My Clockwork Muse (22 page)

He stared into the distance, lost in
thought.

"What is it, Doctor?"

When he made no reply, I craned my neck to
see what had startled him. The artificial ribs had sprung back to
their original position, so I pried them apart with my fingers and
looked inside.

There I saw the usual assortment of gears and
tubes, but these were almost lost amid a network of clinging
strands of biological tissue. They seemed to have grown up over and
around the brass fittings and springs, increasing in density the
further I looked.

Where the back end of the cat was a pure
artificial construct, the front seemed to be a combination of
clockwork and biological structures. I could more readily accept
the former before I could even conceive of the latter.

"It's not possible," Coppelius said, looking
at me at last with a birdlike twitch of his head.

"That was the conclusion I had arrived at,
even before I had seen ... this."

"Tell me, Edgar. You say these ... cats ...
of yours were indistinguishable from one another?"

"On the contrary, Doctor. They were as
different as night and day. Indeed, even before all the facts were
known to me, I had come to believe there were
two
cats, one
that loved me and one that seemed bent on my destruction."

"And which was which, Edgar?"

"Physically, it is true, the cat's
were
indistinguishable. That is what made the issue so
perplexing. By sheer chance, I had never seen them together. And
their behaviors were so diametrically opposed that I believed the
cat must have gone mad, somehow."

"But
which
, Edgar?"

I swept my hand above the prostrate form of
the clockwork cat. "This was the cat I knew, Doctor. This ... this
thing
. This is the loving cat I remember. The same one that
curled up on my lap and purred at my feet. This is Virginia's
little kitty, as I knew him."

The admission hurt me more than I would have
suspected. While the man-made sham of a cat loved me, the real one
wanted to destroy me. The horror of what I had done to him came
flooding back. But none of this mattered to Coppelius. In fact, the
news seemed to please him.

"Ah ... Interesting ..." he said. "So this
was the gentle cat? The one that most resembled your ... late
wife's
kitty
, as you call it?"

The word 'kitty' coming from Coppelius'
misshapen lips made me want to shiver in horror and laugh all at
once. But my mind was beginning to spin with thoughts of too many
cats.

"I would have thought that this
was
Virginia's cat—if I hadn't accidentally shot him and found these
spilling out of him." I picked up a displaced gear and spring from
the table and let them fall in disgust.

"While the real one—"

"Can we be sure of that, Doctor?" I asked
before he could continue.

Standing over the cat, hunch-backed in his
black frock coat, Coppelius turned his head and gave me a
cock-browed stare while his vulture's eye gazed somewhere
disconcertingly over my shoulder. "Sure of what, boy?"

"How can we know there
is
a real cat?
Perhaps"

"One of the cats is real," Coppelius assured
me. "And we can be certain that it's not this one."

"But how do you know that?"

"
You
tell me, Edgar. When you plucked
the eyeball from this fellow's twin, was it a real cat that howled
in rage and pain? Or was it more like this?"

He took up his scalpel and with a series of
rapid, deft strokes soon had the automaton's eyeball out of its
head. It clung to the socket by a spidery network of glistening
tendons and, I saw buried within, a short length of copper wire.
With a flick of his wrist, Coppelius jerked it free. He held the
naked eyeball between his fingers and pointed it at me. "I see
you!" he said in a playful, high-pitched voice. I was not able to
laugh. The overall effect was grotesque.

"It was a real cat," I conceded
sheepishly.

In fact, I could not recall ever telling
Coppelius of my shameful act. On the other hand, he had tended
Virginia for months and I could not recall many subjects about
which we had no doubt conversed. In my spiritually weakened
condition throughout that period, I might have told him anything. I
might also have told Olimpia. Who knew?

What I did know was that my feelings of guilt
often overwhelmed me. When I was honest with myself, I understood
that it was only my guilt that made me believe the cat sought
vengeance. When I thought back dispassionately, I could remember no
hatred from Pluto, only fear. He ran from me, not at me. I would
have welcomed his hatred if only to be free from the creature's
pathetic terror of me. It was not until later that he became
aggressive. In fact, it was at about the same time that I often
found him having returned to his old loving self. That is, he did
not become the hateful, violent creature I have come to know until
after he had become two.

