Steampunk Maiden
After a late night of celebrating at a friend's bachelor party, Adrian Marsden woke three hours later than he normally did the following morning. He looked at his clock and realized he had slept through the alarm.
"Great! I'm going to be off to a late start," he moaned as he stumbled out of bed. "And I was hoping to leave here before sunrise."
To make matters worse, he had a hell of a hangover. He went into the bathroom, poured himself a glass of water and swallowed a couple of aspirin. Hopefully, they would deaden the raging ache in his head. After two cups of coffee and a piece of whole wheat toast with a small pat of butter, he got dressed, grabbed his packed luggage from the hall closet and then got into his car.
If there's no traffic, I might be able to make up some of the lost time, he thought optimistically, putting his foot down on the accelerator as he merged onto the interstate.
Adrian was making good time and looking forward to getting to Portland by nightfall when the first raindrops fell on his windshield. He looked up at the sky and saw only a few scattered rain clouds.
It's probably just a shower, nothing that will slow me down too much.
As more clouds rolled in and the sky became progressively darker, the rain fell harder. He had been on the road for nearly three and a half hours when the rain began to come down with such force that even with his wipers on full speed, he found it difficult to see the road in front of him. He slowed the car to ten miles an hour, not much faster than walking.
If this keeps up, I won't make Portland until after midnight.
The rain not only kept up, it actually got worse. Several times the visibility was so poor that Adrian nearly drove off the road. He was peering intently ahead, trying to remain within the white lines, his hands tightly grasping the steering wheel, when he suddenly heard a loud thunk.
What the hell was that?
Thankfully, all he had done was sideswipe a mile marker, but the crash was enough to frighten him.
I have to get off the road until the worst of the storm is over.
Unfortunately, he had not passed a rest stop, a gas station or even another vehicle in over five miles. There were not even any houses or businesses in the area, just acre after acre of forestland. If only he had not overslept and gotten a late start, he would have been halfway across the state by now.
Adrian drove for another six miles before he saw the sign on the side of the road indicating there was gas, food and lodging at the next exit. Although he nearly missed the turn in the pounding rain, he was able to swerve at the last minute and pull off the highway.
At the end of the ramp was another sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Adrian followed the secondary road to the Mayfair Hotel. It was one of those places he would often pass and ask himself, "Why put a hotel in the middle of nowhere?" The answer was now obvious to him. There were often times when people just wanted or needed to get off the highway.
The Mayfair looked like a hotel that had been ripped out of Victorian London and dropped in the middle of rural New England. As Adrian sat in the parking lot trying to summon the courage to run through the deluge, his eyes followed the many elaborate arches up to the turrets and tower at the top of the building.
This place must have cost a fortune to build.
Prompted by the sudden pressure in his bladder, he pulled his jacket up over his head, opened the car door and made a mad dash for the hotel's entrance.
The interior of the Mayfair looked like a set from Downton Abbey. The furniture was made of dark, intricately carved woods and heavy velvet fabrics. Lamps were trimmed with fringe, tassels and glass beads. The décor reminded Adrian of an old-fashioned house of ill repute.
"Hello there," the elderly man behind the front desk called as Marsden straightened his sodden, disheveled clothing. "My name is Theophilus Prynn. Welcome to the Mayfair."
"Sorry about the water on your carpet," the young man apologized. "It's really coming down out there."
"Unfortunately, it's going to get a lot worse. According to the weather forecast, we're in store for a bona fide hurricane."
"Great!" Adrian groaned with frustration. "I have a job interview tomorrow morning in Portland."
"Maybe the weather will clear up before then."
Although his words expressed optimism, the look on the desk clerk's face revealed his doubt.
"I just came in to get something to eat, but if a hurricane is on the way I may need to spend the night."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Prynn said. "I do have one or two rooms to spare."
Adrian thought the man was being facetious. After all, how many visitors could such an isolated hotel attract?
