Read Clockwork Angels: The Novel Online
Authors: Kevin J. & Peart Anderson,Kevin J. & Peart Anderson
Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Steampunk
Clockwork Angels: The Novel (36 page)
Lavinia found someone else, married, had a family, had a life that fit her definition of happiness. I didn’t notice her in the crowds at any of our Barrel Arbor shows, but I never imagined her as a lover of carnivals. I wonder if she even remembered me.
This season, I’ve decided to stay home on the quiet estate. Time to retire. With a few months of solitude, like my time out in the Seven Cities of Gold, I am going to write my book and relive all the journeys of that great adventure. Each moment is its own memory. If I don’t write it, no one will.
The seasons pass, I get older, and the hours tick away. I never did replace the pocketwatch that was stolen from me in Poseidon City. I never felt I needed one again. Here, the days are bright, and the nights are dark.
Francesca takes the bouquet of gladiolas, gives me a kiss— which tickles because of the false moustache—and I return to the garden, where a large and beautiful sundial tells me everything I need to know about time, and this garden has taught me all I needed to know about measuring my life. The shadow of the gnomon slowly tracks across the face of the sundial, letting me know that it is always
now
.
Engraved on the stone pedestal is a verse I have taken to heart, something I heard in my own adventures:
Before the ancient clockwork fortune teller wound down for the last time, she told me, “Measure your life not by schedules or riches. The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect.”
Love and respect, love and respect—I have been carrying those words around with me for years. Some people want fabulous wealth, some want great power, some (like me) wanted amazing adventures and to see the wonders of the universe. Some, like the Watchmaker and the Anarchist, want to change the world (though in opposite ways).
But if you scrape away the gold paint, the ornate façade, or just the covering of dirt, everybody wants to be loved and respected. And neither is any good without the other. Love without respect can be as cold as pity; respect without love can be as grim as fear.
It took me a long time to understand, but fortunately through blind luck, and years, and my wonderful family and friends, I realize that love and respect are the greatest gifts we can receive, the greatest legacy we can leave behind. It’s an elegy we’d like to hear with our own ears, “You were loved and respected.”
If even one person could say that about me, I’d consider it a worthy achievement. If I can multiply that many times—by living each day with the kind of integrity and generosity that earns respect and love—that is true success, by my definition, at least. The measure of a life.
I think of what I’ve done. I think of my friends, my family, the satisfaction of the carnival and the sheer small pleasure of my garden. “Are you content?” the fortune teller had once asked me. “Are you happy with what you did, what you are doing, and what you are going to do?”
A complex question and too weighty for a young boy from Barrel Arbor to answer properly. But after traveling, observing, living, and learning, I know that I can boil the answer down to one word.
Yes.
I look around me at the rows of exuberant gladiolas, the haphazard green beans, tomatoes, and corn, even the dozen apple trees I have made into my own new orchard. I planted my seeds, nourished them with my optimism, and tended my garden. I’ll harvest what I deserve, and all is for the best.
It is a fine garden.
I—
CARAVAN
In a world lit only by fire
Long train of flares under piercing stars
I stand watching the steamliners roll by
The caravan thunders onward
To the distant dream of the city
The caravan carries me onward
On my way at last
On my way at last
I can’t stop thinking big
I can’t stop thinking big
On a road lit only by fire
Going where I want, instead of where I should
I peer out at the passing shadows
Carried through the night into the city
Where a young man has a chance of making good
A chance to break from the past
The caravan thunders onward
Stars winking through the canvas hood
On my way at last
In a world where I feel so small
I can’t stop thinking big
II
—
BU2B
I was brought up to believe
The universe has a plan
We are only human
It’s not ours to understand
The universe has a plan
All is for the best
Some will be rewarded
And the devil take the rest
All is for the best
Believe in what we’re told
Blind men in the market
Buying what we’re sold
Believe in what we’re told
Until our final breath
While our loving Watchmaker
Loves us all to death
In a world of cut and thrust
I was always taught to trust
In a world where all must fail
Heaven’s justice will prevail
The joy and pain that we receive
Each comes with its own cost
The price of what we’re winning
Is the same as what we’ve lost
Until our final breath
The joy and pain that we receive
Must be what we deserve
I was brought up to believe
III
—
CLOCKWORK ANGELS
High above the city square
Globes of light float in mid-air
Higher still, against the night
Clockwork angels bathed in light
You promise every treasure, to the foolish and the wise
Goddesses of mystery, spirits in disguise
Every pleasure, we bow and close our eyes
Clockwork angels, promise every prize
Clockwork angels, spread their arms and sing
Synchronized and graceful, they move like living things
Goddesses of Light, of Sea and Sky and Land
Clockwork angels, the people raise their hands—As if to fly
All around the city square
Power shimmers in the air
People gazing up with love
To those angels high above
Celestial machinery—move through your commands
Goddesses of mystery, so delicate and so grand
Moved to worship, we bow and close our eyes
Clockwork angels, promise every prize
“Lean not upon your own understanding*
Ignorance is well and truly blessed
Trust in perfect love, and perfect planning
Everything will turn out for the best”
Stars aglow like scattered sparks
Span the sky in clockwork arcs
Hint at more than we can see
Spiritual machinery
i
—
THE PEDLAR 1
“
What do you lack?”
IV
—
THE ANARCHIST
Will there be world enough and time for me to sing that song?
A voice so silent for so long
For all those years I had to get along, they told me I was wrong
I never wanted to belong—I was so strong
I lack their smiles and their diamonds; I lack their happiness and love
I envy them for all those things, I never got my fair share of
The lenses inside of me that paint the world black
The pools of poison, the scarlet mist, that spill over into rage
The things I’ve always been denied
An early promise that somehow died
A missing part of me that grows around me like a cage
In all your science of the mind, seeking blind through flesh and bone
Find the blood inside this stone
What I know, I’ve never shown; what I feel, I’ve always known
I plan my vengeance on my own—and I was always alone
Oh—They tried to get me
Oh—They’ll never forget me