1st 5 Pages July Workshop - Ratcliffe

Name: Christian Ratcliffe
Genre: Middle Grade; steampunk fantasy
Title: Blackwood's Swamp

October 18, Our Year of 1901

Professor and Mrs. Wimberly of Port Bayou were unprepared for the urgent telegram they received on the night of their son’s first birthday. Professor Wimberly read the telegram and announced that the Wimberly family must leave for the border of Ventoria. The matter was grievous.

Mrs. Wimberly, who had been playing paper dolls with her two daughters, ushered her children into the care of the nursemaid, and then, in a flurry of suit coats and bowler hats, ladies flowered dresses and puffy sunbonnets, Mrs. Wimberly packed her and her husband’s bags, not forgetting a single item. All the while, the servants dashed about locking the valuables, throwing sheets over the furniture, and preparing the Wimberly house for a long slumber.

Often, Mrs. Wimberly would remember an important chore and would grab the closest servant: ‘don’t forget to close the shades’ and ‘roll the rugs or they will ruin and ‘pack the lineage papers in the Cypress chests’. It wasn’t that her servants were incapable - heaven knows, she interviewed each of them at least thrice! - but she believed they wouldn’t remember the important chores if she didn’t remind them.

Up two flights of stairs, the Wimberly nursemaid, newly hired and her face every bit as red as her hair, had been directed to pack the children’s bags, which she felt to be an overwhelming task. She had never been in the Wimberly House before tonight let alone laid eyes upon the children, and for shame, Mrs. Wimberly had hardly given her time to get her bearings before ordering her to pack the bags and watch the children, too. Mrs. Wimberly ought to be the one packing the bags. The flustered nursemaid barely paid attention to what she packed. Four travel cases later stuffed with three mismatched stockings, ten pairs of shoes, and five stuffed animals, the nursemaid had finished packing.

Near the stroke of seven, Professor Wimberly shouted to the house that it was time to leave. The nursemaid led the girls down a narrow servant’s staircase, and, at the second-floor landing, the nursemaid smacked into a young man - a servant she supposed - with nervous gray eyes. The man carried a large carpet bag that seemed to move on its own accord. When the bag shook, the nursemaid tried to peer inside, but the man clutched it close and ran down the stairs. She had managed to catch a glimpse of a blue book and something silver. It only occurred to the nursemaid after the man had gone a good way down the stairs that he most likely wasn’t a servant nor borrowing those items. Being as Professor and Mrs. Wimberly were leaving without a date of return, the nursemaid saw no use in trying to stop the thief. The Wimberly’s wouldn’t miss what they didn’t know had disappeared.

Outside the Wimberly house, the nursemaid watched as Professor Wimberly cranked the engine to his three-storied steam carriage, and Mrs. Wimberly loaded travel cases and boxes into the second floor. Mrs. Wimberly paused long enough to lean out the window and call to her husband. “Sam! The book?”

“Hidden.” Professor Wimberly replied.

With both the Wimberly’s too busy to load their children in the carriage, the nursemaid bundled the Wimberly daughters into their third-floor beds. Unsure what to say to such little humans, she pressed two fingers to their foreheads, reminded them to be ‘only a little naughty’, and then descended back down the ladder to join the other servants.

Mr. Wimberly shouted goodbye, shifted the steam carriage into motion, and sped past the protection of the oak lined driveway. As the last light of dusk disappeared, the nursemaid promised herself that she would never again be a nursemaid. She left the Wimberly house once and for all, not even bothering to leave a note of resignation. As she walked home from her previous post, the nursemaid had an inkling that something lay forgotten, though she had no desire to find out what.

Indeed, the Wimberly’s and the nursemaid had forgotten something quite priceless. In all the hubbub of the telegram and the packing, the Wimberly’s littlest child, beribboned and festooned for his birthday party, patiently waited on the dining room carpet, forgotten by all.

April 18, Our Year of 1911

William Kelley stared at the ceiling of Uncle Ed’s houseboat, waiting for 8:22 in the morning to arrive. A mysterious visitor would arrive in only a few hours, and he had been unable to sleep from the suspense. He had watched the colors of the night change from midnight blue to deep purple and now a shade of lavender.

One week earlier, a telegram arrived, addressed to William; all it said was ‘Visitor. 4/18. 8:22’. William didn’t know who would want to visit him, but his imagination had plenty of ideas, and, as the week wore on, each possibility became more preposterous than the next. Part of him hoped he had been accepted to a secret society of inventors destined to save the world from an earth eating machine. Another part of him had fully convinced himself that Wilbur and Orville Wright had accepted him as their new apprentice.

A secret part of William whispered that his parents had found him after all these years, but he tried to quiet that whisper, pretend he didn’t hear it. He didn’t want to be disappointed. It was better not to hope at all. Uncle Ed would tell him to keep hoping, but Uncle Ed didn’t keep getting aches in his heart, either.

A loud stomping of boots came from the front porch, and Uncle Ed opened the door, wrapped in his trapping gear. His silver hair and beard were splattered with mud and sprawled around his tan face like a grizzled bird’s nest. Behind him, Troubles, William’s slate colored Great Dane, jumped around the front porch, trying to lick a butterfly. William pushed away any thoughts about his parents.

“That dog near scared all the fish and frogs outta the swamp. The water’d move and off he’d be tryin’ to lick whatever it was. Even tangled a few of my nets.” Uncle Ed dumped his trapping gear on the table. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows, showing all his tattoos, several of them a bit faded. “I managed to get a few frogs, though. Took ‘em to Dock Giffin.”

Uncle Ed whistled, and Troubles bounced into the room, his legs sliding underneath him and his ears flopping. Troubles was caked in mud, and his tongue hung out. He shook his body, scattering dirt, and pounced on top of William to give him a slimy lick. William laughed and pushed Troubles off him. Uncle Ed had given Troubles to William only a few months before as a birthday gift, but Troubles still thought of himself as a tiny pup.

“Dock said there’s a new houseboat. Came in yesterd’y eve.”

“What?” William hopped up from the sofa where he slept and navigated around his half-built inventions covering the floor. He pressed his face to the window and peered down both sides of the dock looking for a new houseboat, but all the boats were old and familiar. “Do you think it’s the person who sent the telegram?”

“Don’t rightly know.” Uncle Ed scratched his chin and shook his head. “But, it just don’t seem usual, sending a telegram like that.”