Under Wildwood Page 11

  “Just two weeks, remember?” asked Elsie. “Let’s just hold on.”

  “Okay, Els,” Rachel said. “Okay.” She slumped down on her bed, defeated.

  It was minutes before the aura of drama had dissipated from the dormitory; Elsie felt everyone’s eyes on her and her sister as they both obediently slipped into the gray coveralls. Miss Talbot was on hand to receive the clothes they’d worn on arrival, which they would be allowed to have back during adoptee visits—though there was no indication that these visits would actually occur. The Mehlbergs then fell in line with the rest of the girls and made the slow march down to the cafeteria, where a meal of soggy pancakes and watery orange juice awaited them. They were soon joined by the other dorm; a dour gang of gray-coverall-clad boys poured into the cafeteria and silently tucked into their breakfasts. Elsie and Rachel sat apart from the rest of the kids, across the laminate top of a long table, by no choice of their own: No one deigned to sit near them. Rachel picked at her food; she barely had two bites before she set down her fork resignedly. The spark Elsie’d seen in the dormitory was long vanquished; back was the Rachel she knew from before: maudlin and silent.

  Once they’d finished and had deposited their metal trays in a dirty bus tub, a barked instruction from another loudspeaker in the cafeteria had the collected kids line up against one wall. From there, they marched single file out the door and down a wide staircase. Elsie could hear a hissing noise sounding in regular intervals, somewhere off in the distance. The stairway led to another long hallway, and the line of workers followed it, their syncopated boot-falls echoing along the walls, before finally arriving at a tall set of double doors. They must’ve been triggered automatically, because as soon as the first in line had arrived at the doors, they swung open with a hydraulic wheeze, revealing a sight that made Elsie’s stomach plummet.

  It was a large room. A very large room. In fact, Elsie couldn’t remember seeing a building that could enclose such a large room when they’d first arrived at the orphanage. But it did exist, beyond doubt, and it was filled to the brim with what could only be described as contraptions. Small contraptions. Big contraptions. Copper and bronze contraptions. Wooden contraptions. Contraptions that spit steam from buglelike orifices. Contraptions that belched smoke and fire. Kettle-looking contraptions, with dials and gauges dotting their sides; square, boxy contraptions with tentacles of iron and copper piping sprouting from their sides. Spinning contraptions, static contraptions, contraptions that whistled, contraptions that farted. And all of them interlinked with a mesh of multicolored wire and electrical cable that gave the giant room the distinct aura of a dissected television set, like the one Elsie’s father had let Curtis dismantle in his bedroom, and which, once its myriad screws had been unscrewed, revealed an entire byzantine cosmos of unknowable circuits and wires. Oddly enough, the room smelled of raspberries. A long conveyor belt snaked around the room’s many machines, and it was along this belt that most of the kids assembled, wiping their hands in preparation for the day’s labor.

  Joffrey Unthank stood in the center of the room, cast in the light of a few caged bulbs hanging from the vaulted ceiling. He held a mug in his hand and sipped at it absently as the kids took their places along the conveyor belt. When Elsie and Rachel arrived in the room, he approached them.

  “I understand you’re the new ones?” he asked. “The Mehlbergs?”

  Before Elsie could respond, Rachel stepped forward protectively. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re the owner, huh?”

  He sipped at his mug before answering, “Joffrey Unthank. Mr. Unthank to you. Owner and chief operator.”

  “Well, this is illegal, I think,” said Rachel.

  “You’d be surprised, dear,” said Joffrey.

  “I’d like to make a phone call,” said Rachel.

  “Not with a demerit on your record,” said Joffrey. “Would you like another?”

  Elsie jabbed her sister with her elbow. Seeing Rachel retreat, Joffrey spoke. “Hands, please.”

  “What?” asked Rachel.

  “Can I see your hands, please?”

  Dutifully, Rachel held out her hands. Joffrey inspected them. “Conveyor belt, third station.” He pointed to a section of the belt over which hung a wooden sign marked with the Roman numeral III. “Your neighbors will get you up to speed.”

  Rachel gave Elsie a withering look and slouched away. Joffrey turned to Elsie. “Hands, please?” he asked.

