Chapter Seven
Evening fell on the frozen Thames. The Frost Fair sellers lit lamps and fires, and rowdy men and women filled the chilled air with boisterous words and laughter. Art sat with her back against coal sacks, blankets beneath her and over her shivering body, right near the great hearth fire roasting the ox. Jim’s ice crystal sat closer to the fire and was more than half melted, leaving a puddle beneath. The butcher’s people charged fairgoers more pence to view HRH Secret Commission agents thaw. Helia sat under the blankets with her, her body warm. She chortled to herself and typed on a barebones typewriter contraption, held in the hand with a dial to choose letters of the alphabet. After typing several strips of paper that Art assumed was part of her story for the Times, she pocketed the device and hugged Art.
Helene, Helia told her, was making recompense to the mutton seller, land yacht owners, and other aggrieved persons harmed by her rampage. She’d also had “Mind the Hole” signs made for the patch of ice she’d damaged. Delphia ran back and forth to the tea seller, bringing Art cups of hot tea, her energy still high and possibly fuelled by more coffee and minced pies. When Jim’s jaw finally came free of ice, they inspected him for fragility. He had retained his bony sturdiness despite his freezing, but his teeth chattered so much, Delphia whisked him away to find a stove he could sit on.
Every nerve point on Art’s body that had met Helene’s elbow or fist still hurt, but she wasn’t about to complain. Despite her own chattering teeth, Art tried to ask about the ice spirit. She knew she had rid the fair of its danger, but she also allowed it to escape.
“Dearest, it was the best you could do, especially when faced with Helene,” Helia comforted. “And well, Helene said that whilst possessed by the ice fairy, she’d the same plan as you—”
“Did she? ’T-twas no question I should go into the ice, not her!” Art exclaimed. “T-too much chance of her being held below, when she is human a-and more capable of dying.”
Helia clasped her shaking hand. “In this, I am in full unity with thee,” she said.
Art’s heart swelled to hear her speak in the manner of Friends. She gave Helia a quick kiss, and they rested their heads together.
“Helene and I had discussed the fairy before you and Mr Dastard arrived at the fair,” Helia said. “I knew she’d come to certain conclusions but wouldn’t share. Had she, I would have vehemently disagreed with her plan. We couldn’t know how long Helene would keep her own awareness under its influence.” Helia paused, then said in a low voice, “And someone like Helene should not be manipulated by anything. We have our airships to consider.”
Art remembered how the ice entity had felt when it was inside her. She didn’t think it would care to control airships, but it was a legitimate concern.
“You did wonderfully, dear,” Helia whispered, smiling. “Think no more of how to pursue the fairy, for truly, the answer is ‘nothing’. With Mr Dastard still in thaw and you having survived the frigid Thames—if the creature lies sleeping beneath us or is swimming, we will discover later. Even Helene thinks the matter done.”
Art shivered and had to be content with that.
Beyond the fire, another couple lay beneath blankets, and Art was satisfied that at least one aspect of the matter was resolved. Genny Rowden lay embracing her pallid husband, keeping him warm. A few drunken seamen broke through the crowd of roast-watchers and wandered nearer the fire. Before the butcher’s assistants could force them back, one looked at Genny, then pointed.
“I know you!” he said in a loud voice. “You’re Genny Tilly, the rose-cheeked girl who warbled at the Swan.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Sing us ‘The Lass That Loves a Sailor’.”
The butcher’s assistants dragged him away, leaving the two in peace.
“Genny,” John hoarsely whispered.
Genny closed her eyes and hugged him tightly.
“We don’t know if he’ll last the night,” Helia whispered to Art. “Much less the next hours. He had harboured the creature for too long. Genny has decided to keep him here, amongst all this cheer. With the smell of roasted meat and the boisterous crowds. It was how they first met, surrounded by revellers.” Helia looked at them, her smile bittersweet. “That night, in seaman’s fashion, he fought men for her.”
Art nodded. “I will hold him in the Light.”
A few sad tears left her eyes, and Helia wiped them.
“Art,” Helene said, and when Art turned, Helene knelt beside her.
Art laid a shaky hand on Helene’s shoulder and looked into her eyes for haemorrhaging, caused by strangulation. She knew Helene had breathed soundly even as she’d choked the blood flow to her brain, but she had to make certain.
“You blood-choked me, Art,” Helene said.
“Aye?” Art said. Helene’s eyes appeared clear.
