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Elrich's Energy Machine
Word Count: 6,352
People said that I was special. Skilled. Gifted. I thought they were insane.
For a young man with no real merit in his chosen profession, I still harbored dreams. They were as grandiose as a child whose heart’s desire was to sprout wings and fly, and as impossible. I wanted to invent things that were useful, things that brought joy and ease into the lives of all who used them. I wanted to be known far and wide as the greatest inventor of my time; the greatest, perhaps, to walk the face of this earth.
But for now I was a no-name crackpot trying to make a name for myself. Not really for lack of a name, I suppose, though no one whispered the name Reginald Elrich Kenilworth with any sense of awe, or even respect for that matter. Every time I heard my name, it was muttered under some snooty lord or lady’s breath or tumbling alongside laughter from a handful of scholars on the street. I was a curse and a laughingstock. I suppose there were worse things I could have been.
My mother and father had fed my insatiable curiosity from a very young age, and encouraged my eccentricities even though the traits often made me the target of ridicule. Often I came home from my schooling battered and bruised, to find sympathy and wisdom in the embrace of one or the other parent. My younger sister tolerated me but always held herself distant, herself having dreams of marrying the prince of England and her standards too high for my provincial ways or hare-brained ideas.
So, by random happenstance and pure luck, I found myself in my young adult years the friend of a lady of favor and wealth, and loving her more every day as I discovered that she was every bit as eccentric as I was. Her name was Emma Jameson, and she changed my life forever.
~*~
“Are you certain this will work?” Emma called from the grassy slope beneath my second story window. She was my best friend, and as such the only person who really understood my dreams and the inner workings of my mind.
“Not at all!” I called back cheerfully, watching her face break into a smile. In the early morning light her face was luminous, fresh from sleep. This was the most beautiful facet of Emma, these times when she tromped about with me—doing my “wacky experiments,” as she called them—wearing a simple bodice and petticoat, shoes and spats, her russet curls caught back with pins and lace. “Ready yourself to run!”
“Oh, yes, like last time?” she japed. Last time my creation had flown like a rock. Regardless, she fixed me with a tolerant look as she gathered her skirts in one hand and raised the other in a sign of readiness. I dangled my steam-powered creation over the windowsill, heard the gears begin turning inside its thin copper frame.
And let go.
Stiff wings flapped. Emma’s jaw dropped, her virgin-pink lips turning upward ever so slightly at the corners. And then she turned and ran after it. A glint of sunlight off of one mechanical wing, a flash of pale, delicate ankle and bouncing curls as she crossed my yard. And I, nearly the happiest man alive, reveling in creation and adoration alike, stumbled hastily down the stairs and bolted out of my home to join her.
Emma was fast, but I was faster. Following the tiny dot in the sky, I overtook her just beyond the short-clipped grass where our property line met the forested area that separated our estate from our neighbor’s across the way. Together we tumbled through the undergrowth. In truth there wasn’t much in this area to hinder our progress across the ground and the trees were spread a goodly distance from one another, so we were able to see through the gaps between them without difficulty. As my mechanical bird slowed in the sky and began its descent we ran faster, sprinting excitedly alongside each other over the generous carpet of leaves and dodging low-hanging branches and brambles. Then we broke into my neighbor’s yard, and Emma pulled ahead of me to catch the bird as it finally plummeted out of the sky, its power spent.
My mind immediately drifted toward design improvements. I really needed to fine-tune it, and moreover figure out how to make it fly where I wanted it to fly. But the first bridge had been crossed: I had made it flight-worthy, and the test run was a success. I approached Emma with a grin that I thought might spilt my face in two, and together we began for the forest once more.
“When you told me you had improved upon its design, I didn’t think you had meant that you had completely remade it!” she exclaimed, her cheeks a riot of color, no doubt a mixture of fatigue and excitement. She held the bird out in front of her and looked closely at it. “It’s so beautiful, Reg, like unto—“
“Well what do we have here?” a man queried from behind us just as we were stepping into the tangled forest undergrowth once more. We turned to find three men standing there, and I groaned inwardly. The three sons of Trevor Wellington, no doubt come to gloat at us and ruin our pleasant day. “Look, Percy, it’s Kenilworth and his harlot!”
