A break in the weather is the original story for one of the secondary characters in Solstice in Sar-Chona. It is an origin story and, in the version you will read over 3 posts, has the ending originally concieved for characters who were only going to exist in a short story.
I hope you enjoy, A Break in the Weather.
Amalus shuffled through a back alley in the printers quarter, heading for Chooner’s Lane. A smell of ink suffused the air; solvent and colorants. She sniffed, snot bubbled in her sinus. She dragged a sleeve across her face and mucus smeared the ragged and greasy cuff.
At the corner of Chooner’s Lane there was a pie stall which sometimes had left over wares to give away before it closed until the morning. A late-night monorail passed overhead with a hiss of compressed steam and Amalus glanced up. The carriage pulled into the station, darkness against a backdrop of thick grey clouds that reflected the lights of the city. When the monorail stopped Amalus coughed and turned her attention back to hopes of a still warm pie.
She shuffled to the end of the alley and peeked round the corner. Chooner’s Lane was a shopping street which Amalus avoided during daylight hours - her scabrous appearance wasn’t appreciated by the traders who feared it would scare away custom. Looking along the street she watched the varying light in the shop windows. Some shops still used gas lamps and the shadows shifted with a sinuous sensuality, others were fitted with electro-magnetic lights which flickered jaggedly.
Steam wafted from the open canopy of the pie-stall. Amalus went over and peered around the edge of the serving hatch. Two pies sat behind glass in the warming oven. Her saliva glands started to flow. If she smelled correctly one was marhog and fhungberry, the other was spicy lamb.
“Gharom?” She whispered the name of the worker who should be caring for the stall.
“Amalus, I’ve been waiting for you.” Gharom appeared from the rear of the stall, her sightless gaze passing a hands-breadth above Amalus’ head. “I have a two pies left. I guess you already know what they are.”
Amalus grinned, and nodded uselessly. She snorted again, wiping her nose in her fingers, and her fingers on her leg.
“Hi, Gharom. I can smell fhungberry, and spice.”
“Right as ever. However you can tell with that constant cold I’ll never know.” Gharom placed the two pies in a paper bag. She put the bag on the counter top. “I kept a spicy lamb one back special. You always like the spicy pies.”
Amalus coughed, and wiped her arm across her mouth. Gharom was right - she did like spice. “Thanks, Gharom.” She lifted the package and shuffled away.
“Wait,” Gharom called. “I need to ask you something.”
Amalus stopped, and turned back. Her breath rattled in her lungs. The pies were warm in her hand and she clutched them to her chest protectively.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I need to see what you see.”
“Don’ understand,” Amalus muttered.
“Something strange’s happening.”
Amalus moved back to the stall. She scanned up and down the street, fearful of anyone else approaching.
“Strange?”
“People who don’t belong”
The monorail hissed loudly, another carriage pulling in.
“Why me?”
“Because they’ll be here soon and you’ll tell me what they are.”
This was validation that Amalus had not received in times unremembered. She coughed, and wiped phlegm against her wrist. The action bought the pies close to her face and the rich odor of marhog and fhungberry rose in her nostril. Her stomach jumped with desire. Yesterday she has eaten a single vegetable pie, since then she’d consumed nothing but water from a public fountain. She looked at the packet Gharom had wrapped, and her belly rumbled. Her heart pounded in her chest. Solitude had been a way of life for so long that the concept of being asked to assist was difficult to contemplate. “Okay,” she said. “But tell me what you think’s wrong about them.”
Gharom smiled her thanks. “I smell oil and machinery, but also earth and straw.”
“They’re mek-mek’s?” Amalus asked.
“No. They are more than people with mechanical parts. They worry me.”
“Why?”
“The street speaks to me,” she said. “All the things I can’t see, I read from the people who come past. Even the ones who never stop and speak. They may think they’re unobserved but how they walk down the street tells me who’s sad or glad, mourning or courting.“ Gharom wiped the countertop with a damp cloth. “And the ones who do stop and speak, they…” She wiped the counter again.
Amalus nodded understanding. She used to like the company of others. Now she roamed alone, crept about in dark places. But she remembered how it felt before the decline, the fall, the fracture.
She gurgled in her throat, a sound of acquiescence.
“Gharom, of course I’ll help. When do they come past?”
“Soon. They normally start appearing around the time I’m closing up.”
“I’ll wait in the alley,” Amalus muttered and shuffled away, settling down where hot pipes ran behind the bricks and warmed the wall.
The pies oozed grease and gravy which coated her chin and fingers. She licked her hands and wiped her face. Movement on Chooner’s Lane caught her attention. An automaton walked stiffly down the middle of the street. Amalus dropped the empty pie bag and scrambled up. At the corner of the lane she met Gharom who had closed the stall and now stood in the street with her clockwork seeing guide. The machine was the size of a medium dog, but with thin spindly legs articulated in a way which gave it a feel of an arachnid. A braided cord hung from a small box in Gharom’s hand down to the machine in a loose parabola. For all the world it looked like a leash.
“What are they, Amalus?”
“Automatons.”
“But what type? And what are they doing in Sar-Chona?”
Amalus grunted, and coughed. She scratched her face and twitched her head from side to side. Gharom’s unseeing stare went through Amalus.
“Do you think they’re dangerous?” Gharom asked.
“No. Thanks for the pies.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Gharom turned her head towards the street, a noise catching her attention. “Here come more of them.”
Amalus looked. A loose group of six automata walked along the street. Not quite together, but moving with a common purposes, to a common destination. Watching them made Amalus nervous. None of the machines were pristine. All were rusted and marked. A few had guano accretions around their shoulders; another had been painted bright blue at one time, though it was now faded and patchy. As they drew closer their sound grew louder. Creaking and grinding, scraping and hissing, ticking and clunking. It was clear their internal mechanisms were as abused and neglected as the outer casings. But still they walked with steady steps.
“Best go home,” Amalus said to Gharom. “Will there be pies tomorrow?”
“Maybe. Probably. Are you sure these things are safe?”
“Yes. Go and get your sleep.”
Gharom nodded and pressed a switch on the box she held. The seeing guide whirred into life and moved off. Amalus watched Gharom walk down the street. Without knowing of the blindness, or what a seeing guide was, there would be no ready way to tell the woman was blind from this observation, you would think it was just someone out for a walk with their mechanical pet. When Gharom disappeared round a corner Amalus turned her attention back to the automata. More were passing, and still others could be seen in the distance, a steady procession of mechanical creatures making their way into Sar-Chona.
Tomorrow, Amalus learns, and remembers, more than expected
text by stuartcturnbull, art by anaterate via Pixabay