“I am never blood-choked,” Helene said. “Ever.”
She sat by Art and pulled the blankets around herself, then pressed close, warm and solid.
“Thee only napped,” Art reassured, “with gentle snores.”
“I do not snore.”
“Thee did, into my mouth.”
“Your mouth, what?” Helene said.
“Did thee dream?” Art said. She wanted to hug Helene to her. “Did thee frolic with tigers?”
“It was a white tiger. With blue eyes.” Helene held up a steaming cup. “Here, Art. Drink this.”
She put the cup to Art’s lips and forestalled her remark. Art had a taste of the hot mixture before she could pull away.
“’Tis spirits!” she said in horror.
“Medicinal spirits, Art,” Helene said cheerfully. She made Art drink more, silencing her. “Purl will warm you up quickly!”
“Hurrah!” Helia said. Somehow she’d obtained a cup of her own and held it up. “I have broken temperance as well! To dear Art, and to the defeat of the Frost Fair Ice Demon!”
“Hurrah!” cheered the butcher’s people around them. They hoisted cups and cheered more.
“Ha-ha-ha,” Art said. “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Her cheeks felt hot, as did her belly, and she’d stopped shivering.
“That was quick,” Helene said.
She made Art drink again.
“Oh dearest, you are inebriated!” Helia said, embracing Art’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll never tell the Friends. Helene, her regenerative powers would make anything she ingests have immediate effect!”
“We’ll leave smoking for another time, then,” Helene said.
Helia sipped her own cup and gave a little shake at the liquor’s strength. She laughed and held her drink up again. “And this is capable of wrecking the most stalwart of women!”
“To Purl! Hurrah!” the butcher’s people cheered again. Someone shouted beyond the butcher’s perimeter and musicians launched into a rousing number. Fairgoers began to dance.
Helene plucked Helia’s cup from her grasp. Before she set it aside, she sniffed the contents, a wistful smile on her lips.
“You didn’t drink much, did you?” Helene asked her sister.
“Only a taste to keep Art company,” Helia said, hugging Art’s arm.
“A good reason,” Helene said. They watched the dancing that could be seen beyond the fences.
“Thee,” Art said, poking Helene playfully beneath the blankets.
“Art?” Helene said, turning to her.
“Theeee,” Art said, looking Helene in the eye. “Thee handed out strong meat today.”
Helene gave her a questioning look.
“Thee knows how to fight me.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Art,” Helene said.
“Ha-ha-ha,” Art chuckled. She wagged a finger. “I know now, what thee knows, that I know . . . that thee knows. Thee has thought on how to defeat me.”
“Nonsense, Art.” Helene’s cheeks reddened a little.
Art touched her nose. “Let thee try,” she said.
Helene looked down. Her lips parted as if to say something. Instead, she reached beneath the blankets and found Art’s aching thigh. She firmly rubbed the hurt muscles through Art’s skirts and massaged the injury. Art sighed.
“Oh, that’s—” She belched and covered her mouth in surprise.
Helene picked up the second cup.
“Drink more, Art,” she encouraged.
Art did so, holding the cup. Helene returned her hands to her thigh. The soothing, firm touch was the last thing she remembered.
***
Art woke to a dull throb beating in her head and a tongue dry and rough as a hairbrush. Her pained eye saw the dull glow of sunlight on red wallpaper. She was lying in her own bed at the Vesta.
“Good morning!” Jim said from her nightstand.
“Jim, not so loud,” Art whimpered.
“Art, what a bleary face! Your feeble expression is forgiven, for you were a roisterer of the first order last night, and what a merry dancer you can be! Like a puppet with knotted strings!”
“I—what?” Art whispered.
“It was a night you’ll never forget! The Ladies Skycourt, oh! Revellers to behold, so gay on their feet! Lady Helia leapt like she’d wings, and Lady Helene—so fast, so deft! I lost breath at the sight of them. I could have watched all night, but thanks to Delphia’s light footwork, I too gave sprightly account.”
“I recall nothing,” Art said tearfully.
She tried sitting up. Both her pounding head and her nauseous stomach preferred she lie back down.
“I should mention that whilst we revelled, gladdened by death averted, the Terror disappeared last night,” Jim said. “Sailed right out of the Port of London. It’s gone. And no, it’s not our fault the Metropolitan Police couldn’t keep the ship from drifting. The Royal Geographical Society will have stern words about that.”
