30
Four Pawns
—1892, August 10: 9-Hour 50—
As it is with the study of the earth, so it is with the study of flora and fauna. Both had made significant progress before the Disruption, but the event itself has changed the nature of the pursuit. Now, the preexisting assumptions no longer hold. It is not just the proliferation of other species and other land masses. As explorers have demonstrated, the very categories we once considered stable are now unstable. James Hutton’s groundbreaking geological work just prior to the Disruption has been largely questioned—or rendered elementary, at the very least—by geologists in Nochtland, just as Carl Linnaeus’s excellent work, however influential, seems less and less adequate to describe our New World.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of the New World
SHADRACK DID NOT wait to digest the significance of his discovery, nor did he wait to discuss it with the other plotters. Leaving the warehouse as soon as he could graciously extract himself, he took the trolley into town and hired a carriage that would take him to Lexington. The trip took a good hour, and it was close to midday when he arrived at the town’s center. There, he paid the driver for his time and his lunch, asking him to wait until he returned. “If I don’t return by thirteen-hour, go to this address,” he said, writing Mrs. Clay’s name beside the East Ending Street address. “Tell the housekeeper where you brought me, and she will do the rest.”
He was grateful for the clear skies and for his sturdy shoes as he trekked across Lexington Green in the direction of the farm he had seen listed as one of Broadgirdle’s properties. As he did, he mulled over the consequences of his discovery at the warehouse. Broadgirdle had arranged matters so that he could not be blamed for anticipating a war. That blame would fall to Shadrack. What else would he be implicated in? If Broadgirdle was capable of planning such a thing so far in advance, what other plans lay unseen, waiting to reveal their results? Which of them involved the missing Eerie?
Shadrack arrived at the farm at half past ten-hour, and he approached it with caution. He did not know what he would do if he found himself confronted by Sandmen with grappling hooks. A long avenue lined by oaks led to a farmhouse at the top of a slight hill. The fields on either side seemed untended, as if they had not been mown for many summers, and they were coated with a layer of ash. But the fence all around the property was in good repair, and the latch on the gate was well-oiled. Shadrack opened it and stepped onto the avenue.
The farmhouse was silent as he drew near. Most of the windows were open, and pale yellow curtains fluttered in one of the rooms. Shadrack took a deep breath. He walked up to the blue door and knocked. Almost immediately, he heard a quiet shuffle inside. A minute passed, and then another. Shadrack looked around him and noticed that while the fields grew wild, the gardens in the immediate vicinity of the farmhouse were well tended. A blueberry bush by the door was starting to bear fruit, and a gnarled apple tree showed signs of being well picked over. Herbs grew against the house in tall clumps: verbena, mint, and lavender. Shadrack knocked again. He leaned toward the open window nearest him, where a box of creeping thyme was in full bloom. “Hello? This is Shadrack Elli. Is anyone home?”
The shuffling sound came again, and this time he heard footsteps. A latch was thrown, and the blue door creaked slowly open. Shadrack found himself looking down at an old man with wispy, white hair and a pointed beard. His eyes were filled with tension. The furrows of his brow seemed engraved by the sharp point of some vexing burden. “Shadrack Elli, the cartologer?” the old man whispered.
“Yes. I am Shadrack. Are you Gerard Sorensen, doctor of botany, by any chance?”
Fear flashed in the man’s eyes, but he nodded.
“I mean you no harm. I have been looking for you. May I come in?”
Sorensen hesitated. “I do not think you should,” he said quietly.
“I want to help, Dr. Sorensen. Can’t you tell me what has happened?”
“Will you ensure my family’s safety?” Sorensen asked, his voice pleading.
Shadrack swallowed. “Are they in danger?”
“I am here against my will, Mr. Elli,” Sorensen said, with rather more firmness in his tone. “If my children and grandchildren were not under threat, I would not be here at all. And if speaking to you imperils them in any way, everything I have done will be for naught.”
“Dr. Sorensen, I am only beginning to understand this puzzle, which your predicament is part of. I know that Gordon Broadgirdle is somehow to blame, and I know that unless we stop him, the lives of many more people will be forfeit. If you will only explain to me your part in this, I will do everything in my power to make sure your family is safe.”
The indecision was plain in Sorensen’s face. Finally, he opened the door with a little sigh. “We are lucky it is a Wednesday,” he said. “Come in. Perhaps we can do this without anyone being the wiser.”
Shadrack stepped into the farmhouse kitchen and found himself in a room that reminded him immediately of Martin Metl’s laboratory in Nochtland. Soil lay everywhere. Empty pots were piled high on a worktable, where a watering can and a pair of gloves had been hastily put aside. Plants covered almost every surface and much of the floor. Among those that Shadrack recognized were potted orange trees, papyrus, a miniature willow, and ferns: more ferns than he had ever seen in a single space. There was nowhere to sit.
“I will tell you quickly,” Sorensen said, “and then you must go.”
“That is all I could ask,” Shadrack agreed. “Thank you.”
“It began in late winter of this year. I was approached by a man named Gordon Broadgirdle who said he would pay me handsomely to examine a plant specimen he had acquired from the Eerie Sea. I am interested in the plants of that region, so I accepted. He invited me here, to this farmhouse. To my dismay, I found . . .” Sorensen touched the orange tree nearest him with a distracted air. “I found that the specimens he had were not plants. They were people.”
Shadrack nodded as the pieces came together. “Three people: an old man, a woman, and a girl. Three Weatherers of the Eerie.”
“Yes!” Sorensen said. “How could you know this?”
“One of them managed to send a message, despite her captivity.”
“I see,” Sorensen said, relieved. “I am glad to hear it. But apparently it was not enough. The one of most interest to Broadgirdle was the girl, for her hands bloom with flowers known as datura—a flower that is toxic. Once the flowers are loosed from her hands, their vapors cause terrifying delusions. They are dreadfully poisonous.”
“The crimson fog,” Shadrack said, shaking his head. “Now I see.”
“I did not,” Sorensen said quietly, “until it was too late. I demanded that the Eerie be set free, and I refused to participate in what Broadgirdle had planned. He said, in reply, that he would send his men after my family.” Sorensen put a hand over his eyes. “From then on, I did everything he asked. I confirmed what the flower was capable of, and, once I did, Broadgirdle ordered me to place the other two Eerie in winter sleep. I know very little of the Eerie, and I have only read about such sleep in written accounts—but Broadgirdle said that if I did not, he would end their lives. So I did my best. The girl was taken away, I dread to think for what purpose, and the other two remained here.”
Shadrack was galvanized. “They are still here?”
By way of answer, Sorensen turned and left the room, leaving Shadrack to follow him. In the adjoining chamber, dark curtains were drawn to block the sunlight, and Shadrack had to wait in the doorway while his eyes adjusted. Once they did, he could see that the room was empty except for a stack of wood beside the open fireplace and two long crates that looked like coffins. They were closed. Sorensen shuffled over to them and gently removed their lids, tucking them back behind the crates. “See for yourself,” he said.
Shadrack drew closer, a sense of dread creeping upon him as he did so. It was still difficult to see in the darkened room. As if hearing his thought, Sorensen rose and walked to the fireplace, where he took a candle in its holder from the mantel. He struck a match and lit the wick, then knelt by the nearest crate with the candle in his hand.
Shadrack peered down into the crate and saw that Sorensen had told him the truth. It was filled with dirt. A pair of white hands, one folded over the other, interrupted the soil near the middle. Three white flowers, delicate trumpets upon a dark vine, were entwined between the limp fingers. And at the top end of the crate a woman’s pale face—eyes closed, her expression tranquil—lay waxy and still in the black soil.