Arachnodactyl Read online

  Ikey took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and took in the bristle of levers before Smith. His tin-plated hand gripped a steering lever. His hand knew neither cold nor fatigue. It never felt pain. The damage it took earlier in the day was nothing more than a source of annoyance, an inconvenience.

  Ikey released the hem of the tarp and flexed his hand. Tendons and muscles stretched. He imagined the array of rods and gears and escapements needed to reconstruct it. He envisioned the frame needed to hold a similar mechanical arm to his body, how it would encase his own left arm and allow him to stand up to his dad.

  As he dreamed up different variations of design, the miles rolled by, interrupted with brief pauses to refuel the boiler. As the sparse landscape of the moors gradually gave way to the edge of a town, Ikey noticed a large structure in the distance, behind a bank of brick buildings. The structure resembled a metallic chrysalis. What ever was being transformed inside lay hidden away. High along the six- or seven-story walls, a bank of large windows let in light, but kept out peeping eyes. On the end of the building, two giant doors presented themselves. Again, the windows in the doors sat too high to provide anything more than light.

  Ikey leaned over to Smith and shouted out to know what the building was.

  Smith jerked a thumb back at Admiral Daughton.

  “It’s the admiral’s?”

  Smith nodded.

  “What’s in it?”

  Smith glanced over and lifted an eyebrow, then shook his head as he returned his attention to the road.

  To Ikey’s dismay, rows of stucco-fronted buildings obscured the hangar as they filled in the space on either side of the road. Within a mile, the road descended into a valley where houses stood several stories high. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they crowded the street and formed a canyon that funneled them down toward a dark river.

  In the fine drizzle numerous people coursed through the streets and bore every manner of dress. A few men sported top hats and frock coats. On their arms, women glided along in skirts and mutton-sleeve blouses with frivolous little hats pinned into upswept hair, all beneath open parasols. They walked along ensconced in bubbles of privilege, chins high and backs straight and tall and not bowed in the least with toil or troubles.

  Ikey sat further back against the bench and hunched down some. His matted brown hair struck him as too long and messy. Wrapped in his tarp, covered in mud, he wished to hide from the others.

  Mixed in with the well-heeled bustled a larger assortment of others who appeared to have a variety of concerns. Most of the people in the street were women who clutched at baskets or bundles or an armful of fussing child. These women wore dresses that brushed the ground as they walked, and their sleeves ran to their wrists like the dresses Ikey’s mother used to wear. A few sported bonnets, but the majority wrapped shawls around their heads. Among them were a number of younger men who had dispensed with the coats and hurried through the streets in jackets with tails, the breast of which lay open and exposed brilliantly colored waistcoats.

  The scene wasn’t much different than that of a typical afternoon in the village the farm rested outside of. Except in the village, everyone knew everyone else, including those who lived in the surrounding hills and dales. Everywhere Ikey went, people recognized him and knew his name and who his dad was, and they had heard of what happened to his uncle. In Whitby, it seemed impossible for one person to know everyone else. How could any person in Whitby know all of these people?

  A small gaggle of children stopped on the walk and watched the carriage roll past. They shouted and waved their hands. The racket of the engine plowed their words under.

  The carriage slowed to a crawl as it crossed a bridge, the passage barely wide enough for the carriage and the pedestrians who milled along. Below, a murky river slid past. The thick stench of its dark waters shouldered aside the blistering odor of burning coal. Ikey pulled the edge of the tarp up until it covered his nose.

  After crossing the bridge, the carriage turned a bend and rode up the river for a block before stopping at the side of the road.

  Admiral Daughton stuck his head out and yelled up to them. Though Ikey couldn’t make out what he said, Smith shoved at the levers before him until a great hiss of steam split Ikey’s ears, and the noise of the engine evaporated away.

  The carriage rocked as the coachman climbed down. He crossed the street and entered a pub called Turk’s Head. Ikey glanced back through the window behind him. Admiral Daughton motioned for him to come down. Ikey cast back the tarp, lowered himself to the pavement, and approached the carriage door.