Emma pursed her lips, her face draining of color. I was instantly livid and puffed out my chest, straightening my coat about my shoulders. “Anna is many things, but she is not a harlot! She is brighter than the three of you combined and three times as charming, and you would do well to remember that fact.”
The oldest brother, Leslie, grinned from his spot in front and stepped forward. “It would appear the lady has seduced you along with all of her other low-born conquests,” he said lowly, waggling his offensive brows at Emma. Now she took a step forward, her eyes burning with hatred, and was about to say something then the youngest of the three stepped forward.
“Leave it, Les,” he said softly, gripping Leslie’s shoulder with his hand, “please.”
Leslie turned back around, shaking off his brother’s hand. “You fancy her too, Oswald?”
“No,” he said bravely, his own cheeks blanching, “but your cruelty is unprecedented. Just leave them to their toys and be done with it.” I had to admire Oswald, who secretly remained my friend even after it had become clear that knowing me would get him into trouble with his brothers. He used every excuse to get them to stop taunting me, and sometimes—though lately it had been a rarity—accompanied us when we went to out-of-the-way places to test my creations.
“This is not a toy,” Emma murmured from beside me. I shushed her, but she ignored my protest. “This is a mechanical marvel!”
“Who asked you to talk?” the middle brother asked viciously. His beady brown eyes, so like those of his brothers, seemed to drink her in with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. I didn’t like the way he regarded her at all.
“Drop it, Percival,” I warned. “Come, Emma. Let us back to my study and adjust the bird so that next time it might fly in a straight line.”
As we turned to go, Emma looked over her shoulder and said, “he will be famous one day; just you wait!”
Laughter, as the three brothers ceased their sport and returned to the safety of their home.
“You needed not speak for me,” I said, reaching for the bird. She handed it over without complaint, then ducked a low-hanging tree branch.
“Well, you needed not speak for me,” she retorted, turning just so that her blue eyes caught mine for a brief moment. “I respect your defending my honor, however.”
“You are far from a harlot,” I said through gritted teeth.
“They were correct, after a fashion,” she said, surprisingly. “I seem to have accomplished my task quite well.”
“Your task?”
“And that, you may never know,” she replied, smiling secretively. And her devious machinations? Well, they were the worst facet of Emma, if ever there was one.
Too soon we arrived at my back door, and as we crept across the salon like children playing at espionage, my father peeked his head around the side of his tall red velvet chair and scared the dickens out of us by bellowing Emma’s name. Then he stood and came over to give her a kiss of greeting on the cheek. “So nice to see you visiting, child!”
“Very pleased to be here, Sir,” she replied politely, smiling up at him. My father looked at me and winked.
“You had better hold on to this one, my boy. She’s absolutely lovely!”
“Father!” I felt my cheeks burning, and Emma shook with silent laughter. Annoyed, I grabbed her hand and began up the stairs. “To my study. I fear my father has become daft.”
And she, laughing in earnest now, bounced up the stairs after me. “You’re embarrassed! How charming!”
“Hush!” I was aware that I sounded like a brooding adolescent, but I didn’t much care. I plodded into my study and set my creation on my work-table, perching on the stool next to it. Emma came to stand beside me, leaning over just so that her curls tumbled over her shoulders. She gasped when I opened the body’s casing. “Oh, Reginald! You really did gut it out!”
“Less weight, more flight,” I replied, donning a pair of magnifying spectacles. “What I would really like is a consistent power source, and a means of controlling its flight from afar.”
“Some kind of steering mechanism attached to a string?” she suggested.
“That might work, but I don’t want it to be attached to me. If I could get this to work correctly, just think of the possibilities! Packages winging from house to house! Humans flying!”
“Reg, people cannot fly. How do you think you would test that mechanism? It’s far too risky!”
“Mother always said that anything worth having is worth a risk,” I said.
“If that is true, then you are worth quite a risk,” she said softly. Then she leaned on her elbows, smiling at me in that way that melted my heart.
“Stop making fun of me, Emma,” I teased, looking up from the bird’s innards and into her face. She pouted, pretending offense. I knew better than to believe that face; she’d used it on me far too many times.