"The dining room is down the hall and through the double doors. Why don't you go have some lunch before deciding if you want to stay?"
"Good idea. I'm famished."
When Adrian pushed open the stained glass and mahogany doors that led to the dining room, he was surprised to see a crowd of people inside. He was even more surprised by their bizarre appearance. In fact, he felt like the only person at a Halloween party not to wear a costume.
"Oh, hello there!" called a young man named Lysander, who looked like a cross between Willy Wonka and an erector set. "Are you here for the festival?"
"No, I just came in to get out of the rain. Is there going to be a festival here?" Adrian asked when he noticed the other people in the room also appeared half human/half machine.
"Not here at the hotel. It's being held at the state fairgrounds, which are about seven miles from here, but with all this rain, it looks like it's going to be a washout—no pun intended."
"Is it to be a music festival?"
"No, it's an art festival. As if you hadn't guessed by our costumes, my friends and I are all into steampunk."
"What's that?"
"It started out as a genre of science fiction, along the lines of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, one that features advanced technology powered by the more primitive steam power of the nineteenth century," Lysander explained. "It inspired a subculture of art and fashion."
"That explains all the gears and pulleys everyone is wearing."
"That's also why we stay in this particular hotel: because of its Victorian atmosphere."
"It certainly has that."
A young woman, obviously another steampunk devotee from her attire, came to the table to take his order.
"We have a very limited menu, I'm afraid," she apologized.
"That's okay. I'm not fussy. I'll take whatever you've got."
"Try the meatloaf," Lysander suggested. "It's just like Mom used to make."
"Meatloaf it is then."
While he waited for his food to be served, Adrian engaged in conversation with Lysander.
"So, what type of artist are you? A painter? A photographer?"
"Neither. All of us here are what you would call performance artists."
"Interesting," Adrian commented, although the world of performance art was as alien to him as the steampunk subculture.
Thankfully, the waitress returned with his meal, and he was spared having to discuss the subject in any depth.
After finishing his meatloaf, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli and chunky applesauce—a surprisingly tasty meal—Adrian returned to the lobby. He did not need to look outside to know that it was still pouring, for he could hear the raindrops pounding against the building.
"I think I'll take one of those rooms if you don't mind," he told Theophilus Prynn.
"I don't mind at all," the old man replied, reaching for an old-fashioned metal room key, not a magnetic card. "Here you are. Room 212 on the second floor to your right when you exit the elevator."
"I guess I'll go out to my car and get my luggage then."
"Wait. I'll get you an umbrella and a raincoat."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
When Adrian returned to the hotel lobby several minutes later, suitcase in hand, only his sneakers were wet, and thankfully they would dry.
* * *
There was an old picture tube-style television in Adrian's room, but the reception was poor, probably due to the raging storm. He switched off the TV and headed back downstairs.
"I can't get anything on the television, and I was wondering if you had any reading material down here," he told the desk clerk. "Newspapers? Magazines?"
"If you're looking for something to do to pass the time, why don't you join the others in the ballroom?"
"Where is that?"
"All the way down the hall. It's the last door on the left."
As he neared the ballroom, Adrian heard the faint strains of music. Like the hotel itself, the tune belonged to a long-gone generation. It made sense to him. Rap or rock 'n' roll would have seemed incongruous and anachronistic in these surroundings.
He opened the door and discovered many of the guests dancing to the music of an old Edison phonograph—if the somewhat mechanical movements they made could be considered dancing, that is.
Ah, they must be practicing their performance art, he assumed.
"Hello, there, Marsden," Lysander called. "Why don't you join us?"
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a dancer."
"Then feel free to sing along."
The amiable young man then joined in with the voice on the record: "It won't be a stylish marriage. I can't afford a carriage, but you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two."
