Steampunk!: An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories by Kelly Link
Authors: Kelly Link
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saucers as Monty explained the lay of the land to him. The clang when he thumped Grinder in his cast-iron chest made William leap back, and he hobbled toward the door.
"Wait, wait!" Monty called, switching to English. "Wait, will you, you idiot? This is the best day of your life, young William! But for us, you might have entered a life of miserable bondage. Instead, you will enjoy all the fruits of liberty, rewarding work, and comradeship.
We take care of our own here at Saint Aggie's. You'll have top grub, a posh leg, and a beautiful crutch that's as smooth as a baby's arse and as soft as a lady's bosom. You'll have the freedom to come and go as you please, and you'll have a warm bed to sleep in every night. And best of all, you'll have us, your family here at Saint Aggie's. We take care of our own, we do."
The boy looked at us, tears streaming down his face. He made me remember what it had been like, my first day at Saint Aggie's, the cold fear coiled around your guts like rope caught in a reciprocating gear. At Saint Aggie's we put on brave faces, never cried where no one could see us, but seeing him weep made me remember all the times I'd cried, cried for my lost family who'd sold me into indenture, cried for my mangled body, my ruined life. But living without Grinder's constant terrorizing must have softened my heart. Suddenly it was all I could do to stop myself from giving the poor little mite a one-armed hug.
I didn't hug him, but Monty did, stumping over to him, and the two of them bawled like babbies. Their peg legs knocked together as they embraced like drunken sailors, seeming to cry out every tear we'd any of us ever held in. Before long, we were all crying with them, fat tears streaming down our faces, the sound like something out of the pit.
When the sobs had stopped, William looked around at us, wiped his nose, and said, "Thank you. I think I am home." who couldn't make it as apprentices, neither, kids who'd spent their working lives full of such awful misery that they were bound to fall into a machine. And being sundered from their limbs didn't improve their outlook.
But it wasn't home for him. Poor William. We'd had children like him, in the bad old days, children who just couldn't get back up on their feet (or foot) again. Most of the time, I reckon, they were kids who couldn’t make it as apprentices, neither, kids who’d spent their working lives full of such awful misery they were bound to fall into a machine. And being sundered from their limbs didn’t improve their outlook.
We tried everything we could think of to cheer William up. He'd worked for a watch smith, and he had a pretty good hand at disassembling and cleaning mechanisms. His stump ached him like fire, even after he'd been fitted with a better apparatus by Saint Aggie's best leg maker, and it was only when he was working with his little tweezers and brushes that he lost the grimace that twisted up his face so. Monty had him strip and clean every clockwork in the house, even the ones that were working perfectly—even the delicate works we'd carefully knocked together for the clockwork Grinder. But it wasn't enough.
In the bad old days, Grinder would have beaten the boy and sent him out to beg in the worst parts of town, hoping that he'd be run down by a cart or killed by one of the blunderbuss gangs that marauded there. When the law brought home the boy's body, old Grinder would weep crocodile tears and tug his hair at the bloody evil that men did, and then he'd go back to his rooms and play some music and drink some brandy and sleep the sleep of the unjust.
We couldn't do the same, and so we tried to bring up William's spirits instead, and when he'd had enough of it, he lit out on his own. The first we knew of it was when he didn't turn up for breakfast. This wasn't unheard of—any of the free children of Saint Aggie's was able to rise and wake whenever he chose —but William had been a regular at breakfast every day. I
"Wait, wait!" Monty called, switching to English. "Wait, will you, you idiot? This is the best day of your life, young William! But for us, you might have entered a life of miserable bondage. Instead, you will enjoy all the fruits of liberty, rewarding work, and comradeship.
We take care of our own here at Saint Aggie's. You'll have top grub, a posh leg, and a beautiful crutch that's as smooth as a baby's arse and as soft as a lady's bosom. You'll have the freedom to come and go as you please, and you'll have a warm bed to sleep in every night. And best of all, you'll have us, your family here at Saint Aggie's. We take care of our own, we do."
The boy looked at us, tears streaming down his face. He made me remember what it had been like, my first day at Saint Aggie's, the cold fear coiled around your guts like rope caught in a reciprocating gear. At Saint Aggie's we put on brave faces, never cried where no one could see us, but seeing him weep made me remember all the times I'd cried, cried for my lost family who'd sold me into indenture, cried for my mangled body, my ruined life. But living without Grinder's constant terrorizing must have softened my heart. Suddenly it was all I could do to stop myself from giving the poor little mite a one-armed hug.
I didn't hug him, but Monty did, stumping over to him, and the two of them bawled like babbies. Their peg legs knocked together as they embraced like drunken sailors, seeming to cry out every tear we'd any of us ever held in. Before long, we were all crying with them, fat tears streaming down our faces, the sound like something out of the pit.
When the sobs had stopped, William looked around at us, wiped his nose, and said, "Thank you. I think I am home." who couldn't make it as apprentices, neither, kids who'd spent their working lives full of such awful misery that they were bound to fall into a machine. And being sundered from their limbs didn't improve their outlook.
But it wasn't home for him. Poor William. We'd had children like him, in the bad old days, children who just couldn't get back up on their feet (or foot) again. Most of the time, I reckon, they were kids who couldn’t make it as apprentices, neither, kids who’d spent their working lives full of such awful misery they were bound to fall into a machine. And being sundered from their limbs didn’t improve their outlook.
We tried everything we could think of to cheer William up. He'd worked for a watch smith, and he had a pretty good hand at disassembling and cleaning mechanisms. His stump ached him like fire, even after he'd been fitted with a better apparatus by Saint Aggie's best leg maker, and it was only when he was working with his little tweezers and brushes that he lost the grimace that twisted up his face so. Monty had him strip and clean every clockwork in the house, even the ones that were working perfectly—even the delicate works we'd carefully knocked together for the clockwork Grinder. But it wasn't enough.
In the bad old days, Grinder would have beaten the boy and sent him out to beg in the worst parts of town, hoping that he'd be run down by a cart or killed by one of the blunderbuss gangs that marauded there. When the law brought home the boy's body, old Grinder would weep crocodile tears and tug his hair at the bloody evil that men did, and then he'd go back to his rooms and play some music and drink some brandy and sleep the sleep of the unjust.
We couldn't do the same, and so we tried to bring up William's spirits instead, and when he'd had enough of it, he lit out on his own. The first we knew of it was when he didn't turn up for breakfast. This wasn't unheard of—any of the free children of Saint Aggie's was able to rise and wake whenever he chose —but William had been a regular at breakfast every day. I
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