  “Grab that tarpaulin, young man,” Admiral Daughton commanded as he cracked open the cab door. “You can sit on that.”

  Ikey stood a second more before he snatched the tarp off the box seat. He wrapped it back around his shoulders, then rounded the carriage and let himself in the other side.

  “Over there,” Admiral Daughton said and pointed to the corner of the carriage opposite himself.

  Ikey spread the tarp over the leather seat and back, then sat down and rubbed his hands over his arms. Though grateful for the chance to slip inside and warm up, he found it curious that Smith went into the pub alone and left them out in the carriage.

  Admiral Daughton slipped a pocket watch from his waistcoat and studied it a few seconds. He snapped the lid shut and slid it back in place as he turned his attention to the river beyond his window.

  Ikey looked out to the street as a tall, thin man stepped up to the carriage. He popped open the door and hunched over as he stepped up inside. The odor of alcohol hung like a shroud off his broad shoulders. He pointed at Ikey, then flicked his finger aside as if wiping the young man from the bench.

  “Scoot,” he said through a row of rambling teeth.

  Ikey swallowed. He averted his eyes from the bloodshot stare. From under the man’s rolled shirtsleeves, thick ropes of muscle bound his bones together. It was not the brute muscle of farm hands, but something rangy and scrappy, alien as the tattooed tentacles wrapped around an anchor on his forearm.

  “You heard me, right?” the man asked. “Move over.”

  Ikey glanced to Admiral Daughton, who stared at the man, an eyebrow cocked, his lips drawn into a tight line.

  “Go on.” The man reached for Ikey’s shoulder. Ikey slid off the bench and drew the tarp after him. After checking the admiral’s expression, he spread the tarp across the other end of Admiral Daughton’s bench and sat back down.

  “How much work are you accomplishing here?” Admiral Daughton asked the tall man.

  “Can’t think over the yammering of the crew,” he said as he flipped down the back of the bench and revealed a nook lined in navy velvet. Inside the nook rested a crystal decanter and four matching glasses. He plucked a glass from the nook and half-filled it with the clear liquid from the decanter. He returned the back to its place, then plopped onto the bench. The liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass and wetted his hand. “I come here to find some peace. Think things out,” he said as he transferred the glass to his other hand, then wiped his palm across the leg of his fustian trousers.

  “You must be the most peaceful man on all the island,” Admiral Daughton said.

  The tall man held up the glass. “To peace.”

  Admiral Daughton cleared his throat. “Ikey Berliss, I want you to meet—“

  “Call me Cross,” the tall man said as he extended his long, thin hand. Grease filled the narrow creases in his flesh and appeared to be permanently worked into the callouses of his fingers, much like Ikey’s own.

  Ikey took Cross’s hand and expected it to be as warm and soft as his uncle’s. Instead, Cross crushed his grip until Ikey gritted his teeth.

  “I picked Ikey up in The Dales,” Admiral Daughton said. “He has an aptitude for mechanics and a Yorkie’s ignorance of social graces. He shall get along nicely with your crew.”

  Cross shook his head. “I needn’t anymore sprogs on my crew. I’ll be damned if I’m an engineer
and not a bloody nanny.”

  “If you had enough capable people on your crew, you wouldn’t be so far behind.”

  “We’re making time. Your ship will sail before due.” Cross took a gulp from the glass.

  “As much as your continued presence in the pub fills me with confidence, I’m afraid I must insist. You will take Mr. Berliss on your crew. You will make use of his talents. I am paying good money for him, and you will make sure I get a return on my investment. Is that understood?”

  “Aye,” Cross said before taking another drink. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “How old are you, Mr. Berliss?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Eighteen?” Cross asked Admiral Daughton. “And he’s suppose to be of use? He ain’t old enough to know the difference between his pecker and a spanner. By the way,” Cross said to Ikey, “the spanner is the one you hold like this.” He winked and pantomimed swinging a spanner around a bolt.

  Fire shot up Ikey’s face. He looked away and wished for somewhere dark and close to slip into and hide.