For more than an hour, Adrian watched the others dance and listened to them sing. While he would not consider it art by any stretch of the imagination, it did seem like the steampunkers were enjoying themselves. When the dancers, in need of a break, returned to their seats, Lysander stood alone in the center of the ballroom and sang "Aura Lee" to the instrumental version played on the phonograph. Although he had never heard the song before, the tune was familiar to Adrian. It was the same melody used in Elvis Presley's 1956 hit "Love Me Tender."
Before Lysander reached the end of the ballad, however, the electric lights went out. The girl who served Adrian his meatloaf took a lighter out of her pocket and lit the many candles around the ballroom.
"I see you're well prepared for the storm," Marsden said.
"This isn't the first time we've lost power here. I'm sure Mr. Prynn is already on his way to the basement to get the generator going."
The flickering candlelight added to the dream-like atmosphere of the Mayfair.
"I've had enough singing and dancing," Lysander announced once the phonograph wound down. "Why don't we play charades?"
While the other guests thought that was a fantastic idea, Adrian declined.
"I'm not one for parlor games," he said apologetically. "I think I'll go up to my room and lie down for a while. Maybe I'll see you all later this evening."
As he walked toward the old mechanical, open-grate elevator, he heard the music playing again. This time it was Stephen Foster's "Beautiful Dreamer." Adrian listened more closely. The music was not coming from the ballroom behind him but from one of the rooms above him. When he got off the elevator onto the second floor, he followed the strains of the old song.
At the far end of the second-floor hallway were two doors, one of which was locked. The second opened onto a narrow, winding staircase. The music was definitely coming from the room at the top of the stairs.
"Hello?" he called. "May I come up?"
When he received no reply, he began climbing. He reached the small landing at the top of the stairs, and he saw a young woman seated at an elaborately painted pianoforte. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair: cascading blond waves rippled down her back from beneath the black top hat she wore. The second thing he noticed was her voice, soft and seductive as a siren's, as she sang Foster's lyrics.
"Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight have all passed away!"
Curious about what her face might look like, he quietly circled around her until he glimpsed her profile.
"Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, list' while I woo thee with soft melody."
Her blue eyes were cast down, watching her long, slender fingers as they caressed the keys of the pianoforte. From what Adrian could see of it, the bone structure of her face was exquisite. He stood in the shadows, speechless, gazing at her beauty.
"Gone are the cares of life's busy throng. Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!"
Having concluded the verse of the song, the lovely blonde stopped playing and folded her hands daintily in her lap.
"Hello," she said, her eyes still cast down.
"Hello," Adrian replied with surprise.
"Did you think I wasn't aware that you were in the room?"
She did not turn to him when she spoke, a fact that disappointed the young man. He wanted to see all of her face, not just half of it.
"I didn't want to disturb you while you were playing. You have a beautiful voice."
"Thank you," she said, finally turning toward him.
Adrian had never believed in the idea of falling in love at first sight. The mere concept was ludicrous! How could a man have deep feelings for a strange woman without knowing anything about her?
This isn't love that I'm feeling, he told himself. It's nothing more than intense physical attraction to a stunningly beautiful and desirable woman, an infatuation at most.
"Were you going to perform at the festival?" he asked.
"What festi—? Oh, yes, the festival. No. I'm not a professional performer."
"Then you're not with the group downstairs?"
"You've met them?" she asked, not answering his question.
"Yes. They were in the dining room while I ate, and then later I went to the ballroom and watched as they sang and danced."
A bolt of lightning suddenly lit up the night sky around them, and Adrian realized they were in one of the turrets of the hotel. The accompanying thunder was so loud it rattled the glass panes in the windows.
"I suppose we ought not to stay up here in this storm," she said.
With some difficulty, the young woman rose to her feet. Her awkward actions belied the graceful movements of her hands, head and neck. Adrian extended his hand to steady her as she clumsily moved from around the piano bench. That was when he noticed her odd footwear. She was wearing an elaborate pair of boots, a fine example of steampunk fashion. They appeared to be metal with working pulleys and gears that moved as she walked. They looked extremely heavy and cumbersome for one so petite.