  Elsie did as she was told; her hands felt empty without Intrepid Tina, whom she’d left safely stowed in the lockbox at the foot of her bed.

  Joffrey’s eyes widened. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed. Setting the mug down, he began inspecting Elsie’s hands. “So … small!” he breathed. He looked at Elsie. “My dear,” he said, “you are the proud owner of hands that were positively meant for machine parts. I haven’t seen hands like these in years!”

  Elsie, despite herself, murmured, “Thanks.”

  Joffrey put his arm around her shoulder and walked her over to one of the contraptions, a glossy aluminum barrel-like object, set on its side, with a series of red and blue plastic tubes leading from it. There were three gauges on the front of the machine, one labeled ACK, another labeled UZ, and another with a glyph that looked to Elsie like an upside-down ice-cream cone. “This little baby,” Joffrey said, patting the side of the machine, “is the Rhomboid Burnishing Oscillator 2.0. RBO for short.”

  “What does it do?” asked Elsie.

  “Why, it oscillates. And burnishes. It burnishes while it oscillates. The ‘rhomboid’ bit is anyone’s guess.”

  Elsie didn’t know what oscillate meant. But she didn’t say anything.

  “Now,” said Joffrey, “the operation of this machine is fairly simple. A huge improvement over the 1.5, let me tell you. You hit this button here, wait ten seconds, and then pull this lever here and you’ll hear a little clanking noise.” Joffrey walked her through the various steps; a clanking noise, followed by a gentle spinning sound, came from the machine. “Once you hear that, you just open this panel here and … voilà!” Inside the machine, just beyond a little door in the chassis, Elsie could see a small octagonal metal nut—like one you would see threaded on to a very small bolt. “Grab it, please. And quickly,” he instructed Elsie. Doing as she was told, she slipped her hand into the small opening, grabbed the nut, and handed it to Unthank. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he continued, “Very good. This here is a High-Alloy Rhomboid Oscillated Bolt Nut. There’s one in every automatic daiquiri machine. Now, for all the manufacturer’s improvements over the previous iteration of this machine, the way I see it, it’s not enough. And so I’ve taken it upon myself to do some tinkering of my own. Cherried the thing up, so to speak. Needless to say, it voided the warranty.”

  The machine made a loud noise as a set of what looked to be metallic teeth chomped down on the space where the nut had been. Joffrey smiled. Elsie stared at him.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “Thing is, in order to maximize the efficiency of the machine, I’ve had to lose some of the … how would you put it … safety measures in place. So, instead of the machine just spitting out a new nut into this tray, someone with really small hands has to remove the piece manually. Like you just did.”

  “Okay,” said Elsie. “I see, I guess.”

  “Now, one thing you should know …” He paused here and looked at her, a blank look on his face. “Sorry, what was your name?”

  “Elsie.”

  “Lovely name. One thing you should know, Elsie dear, is that if your precious little fingers happen to be inside the machine when it recalibrates the dispenser, the greater machine parts community will be deprived of one of a pair of the greatest set of hands to come along in a generation.”

  “What?” asked Elsie, trying to ferret out the meaning of the man’s last phrase.

  “Or a couple years, anyway. Top ten, for sure. Beautiful, tiny hands.”

  “It’ll cut off my hand?” sh
e gasped.

  Again, Joffrey cleared his throat. “Yes.” Smile. “BUT: You’ve got easily five, six seconds to get in there and grab the nut before it comes down. A girl with your gifts, you should be in and out of there in two, maybe three.”

  Elsie was still imagining the consequence of delayed action; at that moment, she became acutely aware of how much she valued the fact that she had two hands. She tried to imagine life without one of them—she saw herself in some future kitchen trying to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a hook for a hand. Even in her imagination, it was no simple task.

  Joffrey snapped his fingers. “Stay with me, Elsie dear. The other thing you should know is that these nuts are so very valuable. So very, very valuable, that if one should be destroyed—and trust me, the machine will destroy it if it gets stuck and is not removed before the assembly continues—we, the factory, the orphanage, the greater community, are left with a world where there is one less High-Alloy Rhomboid Oscillated Bolt Nut in existence, and, by extension, one less satisfied automatic daiquiri machine owner. And that is bad. Very, very bad. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Unthank,” said Elsie.