“I’m not,” she said, reaching up to remove the eyeglasses from my nose and set them on the table next to the bird. Then she leaned forward and cupped my face in her hands. “You have greatness in you. I can feel it.” My fingertips tingled where they still rested upon my metal construction, and as I brought my other hand up to find hers, remove it from my cheek—or, I admit, perhaps to caress it like I so longed to—I felt it tingle as well. My shoulders and arms felt for a brief moment as if they’d been run under hot water. And then the most curious thing happened.
Emma crumpled to the floor, her eyes rolling back into her head. Immediately I was there with her, pillowing her against my legs, feeling at her wrist for a pulse.
“Emma?” I ventured, relieved to find that she had not dropped dead on the spot. But regardless of pulse or breathing she did not stir, nor did she stir when I shook her frantically, nor when I cried out for help. My father rushed into the room, and together we carried her to my bed, where I fretted and fussed until I was sure there was nothing I could do to wake her up.
“I’ll fetch a doctor,” Father said, wheeling around and hastening from the room.
A quarter hour passed. Half an hour. I remained by her bedside.
“Reginald?” a voice called from the study. It sounded like Emma’s voice, but that was impossible; she was laying here on my bed sheets, unconscious! I must have gone loony with worry!
Ever curious, however, I stood and walked to my study, expecting to find my little sister there, or my mother. But as I strode through the door I saw no person there. Casting one sweeping glance across the room, I turned to leave—
And I noticed that the bird was gone from the work table. Looking automatically to the floor, thinking I had dropped it and smashed it to pieces, I found it: Whole, wings folded tightly to its back, and staring at me with its dark marble eyes.
“Reginald?” came the voice again. It was Emma’s voice, I was sure of it. But it was coming from the bird.
“Emma?”
The bird took a step forward. “What happened?”
“I’ve gone silly in the head,” I replied, aware that I only made myself seem more crazy because I was actually talking to it. “This is not happening,” I murmured softly to myself, dropping to my knees on the floor. Fleetingly, I thought that I might be becoming a mad inventor. Fitting, really, considering I was fraternizing with a gear-driven metal bird.
~*~
The doctor had very little to say where Emma’s health was concerned. As for me…well, I might have admitted myself to a madhouse if I hadn’t actually seen my bird moving about in my study of its own accord. As the situation stood, Emma had fallen into what the doctor referred to as “living death,” an unexplainable state of prolonged unconsciousness reserved for the ill and dying. The only problem was that Emma’s very essence was safely cradled in my hands, quiet as a mouse, observing her own diagnosis with what I perceived to be a degree of disbelief.
Reluctantly my father left to call upon Emma’s parents so that she might be transported home. The doctor bade me farewell and left shortly after giving me strict instructions to hold conversation with her inert form in the hopes that it might garner some kind of response. So it was that I found myself in my bedroom, staring at Emma’s sleeping body.
“I’ve really done it now,” I said, laying my hand on the bird’s back.
“How will you put me back into my body?” she asked. Her tiny vibrations made me shiver as she spoke.
“I’m not quite sure what I did in the first place,” I said, adding on, lest she think I was accepting blame, “or if I did anything at all.”
“Regardless, it’s you who’s the man now, and I the bird, so you figure it out.”
Oh, that was just dandy. Now she was mad at me on top of being nearly dead.
~*~
The next days were spent researching. I learned that Emma’s body would not last long under these circumstances; the doctor gave her two weeks until her organs began failing, and one more before she herself passed on. Of course, his prediction must have been based solely on personal experience, but Emma’s case was special. She wasn’t sick. I chose not to believe that she was in any danger of death and instead began looking for answers to the ultimate question: What, precisely, had happened to my best friend? Once I knew, I was sure a solution would present itself to me.
After three days of searching, still I found nothing concerning spirit transfers in any of the writings I possessed in my study. Perhaps the public library had other journals I could peruse. Emma refused to help me, but it wasn’t because she was mad at me. It was because her eyesight in her tiny body was poor. I could only promise to fix her mechanical eyes, having unearthed no clues as to how I had trapped her in that thing in the first place; after all, I was convinced that I was the one who had caused this to happen, so I was likely the only person who could undo it. Maybe in the meantime I could invent something to help keep her body alive.