Art held her head and pondered that. She immediately discarded the thought that Helene might have arranged the ship’s disappearance. She’d only had interest in the queer metal.
“And do you know what’s interesting, Art? When Delphia and I left to visit Scotland Yard—”
“What hour of the day is it now, Friend?” Art hoarsely exclaimed.
“It’s nearly noon, young wastrel! You were snoring fit to shake the windowpanes. I hadn’t the heart to wake you. Thus we left thee happily smacking thy lips and dreaming of kittens and pretty twins—”
“Jim,” Art interrupted. “Thee spoke of Scotland Yard?”
She saw that a page had left food and drink on her table by the windows. A fresh trout had been laid on a bed of crisp ice, beside a pitcher of water.
Art held out her hand, and the water, ice, and trout flew across the room and into her body. She glowed and felt marginally less parched.
“Yes!” Jim said. “I thought I’d look upon those odd pieces of metal again, the ones hidden in Sir Baffin’s cot. Just to indulge some professional curiosity. It seems the police never found the pieces. For all we know, they’ve sailed on with the Terror.”
Art slowly nodded. Perhaps Helene had sent her man, Ganju Rana, to retrieve the fragments. Right after the agents left the ship.
“Heh-heh!” Jim chuckled. “Thus click the gears in thy tender head. But Art, you harboured the creature, and I wondered if you learned something of what it was.”
“I might have, Friend,” Art said. “I thought it a mermaid . . . but a mermaid not of our Earth.”
“Ho?” Jim said. “Ho? You mean—? Hm! Hurmm. Well, now!”
“Aye. Now thy gears are clicking.”
“Indeed! Indeed,” Jim said in a hushed tone. “Extraordinary. In the interest of making certain this knowledge never leaves this room, let us speak no more of our ice-breathing friend, then. Especially where Dr Fall is concerned. We will write our reports accordingly. Note that I touch the side of my nonexistent nose.”
“I note the touch, Friend.”
“So!” he continued. “Our Frost Fair, Art! The Thames should remain frozen a few days longer, and I’ve already acquired a treasure trove of souvenirs! I’ve an inscribed mug, and an engraved spoon, a lithograph, an illustrated book! Several poems, though one is a rather questionable limerick—”
Art cleared her throat.
“And what of John Rowden?” she queried.
“Ah.” Jim paused. “Did you know his wife was a former songstress, Art? A brave woman. All night, she sang their favourite sea songs. No better earthly herald had a man, to usher his meeting with those who sing above.”
Art nodded. She closed her eyes and gave prayer.
“But Art, the fair! After all your gay gyrations and admirable attempts at warbling, you purchased a most especial souvenir of your own!”
“I did?” Art wondered if she’d gotten a commemorative Frost Fair tattoo.
Jim hopped on the nightstand, and she noticed that he sat beside a propped-up cabinet card. It was from the photographer’s tent at the fair. Art perched upon the giant moon crescent, the Skycourt twins on each knee as she embraced them both by the waist. Helene sat erect like a woman sidesaddle on a steed, chin raised and a hand on her hip, her mouth curling. Helia smiled warmly, and Art thought almost shyly, one gloved hand on Art’s shoulder and the other clasping Art’s hand at her waist. Art’s own eyes were half-closed and her mouth slightly open, as if she were in the middle of a smile, a word, or a belch.
“Oh!” Art said. “I look the simpleton!”
“Yet such a lucky simpleton, with a lovely lady on each knee! You exclaimed all night that it was the happiest moment of your young Quaker life!”
Art made a rueful, affectionate sound as she looked at the photo. “How kind they are to disregard their respectability and indulge me.”
She carefully embraced the card.
“Art!” Jim nearly shouted.
“Ohhh, Jim, please.” Art held her head.
“I only want to show you your other gift! Courtesy of the ladies Skycourt!” He swivelled on the nightstand to regard a small parcel wrapped in blue paper that could fit Art’s palm. She laid her card aside and picked the parcel up. Helia’s handwriting was atop:
Purchased this day, 27th of November, year 1880, at Frost Fair on the Thames for our beloved Artemis. With Love, Helia and Helene Skycourt.
Art carefully pulled up a corner of the folded paper. Within she saw gingerbread.
“Loves,” she softly said.
***
The winter being harsh, Art didn’t think Helia should stay in her balloon replica home in the cold, Royal Aquarium any longer. Once she was dressed and less sickly of face, she visited Helia at her customary Blue Vanda table to tell her so.