  “And so I’m sorry to say that if you do happen to let one be destroyed and do not retrieve it with these world-class machine-part hands before the assembly continues, I’ll be forced—by no fault of my own—to give you a demerit.”

  A spike of fear ran through Elsie’s chest. “Yes, Mr. Unthank,” she said.

  “And you know what happens if you get three demerits, don’t you?”

  “You’re Una—Unadoptable?”

  “Exactly,” said Joffrey, beaming a little. “You learn fast, Elsie. I think you’re a very astute girl. And very astute girls often prove to have a very long and happy career in machine parts.”

  “Thank you sir, Mr. Unthank, sir.”

  “Well then, I’m going to turn this little baby over to you. Remember: press button, wait around, pull lever, cranking sound. Yeah?” He repeated, stressing the rhythmic pattern of the rhyme, “Press button, wait around, pull lever, cranking sound.” He walked away from Elsie, repeating the mantra in a singsong voice, his fingers bobbing as if he were conducting an orchestra. Arriving in the center of the room, he surveyed the morning’s production. The machines were all going full steam, creating a symphony of metallic clanks, buzzes, and moans; the kids were hard at work, some attending to the controls of machines like Elsie’s, while others, like Rachel, were picking over minuscule bolts, nuts, and cogs on the long conveyer belt.

  “Music to my ears, children,” called Mr. Unthank. “Music to my ears. Remember: Machine parts make … what?”

  “MACHINES,” the kids called back in unison.

  “And machines make …?”

  “CONVENIENCE.”

  “And what does convenience make?”

  “FREEDOM.”

  “And freedom makes … help me here, children. On the count of three. One, two, three…”

  “FAMILIES,” finished the kids, with Joffrey joining them.

  “That’s right: families,” he said. “Now, if any of you need anything, I’ll be right up there”—he pointed to a wide window looking onto the factory floor—“keeping an eye on my little busybodies. Ta-ta!” He then exited the room, sweeping his coffee mug along in a deft gesture.

  Elsie turned to the RBO 2.0. The twin gauges, ACK and UZ, seemed to be two eyes, glaring at her. Repeating the rhyme that Unthank had taught her, she began operating the machine. Within a few simple processes, a little clank could be heard, and a tinsel-bright nut dropped into the small inner chamber. Elsie’s heart leapt into her throat, and she shot her hand into the hole, removing the nut just before the machine’s teeth descended onto the space where her fingers had been. She whispered a benediction of thanks before placing the nut onto the conveyor that led away from the RBO. Elsie saw that Martha was manning the neighboring machine, her goggles covering her eyes as she pulled what looked like a fluorescent lamp on an articulated arm over the newly made nut. She saw that Elsie was looking at her and waved. “Keep ’em coming,” she shouted over the factory’s din. She flashed Elsie a thumbs-up and returned to her work. Elsie did likewise, pressing the red button in the middle of her machine, eliciting yet another ringing clank from the belly of the metal thing.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Dream Remembered; The Great Race

  Iphigenia sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed at her ankles. They were very sore; they seemed to be getting sorer by the day. Age was throwing its heavy mantle over the Elder Mystic’s shoulders, and she did not like it one bit. The lit wick of a kerosene lamp cast wavering shadows across her simple bedroom; the dark of the morning blackened the windows. The old woman took a deep breath and finished pulling on a pair of woolen leggings beneath her gown. A chill racked her frail bones. She heard a noise come from downstairs: the door thrown open, the stomping of feet in the entryway.

  “Hello?” Iphigenia called. There was no answer. She groaned as she pushed herself up from her bed and hobbled to the landing. “Who’s there?” she called again.

  A grunt preceded the response. “Sorry, Elder Mystic,” came a voice. “Just getting the fire going.”

  Iphigenia sighed. “Good morning, Balthazar,” she said, recognizing the acolyte’s voice. She walked to the edge of the landing and watched as the acolyte brought an armload of logs to the fireside. He dropped his load in a metal stand with a relieved sigh and looked up at Iphigenia on the landing.