I remembered that Emma’s family library was far more extensive than mine, and resolved to go to her house and beg of her parents to allow me to make use of their texts. “Our library contains mostly romance stories and historic treatises. Not much of interest of you or I,” Emma said.
“Oh.” With hopes only slightly dashed I headed for the stairs, Emma flitting through the air behind me to land awkwardly on my shoulder. She clung there as I descended the stairs.
I was nearly to the parlor door when my mother stopped me. “Reginald, are you off to visit Emma?” she asked.
“Yes, mother, I am,” I replied, placing a hand on my friend’s metal casing as I turned.
“Might you take this to her parents?” She handed me a package smelling of warm, fresh bread.
“Of course I will,” I said with a smile. In truth I didn’t feel happy at all, but there was no reason my mother needed to know that.
“You’ve been penned up in that study for the past three days, Reg; is something wrong?” She looked at me as if she were losing me. Maybe she was—I probably looked a little worse for wear, having had no sleep and having eaten very little—but again, there was no reason to give her that impression. I frowned, not really knowing how it looked to her, and tucked her loaf of bread gently under my arm.
“I’m trying to find a way to save her body, Mother,” I replied truthfully. “I haven’t found much of anything yet, but I am looking for something to build.”
My mother glanced at the bird on my shoulder like she knew exactly what had happened. Then she said, “I may have something that can help you with that. Your great uncle Elrich kept a journal that I hid away until you were old enough to read it. I had forgotten about it until now; some of his entries were lacking in sanity.”
“Lacking in sanity?” I questioned, curious.
“Yes, he went on and on about how his research partner had lost his soul. His research partner died around that time,” she said dismissively. “Stay right there; I will fetch it for you before I forget.” She turned to hustle from the room, and I looked at Emma. Her little metal talons dug into my shoulder.
“Do you think it will help?” Emma asked quietly.
“Better than nothing, surely.”
Silence, as we both tried to contemplate just what might be in that journal. The solution to our problem? If he had been ranting about his friend losing a soul, then it might be. My mother came rushing back into the room with another cloth-wrapped bundle and held it out for me. It wasn’t exactly a rectangle, which led me to believe that there was something else in this package to accompany the journal. Without showing my excitement or betraying my anxiousness to open the book, I gave my mother a quick hug and plucked the bundle out of her hands.
“I will deliver the bread directly, and perhaps read this while I sit with Emma.”
“Be careful on your way there,” my mother said. I nodded and turned toward the door again, but a thought suddenly nagged at my brain.
“Mother? How did Great Uncle Elrich die?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “He left town and never returned.”
Well, that sounded promising.
~*~
I knocked on Emma’s door, and her mother answered. She looked like she hadn’t gotten much sleep either, but brightened when she saw me. “Reginald!” she exclaimed with a loving smile. “My boy, how are you faring?”
“Well enough, Mistress Jameson. My mother thought to bake you some bread, and I volunteered to bring it with me.” I smiled at her mother, whom she so resembled both in looks and in temperament, and handed her the loaf of bread.
“Oh, thank you! You family is always thoughtful,” she replied, looking haggard and worn again. “I suppose that would be why Emma took a shine to you, dear.”
I felt my face growing warm. “I suppose,” I mumbled. I myself knew that I was head-over-heels in love with the girl, but I was not ready to talk about that with Emma inside the cloth bundle where I had hidden her, eavesdropping. “May I see her?” I asked, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat, hoping that my tone sounded somber instead of embarrassed.
“Surely,” she said, and led me up the stairs. Of course, I knew my way there well enough, but walking with her mother at least gave me the chance to ask the necessary questions.
“Has there been any change?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“None,” she said sadly. “I’ll leave you to talk to her. Let me know if anything happens.”
“I shall, Ma’am.”
Once she was gone, I dumped the contents of the makeshift cloth bag onto the floor.
“Hey!” Emma scolded softly, lest her mother hear her. She landed on her back, and with a goodly amount of wing flapping and leg flailing managed to right herself. “Thanks for being gentle,” she said sarcastically.