Thus, by evening time they were both enjoying the warm stove in Helene’s ascetic quarters in Whitechapel. Helene was not present, having departed for the Arctic that morning. Helia sat on Art’s lap while Art watched her type, the typewriter standing atop several of Helene’s books on the table. Pinned on Helene’s sparse wall was a chart of Earth’s farthest northern seas and continents. Cartography tools lay by Helia’s typewriter with copied material from The Terror’s logbook, relating the ship’s charted course to the Arctic. Helia paused to search the table and then lift her typewriter to look at the book titles. She tutted.
“Oh! She took the nautical almanac with her,” she said.
She resumed typing, and Art picked up a drafting compass.
“Helene likes her ships,” Art said. “As we sit here, she may be, right now, sitting with the snow people, the Inuit?”
Helia nodded. “They’ve a story passed down, Art. It speaks of a fiery rock that fell from the sky.”
“I hope thy sister returns before Christmas.”
“She will, Art, mere days from now,” Helia said, smiling. “Our airships are very fast. And perhaps she’ll bring you a cunning Inuit trinket.”
Art bounced Helia on her knee and made her laugh. While Helia typed more, Art looked at Helene’s sea chart and pretended it was of the stars. Helene had also shared consciousness with the creature, and perhaps she better understood its true home than Art could hope to articulate. She would like to ask her.
“What if there had been another like Friend Baffin?” she said thoughtfully. “With a great ship, but one that explored amongst the heavenly spheres and happened upon an ocean; an ocean on an icy moon. And perhaps he, too, discovered a strange and beautiful creature in that water, and took it as a trophy to show his own circle.”
Helene turned and touched Art’s face. She kissed her on the cheek.
“And perhaps this explorer lost his ship as well, only it fell into our Earth, our Arctic,” Art said.
She pondered more.
“It fell, because the mermaid caused that ship’s failing too.”
“Yes,” Helia said, nodding in agreement.
“What shall thee call your thy dread?” Art asked.
Helia pulled out her sheet from the typewriter and showed the manuscript’s title to Art.
“Diamond Breath,” Art read.
***
Near Norway, a sea storm raged, and in that churning ocean the Terror tossed. Great waves struck the deck. At the wheel stood a deck boy not more than twelve, an orphan of India who had cared for nothing except to escape home and see the world. London had been his port of call, and he’d been at sea since the age of nine. But the entity within him sensed that even the boy knew enough about the ship and storm that besieged them to fear that their vessel would not last longer. The boy looked up through the dark and rain and saw the lights of a hovering airship, beaten by the winds. A rope ladder dropped from it, bearing a large man on its rungs. He pointed a harpoon gun and fired, piercing the deck. With the ladder anchored and the gun secured to it, he jumped down to the rolling ship.
He was a great big African man, tall and wide of shoulders, even taller than the ghost woman. Both his hair and beard were in braids, and he wore the black dress coat of a captain. He looked down with dark, flashing eyes and thrust out his gloved hands. In both great fists he held a chart open and showed it to the boy. It displayed Earth, Saturn, and the stars.
“You who call yourself Diamond,” he boomed above the roar of the winds. “I am Captain Taurus Midas Kingdom, and you will come with me! We who serve Lady Helene Skycourt will take you to your second home, the Arctic. But this she promises you, as heir to the earldom of Skycourt and of its ships: for as long as it takes, we will learn how to fly you back to the stars and to your true home!”
The boy let go of the wheel and held up his arms. The man snatched him up as the deck tilted. He grabbed for the ladder.
He released the harpoon anchor, and they flew up through the whipping winds for the airship and the black sky above.
The end.
More books by Elizabeth Watasin:
Sundark: An Elle Black Penny Dread
Charm School Graphique Vol 1
Character Key (in order of appearance):
Mrs Genevieve Rowden (formerly Genny Tilly)
Lady Gertrude Baffin
John Rowden (helmsman of the SS Terror)
Sir Francis Baffin (polar explorer)
Captain Buckamore (captain of the SS Terror)
Artifice (also known as Artemis)
Jim Dastard
Miss Delphia Bloom
Sgt Barkley of the Metropolitan Police
Lady Helia Skycourt (journalist for the Times)
Lady Helene Skycourt
Miss Aldosia Stropps (illustrator for the Strand)
Mrs Farney (maid to Mr and Mrs Rowden)
Miss Wila Stanchfield (the other woman illustrator for the Strand)
Diamond
Captain Taurus Midas Kingdom
Author Notes:
Timeline:
Ice Demon occurs in November of the year 1880 and after the stories in Risen and Bones, which happen in March.