There was something about the artificial cat
that had somehow altered the behavior of the real cat. But what it
was I had no way of knowing.

"It wouldn't surprise me if Burton wasn't
behind this somehow," I said. I had been mulling various scenarios
that would explain the existence of the cat and Burton's role in it
but had come up with nothing satisfactory. I spoke my thoughts
aloud now in hopes that Dr. Coppelius might have an answer I had
not thought of.

But he said nothing immediately. He was
struggling with something deep inside the cat. Whatever it was
suddenly broke free, and he looked at me, still grimacing from his
effort.

"Oh, this is far beyond Burton, my boy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we are dealing with a work of genius
here, Edgar."

"Then you think Burton is merely a pawn and
there is some greater intelligence at work behind him?"

With one hand still inside the cat, Coppelius
called for a scalpel. Olimpia laid it in his palm. "Most
assuredly," Coppelius replied, working by feel only. "There, that's
got it!" He pulled something from the chest cavity. "I had my
doubts at first, Edgar. But now I must tell you that I believe you
are in grave danger."

Finished with his work, he pulled the
mirror-band from his head and inspected an object closely under the
light. I looked on with interest and saw that it was a glass
sphere, about the size of a dollar coin. It looked to be partially
full of a silvery fluid. In the center of the sphere hung some sort
of tiny mechanism, which from my vantage point looked something
like a pendulum arm. Wires and tiny tubing led into and out of the
sphere. Coppelius turned it in his fingers. I noticed that however
it moved, the pendulum remained stationary, like the needle of a
compass.

"The creature's heart," Coppelius muttered in
awe.

I leaned in close to get a better look. I had
the impression that I was gazing at a man-made object cast somehow
in miniature. It was so small that I could not discern the details
of its construction. Even Olimpia, who had exhibited little
curiosity until now, bent in close to look. I could feel the warmth
of her hand on my shoulder.

"It is a perpetual motion machine," Coppelius
said. "It is the power source of our dear departed."

"How does it work?" I asked. The room had
become silent. It seemed inappropriate to speak above a
whisper.

"To answer that question will take years of
study. Who is responsible is our more immediate concern."

"Whoever it is—"

"Has you as his target," Coppelius finished
for me.

We stared at one another.

Someone was standing in the gloom behind us.
Startled, I jerked my head around only to find that it was Dansby.
I let out a sigh. The strangeness of our discovery and the
murkiness of our surroundings had excited my imagination. Instead
of the butler, I had fancied some grim clockwork man come to
retrieve his pet. But, even at his most animated, Dansby was a
dour, inexpressive man, so perhaps my fancy could be forgiven.

He held a burning lantern in one hand and a
silver tray, upon which had been placed a calling card, in the
other.

"A visitor for you, sir."

Coppelius quickly wiped the sphere with a
rag, and then his hands. He glanced at the card, and said, "Come,
Dansby." Then, to Olimpia and me: "I shall return shortly." He
paused. He seemed about to lay the sphere on the table next to its
erstwhile carrier, but, thinking better of it, slipped it into his
pocket instead. Then he and Dansby started towards the stairs.

"Oh, and, uh, Edgar," Coppelius said, turning
back. "I, uh, wouldn't say anything about this cat, if I were
you."

I was intrigued. "You wouldn't?"

"No, I wouldn't. The police already suspect
you of madness. Talk of this cat will only make matters worse."

I wanted to ask him why. It seemed to me that
the cat could only help exonerate me. But I decided against it. I
would take his advice. At least for now.

~ * * * ~

"What a peculiar man," I said, after he had
gone. I had forgotten for the moment that he was Olimpia's father.
"Oh, sorry."

Olimpia waved my apology away. "One cannot
choose one's father, I'm afraid," she said, as she began lighting
another lamp.