“You’re welcome.” I was certain that the journal in front of me would provide at the very least an insight into the situation. Next to it on the floor was what looked like a monocle, with three interchangeable glass lenses dyed blue, red and yellow. I picked it up for a moment and inspected it, wondering what its purpose was. Unable to dwell too much on it, I put the instrument down and picked up the book. It was old, worn, crudely sewn. Still, when I tilted the stiff leather cover open the binding held, but the first words were confusing:
Heed the colors you see about, and you will understand their purpose. G.
G? What did that letter mean? I flipped more pages and glanced at the contents. They were all seemingly innocuous entries in his neat handwriting, peppered here and there with illustrations of failed inventions, concepts and theories. “It’s just a bunch of theories and random letters, some drawings and blank pages,” I said softly. Confused, I read the last entry:
There is hope. I have found the answer, but it is not the best answer. There was never a best answer. Muscle or machine. Switch or soul. It doesn’t matter. His essence remains, though I found the answer too late to return him to himself. If you value this information, read on. V.
After that, there were nothing but blank pages. I checked everywhere. Nothing looked to have been torn out.
“You had the answer,” I groaned, “but you failed to share it!”
“He knew?” Emma asked softly. I had nearly forgotten that she could not read with her marble eyes. I picked Emma upholding her in front of me as I approached her body. Then I bent and laid a soft kiss on her still forehead, and turned to bag up my belongings once more. “What were the letters?” she managed to get out before I stuffed her into the cloth.
“V, G, B, R…I think I saw an O in there as well.”
“Hmm.”
“We’ll figure it out when we get back. In you go.” I placed her gently on top of the journal and turned back around to regard Emma’s sleeping body one more time. “I’ve been up here too long already; your mother will be looking in on us soon.” I reached out and brushed a russet curl from her face, felt the pulse beating beneath her pale neck. “I’ll fix you; I promise.”
I turned and walked from the room, gave her mother one more hug for good measure, and began the short walk home. I hurried inside, up the stairs, and locked myself in my study. As soon as the lock clicked, Emma spoke. “Is it a cipher of some sort? A code? Do the letters stand for something? Reginald, was there something printed at the beginning of the book that looked out of place at all?”
Heed the colors you see about, and you will understand their purpose. G.
Colors.
I opened the cloth bundle on my work table, lit a lamp, and picked up the inspecting glass. One side hooked around my ear. The other was a leather strap that fit around my forehead, with another fitting over the top of my head. I centered it and looked at the page again.
Heed the colors you see about, and you will understand their purpose. G.
I flipped down the first lens, the blue one. Thought I saw something else scrawled there. I flipped the second one down over the first, and my vision turned purple. Nothing. Wait. G. Green. I lifted the red lens and pulled down the yellow.
There, underneath the original message, was another one:
Proceed with caution and in privacy. This journal is for my descendants, so that they may know the truth of their heritage.
I looked at Emma, patiently waiting for me to figure it out. “It’s colors. The letters stand for colors. The colors I need to view this through to read his hidden messages.”
“Fantastic! So he does have the answer?”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
~*~
Hours of reading later, and I had discovered many things. I was a wizard, and not the kind that turned people to frogs or other such drivel. I had the power to bring life to my machines, and my great uncle had coined the phrase “Mechanical Mage” to describe our particular talent. He had described in detail the accidental soul-transfer of his research partner, his hunt for answers, and his eventual solution, a machine that he had built using very specific pieces that he had had to travel to collect. My heart sank when I saw the schematic for the machine. Not only was it complicated, but I was sure that half of the parts were so old and outdated that I had no hope of finding them in time. “I can’t build this,” I moaned, setting the book down.
“Is it too expensive? My family has money, if you tell them it will save me…”
I was grateful for her help, but that just wasn’t the problem. “No, it’s out-dated. It’s likely that the parts don’t even exist anymore.”
“What does it do?” she asked.
“It’s supposed to reverse my energies, allowing me to draw power from machines and put it into flesh.”
“So really, you’d be bringing me back to life.”
“Technically.”
Emma started whirring as she walked in circles on the work table.
“I’m going to try, Emma.”
