owe you one now.

  You have followed me, in a way, in my line of work. I am so proud of you for achieving the rank of Threader. You don’t know it, but the Vault in Texas was largely my design. It gives me great pleasure to think of you skillfully threading documents in the great halls of drawers and cabinets, according to the system that I engineered. I remember you as a precocious and clever child, and it does not surprise me that you would be promoted.

  What has surprised me was last week’s society column in the Texas broadsheet. I read that Zeke Thomas has been courting you. My heart leapt at the thought of you with the next Khrysalis. Your life will be comfortable, and easy. Zeke is good blood. I met his grandfather, the Senator, when we were constructing the Vault of Records. He was a hard man, but he was infinitely wise, with a good heart. He was a champion of the Vault in the Senate, and I’ll never forget that.

  Now that he’s gone, I imagine young Zeke will take his seat. It is unusual to skip a generation and he will have to learn the ways of politics quickly, and you with him. I often think of the future now. Yours is the generation I have hope for. The Vault is what I leave behind, because now that the Recorders document every single thing, my work no longer seems valuable.

  The past is like a tree in the darkest night, filled with black birds barely seen. Truths that flutter, escaping the edges of peripheral vision. First they are birds lost against a dark sky, then they are simply leaves, blown about by an animating wind. The longer I looked, the more difficult it was to see. So I retired.

  I have decided to reconstruct one final history, to make up for the one I left you without. Since you will make a pair with Zeke Thomas, your children, my grandchildren, will carry his blood. You should know his bloodline lineage in detail. Looking through the Thomas family files, I have found a storied past.

  It is fitting to start with a courtship. Zadock Thomas, a distant relative of the Senator, left rare firsthand records: letters, sketches, maps. I am threading together his history.

  Zadock wasn’t famous. He was poor, painfully sincere, and sickly. A failed naturalist, too weak for his journey across the untamed Southwest of 1843. Even so, the facts surrounding him form an unusual constellation, and his story has the dimensions of destiny beyond the Historian’s control.

  It began when he asked for the hand of Elswyth Gray, a Chicago socialite and the daughter of his employer.

  10/6/43

  Mr. Joseph Sloper Gray,

  I write to ask your formal permission for your daughter Elswyth’s graceful hand in marriage. I believe she would be amenable to the idea. The fruition of
this bright arrangement could not yet pass for, as you are aware, I lack the funds for a wedding befitting your daughter’s noble standing. Though your employ has kept me in health these many years, I’m not certain it provides enough salary on which to raise a family. Allow me to propose a solution.

  Though I have more interest in studying the bird collections of your Museum of Flying, plants also hold some appeal. I have been on small excursions with groups from the Zoological Garden to the western part of the state to collect specimens for their holdings. Using my skills as a specimen collector, illustrator, and typesetter, I could perhaps produce a publishable volume about the plants of this fine state.

  Between the universities of Europe and the American societies, there might be enough customers for a text on the natural sciences. By proving my worth with this volume I hope to make a profession of observing the natural world. If the fates allow, the income would provide for your daughter and any children that we may have.

  Our interest in books is one of the many things Elswyth and I share. Her writing is lyrical and mine is practical, and that makes a fitting match. I do not wish to be improper, sir, but my feelings for her are quite overwhelming, on an order of magnitude that I could not myself have imagined, expansive as the great western sky.

  I also believe marriage could improve Elswyth’s health. As you know, I’ve attended her bedside during her recent illness, and helped the doctor extract the black humors from her blood. Though she sleeps a great deal, my presence at her bleedings has brought us closer. She requires a husband to care for her and to lift her up in spirits.