The SS Terror:
The SS Terror is not a true ship, but it is based on the HMS Terror, a British Royal Navy bomb-ship that was lost on an Arctic expedition:
www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1279489/
The sea chanty, The Lass That Loves a Sailor:
I wanted a brass band present at the opening scene and needed to know what they played. It had to be something that a woman would want her husband to hear, and therefore probably not a carol, anthem, or military song—thus a sea chanty. Thankfully, I found The Lass That Loves a Sailor, composed by Charles Dibdin (1740–1814) and not to be confused with Gilbert & Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore. Though the song’s significance could be understood by the title alone, I thought a character ought to sing some of the lyrics, and when I chose Lady Baffin’s companion to do it, suddenly Genevieve and John Rowden’s love was put into greater clarity, one that became paralleled in Art’s relationship with Helia and Helene. What’s purely coincidence on my part is that the song was also referred to in James Joyce’s Dubliners short story, Eveline. A midi file can be heard here:
http://www.james-joyce-music.com/extras/lasslovesailor.html
And there’s a lovely version sung by the tenor Kevin McDermott and accompanied by pianist Ralph Richey on the album, More Music from the Works of James Joyce. You can search the song on YouTube and find at least two folksy renditions with voices of character.
When Jim says Hokahey:
Hokahey is Sioux for “Let’s do it!” or “Let’s go!” and is attributed to Lakota Sioux leader Crazy Horse, who said: “Hokahey! Today is a good day to die!”
http://www.native-languages.org/iaq21.htm
The Paraffin Blow Lamp:
How to play with your antique, brass paraffin blow lamp. This YouTube video is a fun reference:
http://youtu.be/3lLKs0ITZTE
Ice Fog, Sea Smoke, and Diamond Dust:
Meteorologists may quibble at my use of the term “ice fog”, when I may be describing “freezing fog”. Sea smoke, as mentioned by Lady Baffin, is fog formed over the sea.
I thought to distinguish the fog-like presence of the ice entity, Diamond, from common ice fog by having her resemble the phenomenon known as poconip/pogonip (a term attributed to the Shoshone tribe), or “diamond dust”, where ice crystals are suspended in the fog and flash in sunlight. I’m uncertain if diamond dust really exists because I’ve yet to come across a scientific account that explains it (rather than one on the web based on hearsay), but here’s a beautiful video showing it. If it’s a digitally enhanced video, I can’t tell:
http://youtu.be/Aq-BsY_0oz0
The blood choke and pressure points fighting:
The “blood choke”, or the proper term, the “rear naked choke” (RNC), is a martial arts technique and should only be executed with proper instruction from a qualified and trained teacher.
Fight Science MMA, Rear Naked Choke:
http://youtu.be/ovb6ZAOJ8mg
That also goes for pressure points fighting, which is pretty devastating stuff. I’m not a practitioner, so I’m only approximating Helene’s nerve strikes (and let’s face it, I’m deliberately approximating them because it is devastating stuff). That said, I highly encourage everyone to go to a dojo or class and learn even a little self-defence, no matter how old, young, or physically inept we may feel. It’s good exercise, adds to body awareness and confidence, and teaches us what hurts and what works. Knowledge is power.
About The Author
Elizabeth Watasin is the acclaimed author of the Gothic steampunk series The Dark Victorian, The Elle Black Penny Dreads, and the creator/artist of the indie comics series Charm School, which was nominated for a Gaylactic Spectrum Award. A twenty year veteran of animation and comics, her credits include thirteen feature films, such as Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, The Lion King, and The Princess and the Frog, and writing for Disney Adventures magazine. She lives in Los Angeles with her black cat named Draw, busy bringing readers uncanny heroines in shilling shockers, epic fantasy adventures, and paranormal detective tales.
Follow the news of her latest projects at A-Girl Studio.
Join Elizabeth at:
http://www.a-girlstudio.com
http://www.facebook.com/ElizabethWatasinX
http://twitter.com/ewatasin
Look for Elizabeth’s next gothic tale in the main Dark Victorian series: EVERLIFE, and in the parallel series, the Elle Black Penny Dreads, held in the same London as the Secret Commission agents, Art and Jim.