“I can’t hold it against you if you fail,” she said. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was terrified. That was fine; I was terrified too.
~*~
In one week I had modified Elrich’s Energy Machine schematic with updated parts. Using the theory behind his machine, I had also designed it to be more compact; instead of a huge mechanical arch, it was now a machine strapped across my back that was attached to a pair of intricately made gloves. Some things had to be specially made by professionals, and I put them on order right away, paying extra money so that they might be produced in a short amount of time. I told them a life depended on it. It was true, more or less. I built as much as I could while I waited for the rest. Spent all of the money I had saved for my future. Worked late into the night and rose early in the morning. Finally, a week and a half after the accident had happened, the machine was complete and ready to be tested. There was only one problem: How was I going to convince Emma’s parents to let me test this machine on their daughter’s inert form?
Could I just march into their home with this thing and not be questioned about it?
Well, there was only one way for me to find out.
~*~
Emma’s father let me in through the front door, but he didn’t question what I was doing there. He knew that Emma and I were friends, knew that I wanted her to be well again. He did, however, have questions about my newest invention.
“And what, pray-tell, is that thing on your back?”
“I like to call it an energy machine. It draws upon the energy made by other machines and transfers it to other things. I am hoping this machine will help Emma.”
“And how would it help her?”
“By transferring energy from my mechanical bird to her body, Sir.” I nearly winced when I said it. Her father seemed to contemplate it for a few moments, and then he fixed me with a serious look. “I’m worried it would do her harm if it failed.”
“If the worst it can do is kill her, then it’s not doing any more than nature has done already,” I countered. However, I’m using a small machine, so that the effects won’t be so drastic if it does fail.” That was a lie, but I must have told it well because he nodded.
“You have a fair point. I would like to see this process for myself.”
“Surely. May I have a moment alone with her first?”
“Yes, but you must leave the machine down here.” I’m sure he thought that I was going to try it before he could see it in action.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I will be down momentarily.” I set my machine down and ascended the stairs, Emma the bird still cupped in my hands. When we were safely out of ear-shot and behind her closed bedroom door, I set her down on top of her flesh-and-bone body. “Do you want me to do this? It’s been long enough that your body may have lost some of its function.”
“I want you to do this,” she said quietly. “I want you to try.”
“Emma, if this doesn’t work, there’s one thing I want you to know.”
“What’s that, Reg?”
I took a deep breath. “I love you, and if I hurt you it is not intentional. I would be heartbroken were this to fail.”
“I know,” she said. If this little bird could have smiled, it would have. “And I trust you. Otherwise I wouldn’t let you near my real body. You’ve explained it all. To me, it makes sense. It will work.”
“I really hope so,” I said. Then I stood, smoothed her hair, and turned. “I will return shortly with your family in tow.” Before she could say anything else, I opened the door to her quarters and made my way downstairs, where her parents waited for me next to my machine.
I knew the risks involved, and the price I would have to pay to make her whole again. I just hadn’t told her, for fear she wouldn’t let me save her. “Time to work some magic,” I muttered, regretting the words as soon as they had left my mouth. It might have been best not to put ideas into their heads. They followed me up the stairs with skeptical looks on their faces.
When I returned to Emma’s bedside, her mother began to cry. Not wanting an emotional scene, I placed my fingertips on the bare skin of her neck, and picked up Emma the bird in the other hand. Kissed its metal frame, forcing myself not to think of goodbye. I had read my great uncle’s last journal entry, and I knew that to return her life, I needed to sacrifice mine. I reached up with the bird still in my hand to flip a metal switch on the side of the machine. It was time for me to go.
The vibrations were jarring, the machine was loud, and Emma the bird was surely rattling to pieces. I felt the warm sensation in my arms and shoulders again, felt something pass through them, and then my world went dark.
~*~
When I awoke I was in Emma’s bedroom, on her bed. Her parents wore the marks of recent crying, and looked a little worse for wear. Any iteration of Emma I had seen was gone. I groaned and tried to sit up, but after spots bloomed and the room started spinning I thought it might be better to lay back down. Had the machine failed? Surely if it had I would have been dead by now, and clearly I was not.