"Alas, it is true." I felt suddenly wistful.
"Did you know your mother, Olimpia? My own was an actress." The
memory of my mother buoyed me. I added with a surge of pride, "An
actress of some renown, if I may say."

Olimpia had had to climb atop a stool to
reach one of the lamps. I moved to catch her in case she fell. My
caution proved unnecessary, for, having lit it successfully, she
began climbing down without incident. "Ah, just like Mr. Burton,"
she said, her feet once again coming to rest on
terra
firma
.

"Nothing like Burton. My mother was an
artist, not a pratfalling clown."

"Sorry, Eddy. I didn't mean to—"

"No, no, of course not." I was instantly
filled with remorse. I had spoken more crossly than I should have.
Thoughts of my mother could often provoke me to tears. She had died
when I was only a child. So I wanted to move off the subject as
quickly as possible. "But you did not answer my question," I went
on with a smile.

"Oh, did you ask me a question?"

"About your mother. Did you know her? I have
often thought that she must have been extraordinarily beautiful to
produce a daughter such as you." Olimpia blushed and I found myself
stammering in an attempt to explain. "Given the, uh ... I mean,
taking into account, uh, who your, uh—"

Olimpia laughed. "Who my father is? You don't
have to say it, Eddy. But he is not my natural father. I sometimes
feel us ... drifting apart."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I am not the girl he ... remembers. And I
never knew my mother, I'm afraid."

"I didn't mean to pry, Olimpia. I know what
it is to be an orphan." Olimpia turned her back to me and pretended
to be tidying some objects on the work table. Seeing her
discomfort, I decided that I would not pursue the subject. But now
I noticed that with the room fully illuminated I could see what had
only been hinted at in the gloom. I moved towards a stack of books
on the edge of the table. They were dusty and obviously very old,
and written in a variety of languages. Latin, I saw, French,
English, German, even Arabic. The pages were brittle and yellow
with age. I read some of the titles on their spines.

"
'A Chymicall Treatise of ... Arnoldus de
Villanova'
," I muttered, tracing my finger along the engraved
lettering, wiping away dust as I went. I moved to the next.
"
'The Alchemical Art' ... 'Philosophical Summary'
... Hmmm
... F.M. Van Helmont ... Here's one from the Comte de St. Germain.
Fascinating!" In amazement, I looked up at Olimpia. She was
watching me with detached interest. "Oh, but these are quaint and
curious volumes, to be sure!" I exclaimed. The volume that formed
the peak of this mountain of print lay open. Closed, the tome would
have been a good nine inches deep. I began to read the thick black
gothic text with difficulty. "
'The men only
...
looke
...
to the words which they
...
reade or heare,
...
and not to the hidden sense that is
...
in those
words.'
" I gave Olimpia a smile and continued. "
'For truly
the Sulphur
...
Arsenicum, Auripigment, Zan
...
Zandorit
...
Vibrick, Mercurius, Salt
...
Saltpeter
...
'
Astonishing! Your father is a very
learned man, Olimpia!"

"He has mastered many disciplines, Eddy.
Those books attest to the breadth of his curiosity—and his
intellect. He is not a man to be trifled with."

"I should say not, indeed. And quite wealthy,
too, it would seem. It wouldn't surprise me if some of these are
not first editions. Why, they must be hundreds of years old.
Priceless, in fact! And yet he just stacks them here willy-nilly,
as if they were nothing more valuable than back issues of the
Gentleman's Magazine
!"

"His resources are nearly unlimited," Olimpia
said.

I gazed around in wonderment. The objects
under the sheets now pulled me to them with an irresistible
attraction. I flung the covering from the nearest one, a squat
bulky object. It was revealed to be some sort of wheeled
contraption that consisted of a copper barrel-like body out of
which protruded a finger-thick black hose. The hose was draped over
a hook and out of its end sprouted a dozen or more smaller rubber
tubes affixed with an array of needles that glinted in the
lamplight. There was a seat which could be rotated in any manner
around the base, along with a set of foot pedals that looked to
operate a bellows below. The machine put me in mind of Coppelius'
pipe organ upstairs.