  “Think of it as an apprenticeship, if that helps,” Admiral Daughton said. “But I want him to know the ropes. I want him to know the ship inside and out and to be able to replace anyone on the engineering crew. Anyone. Because I’ll start replacing the crew piecemeal if that’s what it takes to get a day’s work out of you and your layabouts.”

  Cross emptied his glass. He exhaled through clenched teeth and placed the glass on his knee.

  Ikey sat up in his corner of the carriage. If Cross flat out refused to take Ikey on, would Admiral Daughton cut him loose and send him home?

  Cross’s eyes flicked to the floor, then back to Admiral Daughton. “Well then, tell Smith to drop him off at the hangar at dawn. Sharp will keep him out of my way.”

  Ikey slumped into the corner.

  Admiral Daughton smirked. “He’s not staying with me, and I’m not paying for his room and board. You’ll be apprenticing him, so he’ll stay with you.”

  “Me?” Cross placed a bony hand over his chest. “Like bloody hell he will. I don’t intend to start a boffing bed and breakfast.” The glass jiggled on his knee. “And what with Rose—”

  “Then put him to work as your blasted housemaid for all I care. But do so after hours, because when I next check on your progress,” Admiral Daughton cast a finger towards Ikey, “he ought to be able to sing the components of your engine.”

  Cross rolled his eyes to the velvet-draped ceiling. The jiggling of his knee intensified until the glass danced across it, weaving back and forth in the grip of his hand.

  Ikey’s fists tightened with anticipation. The gruffness of Cross was reminiscent of his dad; a much taller version of his dad who didn’t want Ikey around either. If Ikey could stand and gather his will like wool, he’d shove it and press it against Cross. Refuse. Refuse. Refuse.

  Cross lifted the glass to his face, then scowled at the emptiness. He returned the glass to his jostling knee.

  “That all?” Cross asked.

  Ikey’s shoulders slumped.

  Admiral Daughton nodded. “Oh, and do keep him out of the pub,” he said with a nod to Ikey. “He need not learn your version of peace.”

  “You got baggage?” Cross asked Ikey.

  Ikey lifted his satchel and slung the canvas strap over his shoulder.

  “Off we go, then.”

  Cross set the glass on the bench and stepped out of the carriage. Ikey glanced at Admiral Daughton, who shooed Ikey with a sweep of his fingers.

  Ikey scrambled out and stood next to Cross. He was more than a head taller than Ikey.

  “Remember our agreement, Mr. Berliss,” Admiral Daughton called from inside the carriage. He banged on the door. Smith shoved and pulled at his collection of levers until the carriage roared to life and the wheels growled over the cobblestones as it drew them away from the pub.

  Cross sighed. He lifted his cheese-cutter hat, ran a hand through a tangled mess of blonde hair, then yanked the hat low over his eyes like a hoodlum. “Guess my break was over anyway.”

  He looked down at the his new apprentice. “Ikey. That’s Irish, ain’t it?”

  Ikey shrugged.

  “I ain’t one to hold it against you. Ain’t like you can help being who you are.” His eyes ranged up and down Ikey.

  Ikey shifted the satchel strap. He looked away, towards the river. Despite the few boats drifting along, the river offered the only place free from the crowds.

  “You eat?” Cross asked.

  “I had a biscuit this morning.”

  Cross rubbed a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “Come on, then.”

  Without waiting for a response, he dodged across the street and back into the pub, dipping his head as he passed through the doorway. Ikey looked after the carriage. It had yet to disappear around the bend in the road. To hell with it. Ikey followed.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a woman called out, “You seem to have picked up a shadow while outside.”

  “Eh,” Cross grunted. “What’ll you have, Ikey?”

  Shapes emerged from the dark. A bar appeared at one end of the room. Cross took a seat at one of the stools.

  “Ikey?” a woman asked. She stood beside a table and held a small serving tray before her so that her arms framed the tops of her breasts exposed by the low-cut bodice. “Is that Irish?” the woman asked.