“Reginald!” her mother exclaimed, flying out of her chair to embrace me there on the bed.
“Augh, how long was I asleep?”
“Three hours,” her father replied. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a horse just danced on my head,” I said. “And weak. Very weak.”
“Well, you just performed a miracle; Emma is taking a bath right now, complaining of how dirty she feels. It’s almost as if she never left us!” Her father stood and helped me slowly to sit up, which was better for my headache. “The doctor will be here any moment to examine you, as will your parents.”
“Fantastic.” I groaned anew. “My parents will be livid.”
“Doubtful, when we tell them what you’ve done for our girl, and how we plan to repay you for it.”
“You don’t need to repay me. Having Emma back is payment enough.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, but something was wrong. When I tried to stand, I found out what that was: my lower left leg simply did not operate as it should. It felt like it wasn’t there at all to begin with. Startled by this, I tipped sideways and found myself held up by Emma’s father’s strong arms.
“Whoa. Sit down; you shouldn’t try to stand so quickly.”
“I cannot feel my leg,” I said in response, more a surprised statement than a retort.
~*~
The doctor examined both of us. Emma was as healthy as a horse. Apparently my left leg had to be amputated below the knee, because it was hopeless to return the function where the muscles had atrophied. It dawned on me then what Elrich had meant in that last journal entry, and I was happy that it was me and not Emma, that I had taken on all of her physical ailments from her time in the sick bed. Still, losing my leg was going to be rough…unless I could create a new mechanical one. Yes. I would just have to start on that when I got home.
There was, however, the matter of my nonexistent bank funds. I would never be able to fashion this leg replacement without money.
“Reginald,” my mother wailed when she entered after the examination. “Always so selfless, you get yourself in trouble!”
Selfless? Me? Really? “I prefer to think of it as being helpful,” I retorted.
“Being brainless, really,” another voice chimed in from the doorway. Emma had toweled off, done her hair, changed her clothing and now stood, looking radiant as ever, staring at me. “You knew what would happen and you still did it, did you not?”
“Of course I did!” I said fiercely. “I didn’t want you to be like that forever!”
“We’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Emma’s mother said with a smile for me, “while we discuss your repayment with your parents.”
“Really, you need not—“ I protested.
“Don’t you worry about it, Reginald Kenilworth!” she scolded, making me shrink back against Emma’s pillows. “Now, mind your manners, my dear.” And without making it clear who she was addressing, she pushed everyone else out of the room until Emma and I were by ourselves.
“Seems like it’s been more than just a week and a half,” Emma said, approaching my bed with caution. “How bad?”
“Left leg amputation,” I replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it would be me taking on your medical problems; I didn’t want you to refuse.”
Emma winced. “I would have, too. You worked so hard to save me. I would have done the same for you.”
“I know. It’s the nature of being friends,” I replied, smiling.
“No, it’s the nature of being in love. Now get some sleep, because as soon as you wake up again you’re going to be asking my parents’ permission to court me.” She came to me then, helping me to slide back into a horizontal position, taking both of my cheeks in her hands and pressing her lips to my forehead. “And we will be paying for your medical bill and whatever you’ve got tucked up your sleeve to replace that leg of yours.”
“How did you know I was going to do that?” I asked, wondering if she had suddenly acquired psychic powers.
“Oh, come now, Reginald. You can’t pass up a chance to mend something that’s broken.” And then she stood, patting my shoulder affectionately, and swept from the room, leaving me to sleep in silence.
~*~
After the episode with Elrich’s Energy Machine, I became famous. Everyone assumed it was named after me, but it was always Great Uncle Elrich’s design. Multiple replicas were made, but they all failed. I began work on my steam-powered leg attachment immediately, and eventually became known for my invention of precise mechanical limbs.
People said that I was special. Skilled. Gifted. Special, because I had the great fortune of marrying Emma Jameson. Skilled, because I had developed highly functioning artificial limbs. Gifted, because I had a power that only one other man understood, to my knowledge, and I was learning how to control it as I sifted through the rest of his journal entries. For once, I believed them.
 Alanora Calaran · Mon Mar 08, 2010 @ 08:07am · 2 Comments |
