2:7

Rowan gazed out the smudged window glass at the people sitting on the small cafe chairs and tables crammed on the sidewalk. Two young women sat sipping cappuccino and chatting. They were obviously of Chinese descent and had a look about them that seemed to tell a story of strong family tradition and a prescriptive lifestyle. It was nothing you could really put your finger on except their sense of style: designer glasses, t-shirts, hair pulled back with the odd Asian-inspired accessory. All of this seemed to tell a story of a family both integrated within North American culture and yet strongly tied to an older, stricter culture.

Two tables down sat a young man with two small children. He was sipping a large cup of coffee while they slurped away at a couple of Oranginas. He seemed to be enjoying his day out, amused by the girls’ antics and bemused by the clouds overhead. Obviously trying to balance kids and me-time, Rowan smiled to herself.

She turned her attention back to her own empty cup and scraped the last of the foam out with her spoon. Should I have another? she wondered as she slowly turned her head toward Gareth and his father.

2:9

Meredith glanced in her back mirror to see whether Barney was still following her. She’d invited him to use one of her spare rooms on the third floor while he was in town. He was a man of great passion and grand ideas, and she would be glad for the company for a while.

It was a bit odd, though, that he seemed to already know so much about her, but it was a small town and people did talk, didn’t they. The town was feeling a bit better the last little while. The dollar was up and lots of people had been traveling south to shop in Great Falls. Everything seemed more prosperous, and it was time to check whether there was any interest in outside investment. Hunting was good around here, too, and the gas industry was booming. There was no reason that Magrath couldn’t see an influx of people, and of much-needed money. Meredith mused that she might even rethink her long-deferred B&B idea if there was enough traffic.

Barney certainly was a godsend if he could do half of what he thought he might. And if not, well, no harm done. Nothing succeeds if nothing is started, her father used to say.

Meredith turned off the gravel road and bumped over the washboard that had been forming all summer. Time to get that graded before I bounce myself into the ditch. She slowed in front of the house and stopped by the old outhouse. Barney’s old land yacht stopped behind her. He stepped out and turned 360 degrees, eyeing up the house, yard and outbuildings.

Meredith shut the rusty door of the pickup, leaving the keys inside, and called to the gawking man in her front yard. “Come on inside and make yourself comfortable. I’ll put on a pot and make up your room. And then you can bring your things up whenever you want. No standing on ceremony; make yourself at home.”

Barney smiled at her and nodded. “Make myself at home,” he repeated.

2:10

The sun was coming through the small high window on the east side of the room when it happened. It was a peculiar time of day when the light bounces off the brass work and seems to turn the normally chocolate-brown woodwork into an auburn plane of luxurious tones and textures. All the pipe work takes on a playful gleam as it moves the light across the room and turns the otherwise dour and serious decor into a playful wonderland.

I remember it clearly. It had been months since I had been up early enough to see it. Or, more properly, had been up and clearheaded enough to understand what I was seeing. Such are the joys of a philosopher’s existence. And a philosopher I was, or else how would I be able to deal successfully with such turmoil. It had been a quiet week: the world was calm, the machine sedate and the wine immoderate. It was thus that I knew a change was in the wind. The karmic flow demands a certain rhythm, and my pleasant sojourn here was obviously not providing sufficient modulation.

So things broke.

I was contemplating the intricate pattern of brass-and-copper tubing that formed the mainstay of the house’s internal functions. I had often thought this room must have been designed with a philosophic soul such as mine in mind: the sheer magnitude of the mechanical works would boggle any lesser mind, yet this room occupied one of the best spaces in the whole keep. High, warmed by the sun, out of the prevailing winds and with views both with and without that would simultaneously stun and inspire any but the dullest of minds.

As I stared up towards the ceiling of the room the I saw a tiny fountain of steam begin to slowly, and then with ever more pressure, escape the confines of one of the larger brass couplings on the main incoming conduit. I stared at it in fascination as the superheated water vapour moved in and out of the ray of morning sun that had played such a large part in my early day-adventure. Taken as a whole, as an objet d’art, it added an unimaginable dimension to the previously stately procession of light and colour. Of course it took only a few moments of increasing pressure build-up before the tiny leak was screaming like the mythical banshee. But yet, for just a few more moments, I sat and stared, frozen, like the equally mythical victims of the aforementioned banshee. Soon enough, though, I came to my senses and decided to put philosophy aside as a matter of prudence and turned my attention to the problem that the presence of a leak presented. If action was too soon taken, all the press of the keep would grind to an ignominious halt and the creature comforts, such as they are, that make this existence tolerable would cease to be. A fate, let me assure you, that would be indeed worse than death.