  “Shall I get water on for you, Iphigenia?” he asked.

  “Yes please, Balthazar,” said Iphigenia, padding back to her bedside. She pushed a pair of worn slippers over her feet and stretched. Her back gave a long, mournful crack; she smiled and shook her head. Things are not as easy as they once were, she thought, especially waking up in the morning. She moved to the stairway.

  “How did you sleep?” asked Balthazar as Iphigenia made her way slowly down the stairs. He was holding a long match against some bundled-up kindling in the hearth; soon, a warm glow exuded from the fireplace.

  “Not well,” responded Iphigenia. “Not well at all. But that’s to be expected. I don’t find I’m a strong sleeper anymore; it is not my forte.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Elder Mystic,” said Balthazar, watching the flames grow. A black iron kettle hung on the hob, and he swiveled it over the burgeoning fire. Iphigenia eased herself into the chair before the hearth. While the water boiled and the acolyte ran to fetch more wood, the Elder Mystic was able to reflect on the dream she’d been having, the one that had woken her from her sleep. The tangled and unreachable narrative of her deep-sleep dreaming had deposited her, somewhat disoriented, in the midst of a forest clearing. She was cupping something in her hand, though she was not inclined to see what it was; she was keeping it enclosed in her hand for some urgent, yet elusive, reason. There were dark shades in her periphery, just on the other side of the clearing. She was being followed. Gifted with the speed and endurance of a child, she began running through the woods, holding the treasured item in her hand close to her chest. She came up short, arriving at a narrow defile in the hillside. The shades were coming closer, but the darkness of the tight ravine seemed ominous, full of danger. Suddenly, her rational self had inserted itself into the dream: She had a desperate longing to look at what she was holding against her chest. Uncupping her hands, she saw that she’d been carrying what looked to be some sort of bright metal ring, impossibly tangled inside itself. It was the size of a small pebble, and little ridges ran along its edge. The figures behind her grew close, and she shut her hands again and threw herself into the darkness of the ravine, following a rocky path that led down, down, until all was blackness.

  That was when she’d woken. Sitting in the chair in front of her fireplace, she wondered at the dream. The chasing shadows required no heavy unpacking to understand; she knew full well what spirits pursued her. What was baffling was the significance of the defile, the hole into the e
arth she’d entered. Her understandings as a Mystic taught her to never underestimate the power and wisdom of dreams, to find the meaning within every symbol. In her own teachings on dream reading, the appearance of a hole in the earth was clearly an allusion to death. One’s own death. She shivered at the notion.

  But what of the strange object in her hand? What had it been? Like a word one has forgotten yet hangs on the tip of one’s tongue, the thing was naggingly unrecognizable. The tall clock near the bookshelf gave its sullen chime and the door creaked open; Balthazar had returned with more wood. As he began setting the load on the stack by the fire, Iphigenia’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” she exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the clock and its innards, a lattice of wheels, chains, and chimes.

  Balthazar was caught by surprise. “What is it, Elder Mystic?” he asked.

  “A cog!” she said. “A machine’s cog. That was what I was holding!”

  The acolyte stared at her, confused. Iphigenia waved away his confusion apologetically. “In a dream,” she explained. “It was only a dream.”

  “Yes, Elder Mystic.” He seemed relieved to hear the kettle boiling; he pulled it from the hob and poured the hot liquid into a teacup, which he then handed to Iphigenia. The fire was beginning to take, and the room was filling with warmth and light.

  “Balthazar,” said Iphigenia, after taking a hesitant sip from her tea, “I’ll be needing to confer with the Council Tree today; please let the other Mystics know. At noon.”

  “Yes, Iphigenia,” said Balthazar. He hurried from the room.

  The Elder Mystic remained, staring at the lazy flames as they licked at the logs in the hearth. The dream, while having been somewhat elucidated now, was still a mystery to her. It seemed to her that the tree would have insight. She felt, in a way, that the tree had had a part in sending her the dream. It must have something very important to relate, Iphigenia decided, very important indeed.