  Ikey looked up to her smiling lips, then glanced to the bar and back. Heat flushed his face. “I guess so.”

  “I like Irish men. They know how to have a good time,” the woman said. She tilted her face forward.

  “Don’t waste your time,” Cross called back as he turned around on his stool. “Ikey, that’s Willa. Willa, that’s an Irish man who works for Admiral Daughton.”

  Willa tossed her head aside and lifted her nose at Cross. “He’s still cute, even if he doesn’t have two coins to rub together.”

  A bald man behind the bar stepped up to Cross. “If he doesn’t have two coins—”

  Cross held up his hand. “Get him a whiskey. What have you got that’s Irish?”

  The barman turned around and examined an array of bottles.

  “I don’t want anything to drink,” Ikey said.

  “You don’t want anything to drink?” Cross asked in mock indignation. “You’re standing in a bloody pub!”

  “And you’re Irish,” Willa added.

  “If he doesn’t want anything—” the barman started.

  “I asked for a whiskey, didn’t I?” Cross said over his shoulder. “He’s going to drink it.”

  “He’s Irish,” Willa quipped.

  The barman selected a bottle off the shelf and poured an ounce into a stout glass.

  “One for me as well,” Cross said and tapped the bar.

  “I’ll take one, too,” Willa said.

  The barman scowled at Willa. “You’re on the job.”

  Willa held out her arms and made a show of looking about the pub, empty except for two men sitting quietly at a table, a cribbage board between them.

  “There’s no one here yet. And besides, you only get one chance at a first impression, and I want to make a smashing impression on our newest regular.” She slinked an arm around Ikey’s shoulder and pulled him close.

  “I mentioned he worked for the admiral, right?” Cross said as he picked up his whiskey.

  “I mentioned he’s cute, didn’t I?” Willa winked at Ikey.

  His stomach gurgled. He slipped out of Willa’s grasp and stepped away.

  Cross laughed and slapped the bar with his palm. “Why, Willa, I do believe you’ve been scorned.” He punctuated his observation with a pull off his glass.

  Willa planted her hands on her hips and pursed her lips in a dramatic moue. “Don’t you like girls, Ikey?”

  Ikey looked to the floor and nodded. “I…”

  “Nothing personal, Willa,” Cross interrupted. “It’s just that if you’re not shaped like a hand, he doesn’t know what t
o do with you.”

  Cross, Willa, and the barman erupted into laughter. Ikey stepped back from them, heat rippling up his face. He grasped his wrist before him, closed his eyes, and thought of his dad’s cart. Once, when the axle snapped and a wheel fell off, his dad had taken to kicking the cart, thrashing it with boot and fist until his face blistered red, and redder spots peppered his knuckles. Panting, he snatched a shovel out of the bed and further beat on the cart as Ikey cowered behind a nearby rock, ready to bolt should his dad’s anger leap to him. As the cart took his dad’s punishment, it occurred to Ikey that the cart felt nothing. It took the beating and the blows and the chops from the edge of the shovel blade and it made no cry. It did not wince. It did not flinch. Its wood planks and iron bands and hard nails felt nothing.

  Since that day, every time Ikey took a beating, he thought of the cart and imagined himself made of unfeeling wood, banded with unyielding iron, and held together with unshakable nails.

  “Oh, sit down,” Cross spat. “Your drink is getting old.”

  Ikey looked up at Cross.

  “Don’t mind him,” Willa said. “He’s ornery because he’s a sour old cuss. I don’t mind men who haven’t been with a woman yet. I prefer it, because you’re not all jaded and like him.” She jerked her head back at Cross.

  “Well then take him in the back room,” Cross said, “and get it over with already.”

  “No,” Willa said and touched the tip of her fingers to Ikey’s shoulder.

  Ikey jerked away and stumbled back into a table as he recalled the way his dad had treated his mother, the cries and screams. Ikey closed his eyes and wished Willa to go away. He would never want to treat a woman like that.

  “He understands that your first time should be with someone special. Not someone like me.”