At that point I determined I would have to act to counter this undesirable outcome. So I turned quickly to the mahogany wardrobe set in an alcove on the only wall free of mechanical works and, in a manner some might consider hurried, withdrew a large #7 spanner. Implement I hand I hurried to the base of the wall now spewing out clouds of angry vapour, not unlike the emissions of a miniature wyvern trapped in a cylindrical river and attempting to wrest itself free. I hiked up my morning coat and hoisted myself into the pipe works, attempting to avoid, as much as I was able, the more thermally intense metal pathways.

As I came within reach of the hissing and wailing geyser I had to bring my coat up over my head as the heat was so intense that it would scald my face. Reaching one arm through the maze of pipes, I held my body solidly against the works and braced my feet as high as I could to gain as much leverage as possible. With my left hand I fitted the spanner on the control fitting and quickly threw my weight against the handle. I needed to slow the flow enough to be able to effect repairs. As I strained upward, the fountains of inflamed steam slowly dwindled to spitting and spatting dribbles that, while still scalding to the touch, were at least negotiable.

I attempted to transfer the wrench to the voluminous pocket on my morning coat, but in my doing so, the moisture left behind by my sojourn in the spray caused my grip to slip, and the spanner fell to the stone floor. I am proud to say that at this point I exceeded the standard of intemperate eruption that had been set by my former tutor upon discovering that I had not only failed to do the assigned work but had in fact caused his closeted indiscretions to come to the attention of my father. To be fair, I had had to do much more work to ensure my father’s wrath would land upon my tutor than had originally be assigned to me. But alas, he had not deemed the exchange a fair one. Nonetheless, I was rid of his odious presence for the price of one extremely inventive and highly improper disquisition. As I said, I hold myself quite in awe of the fact that, in that moment, dangling high above the floor, soaked to the skin, my best coat probably ruined, and under the threat of an impending forced rustic existence, I managed to do the old sod proud. He’d finally taught me something useful.

Well, to move forward, I managed to extricate myself and, once on the ground, took the opportunity to acquire such materials as I would need to patch the never sufficiently be damned leak, recover my abused spanner, and once again set off to repair the damage. Suffice to say, after several more aggravating setbacks, I was once again bracing myself and pulling on the spanner, this time towards myself as I allowed the steam to flow once again through the tubing, repressuring the system, and thus allowing the machinery to regain its previous robustness and, I should hope, ensuring myself a much more pleasant day than had seemed feasible scant minutes earlier.

A few moments later I stood on the ground, bedraggled and aching in not a few unusual areas of my body, and anxiously watched the formerly Vesuvius-like region of the wall and slowly unknotted the tension that had seemed to creep into every nerve of my body over the previous hour. I could hear the gears and hydraulics slowly begin to resume their comforting patterns and sighed softly to myself. If this was morning, I am well shut of it, I thought. And then I said aloud to the room now brightly lit by a morning almost passed, “I need a drink.”

2:11

The beaver eyed the now-quiet bunny with a bit of a leer and was just about put the stupid rodent in its place when the loud clatter of falling pots clanged out of the kitchen. As the beaver turned to look, he felt a blast of heat and saw a jet of steam coming from the register mounted on the wall by the stove.

“What the…?” the beaver heard from over his shoulder and turned his head to see the bunny standing beside him staring at the furiously whistling steam vent that threatened to engulf them both in a dangerous wet fog. The beaver and Edward looked into each other’s eyes and then down at their furry forepaws.

“I think you —”

“It’s not my—”

They abruptly fell silent as they realized neither was equipped to deal with the mishap. They both then backed slowly out of the kitchen. Edward shivered to shake off the water droplets that were forming on his coat. The beaver looked at him and said mildly, “Gareth hates it when I do that in the living room.“

Edward shot him a look and hopped back another step as more and more steam billowed out of the small kitchen.

“Shall we abandon ship?” he inquired of the beaver.

“I think not. Let us retreat as far as the window and survey the situation.”

As they settled on the ottoman that sat beneath the window, they could hear a slackening in the racket emanating from the kitchen.

“Well,” said Edward with a determined look, ”that seems to be being taken care of. Shall we continue?”

2:12

Gareth stood up and stretched his shoulders back and down, and tried to work out as much of the tension out as he could. For as long as he could remember his father had been able to wind him up faster than his coffee could cool. When he was younger he had sipped a lot of cocoa at family ’chats’ and he’d early on noticed that he would be out of sorts long before the caffeine had a chance to hit his system. Things were certainly no different now.

He gazed over at Rowan, who was presently occupied with her iPhone, and turned back to the still-sitting man who presently occupied the role of father, no matter what Gareth might have wished. “I think we’re done now. There’s no point getting off track and regurgitating all this old shit. I’d like you to consider what we’ve said and what you think you can bring yourself to do about it, but that’s as far as I want to take things right now. OK?”

One thing about his father, he didn’t do gray. Gareth would get either another earful or nothing would happen — highly unlikely to get any bullshit stringing him along.

His father glanced down at his empty cup for a moment and then looked Gareth in the eye. “But we’re not done…,” he started

“No. We’re not done. Yet.”

“Fine.” A nod and he shifted his focus back to his cup. “Fine,” he repeated.

“Then I’m going now.” Gareth turned toward the counter, tried to catch Rowan’s eye and headed for the door. He would wait outside if he had to; she would notice soon enough.

Outside Gareth turned his face upward, spread his arms and inhaled. As he slowly let the air out he worked to put a smile on his face but attained mixed results at best. Ironically enough, his failure to force a smile brought the hint of real humor to his lips and by the time he sensed Rowan coming up behind him he had managed to erase most of the negative tension from his face.

Rowan, not totally unfamiliar with the stress of dealing with crap, noticed the receding but not quite eliminated tension and opted for, “So, about that beaver you wanted to show me…”

2:13

“I remember, you know ,” the beaver said suddenly. “It’s not the sort of thing one forgets, at least not permanently. It’s a confused image and I’m sure filled with details that aren’t quite right, but I do remember.”

“Do you?” Edward replied softly. “Do you really?”

2:14

Well, yes. I see things are proceeding apace. A well-structured narrative is a joy to behold. Organization, proper planning and procedural adherence are all essential to the story process. Aren’t they.

I will admit a bit of uncertainly has crept in here and there, and that certain … entities, shall we say, have managed to exert undue influence on the process, but no matter: what remain paramount is the successful unfurling of the tale without knots or tangles to interfere. This, I have provided. Have I not?

So, one small task before we resume. It seems a note has arrived and a … no, I think revision is much too strong a word, a … modification has been deemed necessary. A few new characters, an alternate setting, a different thread than perhaps was originally envisioned. This is but a simple matter, an adjustment in our awareness, and we move forward once more. Yes, let us.

So. Let me see. Yes … yes … a-hum, I see …

Well, this is definitely a different kettle of fish. I l have to investigate before allowing any such … such nonsense to interfere with a clearly superior plan. Let us just put this back in the envelope, shall we.

I will be dealing with this promptly.

2:15

The pneumatic message system ran up along the outer wall of the turret after it exited from the subbasement into the old moat. The copper piping, mostly jade green from oxidization, was relieved by the moments of dull brass elbows and joints and the occasion wooden clamp affixing it to the stone wall. As it reached the top of the tower it eventually turned 90 degrees in a gentle curve that terminated into a particularly colorful band of sandstone that marked the beginning of the rebuilt portions of the old manse.

On the other side of the wall, the copper tubing, now polished to a high sheen, ran along the roof beams until it once again curved gently down and ran into a glass-and-iron box that stood three feet high in the corner. It sat on a wrought-iron base consisting of four lion’s paws and and intricate scroll work that called to mind the inventor’s oriental origins. Four panes of green-tinged plate glass, about eight inches wide, ran up to form a rectangular glass prism that was topped by a colourful iron-and-lacquered-wood pagoda with a two-inch copper tube running out the top slightly off from centre.

Within the glass walls two tubes could be seen to run from the base upwards about a third of the distance to the top. They terminated in a platform upholstered in worn dark-green velvet. Currently over one tube, a cap was attached to the platform by a small arm that allowed it to swing from side to side in order to cover one or the other of the two tubes.

The front of the glass case was hinged, and two small gauges were mounted in the glass pane. At the top of this doorway a highly polished brass handle exited 90 degrees from the iron work and presently had a length of black ribbon hanging from it.

The mechanism emitted a constant low hiss even when not in use, providing a certain mechanical ambiance to the room throughout the day, and, on those occasions when the machine ceased to function entirely, the room took on an ominous stillness that was entirely at odds with the visual aspect of its decor.

This message system predated the occupancy of the room by the machine, yet they complemented each other to an extraordinary degree given their disparate origins. It was also remarkable in that of all the systems, machines, engines and devices that clung to the walls and occupied the various spaces, the pneumatic system had never broken or found itself in need of repair. It was occasionally shut down as new stations were added in or old ones were declared redundant and removed, but it had never failed in its service. A most unexpected thing in this age of clockwork.

And, as was discovered in the gray haze of morning, its messages travelled farther than one might immediately assume.