"Would you like to join me for dinner?" he asked, despite still being fairly full from the meatloaf he ate at lunch.
"No, thank you. I'm not hungry. I think I'll go down to my room and read."
Adrian was bereft. He had only just met the young woman, and now the thought of never seeing her again tore at his heart.
"Please," he said. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want nothing more on earth than to get to know you better."
She smiled at him, and replied, "All right. Why don't we go downstairs and have a cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate cake?"
"My name is Adrian Marsden, by the way. What is yours?"
"Cassandra. I'm pleased to meet you."
As the blond beauty struggled to climb down the spiral staircase one unwieldy step at a time, Adrian wondered why she did not simply remove her boots.
* * *
For the remainder of the afternoon and evening, Adrian enjoyed Cassandra's delightful company. He found every comment she spoke fascinating, every opinion she expressed insightful and every joke she made hilarious. But then, he was so enamored of her that she could have recited the alphabet, and he would have been amazed by her intelligence.
"I suppose you'll be leaving once the storm is over," she finally said.
"I prefer not to think about that," Adrian declared honestly.
"It's inevitable, you know. This is a hotel; people come and people go all the time."
"And you?" he asked. "Where will you be off to?"
"Me? Nowhere. I live here. My father owns the Mayfair."
They talked for another hour, and then Cassandra announced that she was exhausted and had to get some rest.
"Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow before I leave," Adrian said, hopefully.
"It's possible."
When he leaned forward and gave her a tender goodnight kiss, the young woman did not pull away. In fact, she seemed to enjoy his innocent expression of affection.
"Good night, Mr. Marsden."
Physical attraction, infatuation, desire—these were mere words and inadequate ones at that. He could not deny the obvious, as improbable as it was. In just a few short hours, he had fallen hopelessly in love with Cassandra.
Later that night, as he laid his head on his pillow, he thought sleep would elude him. However, he quickly drifted off to a dream world populated with beautiful women with blue eyes, blond hair and heavy metal boots.
* * *
When he woke the next morning, Adrian noticed that the rain had nearly stopped. The heavy torrents had dwindled to a light shower. This change in weather was met with mixed feelings. He was glad that he could continue on to Portland and, with any luck, reschedule his job interview for a later hour. On the other hand, he was miserable at the prospect of leaving Cassandra.
What if I never see her again?
He quickly dressed and went downstairs where he could get breakfast and possibly see the lovely blonde. The chandelier in the lobby was glowing. Either Mr. Prynn had the generator running or the electricity had been restored.
"Good morning to you, good sir!" Lysander called in his usual overly theatrical manner as Adrian headed in the direction of the dining room.
"Good morning to you, too. I see we have power again."
"I knew Theophilus Prynn would get that old generator running—never doubted it for a second. The man's a genius! A mechanic extraordinaire!"
When the two men entered the dining room, the waitress asked Adrian, "Will you be joining us for breakfast?"
"I think I have time for something light to eat before heading out."
"Where were you planning on going?" Lysander asked with amusement.
"Portland. I was on my way there when the storm forced me to stop."
"I'm afraid you won't be able to go today unless you plan on swimming. The road that leads to the interstate is flooded."
Under normal circumstances, Adrian would have been keenly disappointed. Now, all he felt was joy that he would not have to leave Cassandra so soon.
"In that case, I'll have whatever is good on your menu," he told the waitress.
"Will pancakes, eggs and sausage do?"
"Perfect!"
After finishing his breakfast, he left the dining room, intent on searching for Cassandra. He did not have to look hard. He heard the sounds of Stephen Foster once again coming from the turret room. As on the previous day, Adrian walked to the two doors at the end of the hall. Again, the first was locked but the second was open. He climbed the winding staircase and saw the beautiful blonde sitting at her elaborately painted pianoforte.
"Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, e'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea. Then will all clouds of sorrow depart. Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!"
"I love the way you sing," he said. "But don't you know any other songs?"
"I love 'Beautiful Dreamer.' I could play it all the time."
"The rain has finally let up," he informed her.
"I know. I guess that means you'll be leaving soon."
"Once the road is clear, I will. Tell me, Cassandra, will you be sorry to see me go?"
"Yes, but then I was sorry to see all the others go, too."
Others? What others? he wondered.
"Are you referring to the steampunk bunch who are staying at the hotel now?"
"No. I'm talking about all the people who come to the hotel, stay a day or two and then leave. Do you think you're the only handsome young man ever to walk through the doors of the Mayfair? The only one to look at me the way you do?"
A piercing blade of jealousy stabbed at Adrian's heart. He turned toward the windows, unable to look at her. He spotted his Toyota surrounded by several deep puddles. Seeing his car reminded him that he had a life outside the Mayfair. He had a condominium, friends, family, a ....
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the hotel parking lot. Why was his Camry the only vehicle there?
"Where is everyone else parked?" he inquired, turning back to Cassandra.
"What?" she asked, clearly upset by his question.
"Mine is the only car out there. Where did all the other guests park their cars?"
"They must have left already."
"No, they haven't. They're down in the dining room."
"I have no idea. Maybe they all took the bus here."
"That's a ridiculous lie, and you know it," Adrian cried.
With great difficulty, Cassandra pushed back the wooden bench and stood up. She then hurried, as best she could, to the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
"Leave me alone!"
She tried to run, but the weight of the metal boots was too great. She lost her balance and tumbled down the stairs. When she landed at the bottom, Adrian noticed that what he had assumed to be a boot but what was actually an artificial limb had come off. Cassandra had no leg beneath her knee.
* * *
The sound of Cassandra falling down the stairs brought Lysander and Theophilus Prynn running up the stairs and down the hall.
"What has happened?" the elderly desk clerk inquired.
"There's been an accident," Adrian replied.
Lysander ran to the young woman's assistance.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"My leg gave out from beneath me. It's been getting worse. I didn't mention it because I didn't want to worry anyone."
"Can we call 911 and have her medevaced to the nearest hospital?" Adrian asked.
"That won't be necessary," Mr. Prynn said as Lysander effortlessly lifted the girl up off the floor.
"Be careful with her, you might cause more damage," Adrian warned.
"We know what we're doing, Mr. Marsden," the old man assured him.
Mr. Prynn then took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the nearby door that led directly to the large tower.
"Please go back to your room or to the dining room if you prefer," the old man suggested.
"No, I want to stay with Cassandra."
"I'm afraid I can't allow that. You'll only get in the way."
"You can't stop me," the determined young man insisted.
Then he saw the waitress walking down the hall toward him, carrying a hypodermic needle. After a slight pinch in his upper arm, everything around him went dark.
When Adrian woke up in his room, it was late afternoon. The rain had completely stopped, although the sun was still hiding behind a thick layer of clouds. He got out of bed and ran down the hall toward the tower. Lysander was standing in front of the door, blocking his way.
"Where is Cassandra?" he demanded to know.
"She's resting."
"I want to see her."
"You needn't fret over her. Everything is all right. She suffers from a rare, congenital bone disorder. Her lower legs were amputated in the hope that it would stop the spread of the disease."
"But it hasn't, has it?"
"No, I'm afraid it hasn't."
"Have you sent for her doctor?"
"There's no need for a doctor," Lysander explained. "As I said before, Theophilus Prynn is a genius! A mechanic extraordinaire! He'll take excellent care of his daughter."
Adrian, free of the gears and pulleys of the steampunk attire that hindered the other man, was able to sidestep Lysander and make his way up the stairs to the tower room. Cassandra lay on a bed, pale from her recent ordeal.
"What are you doing here?" she asked sleepily.
"I'm trying to rescue you," he replied.
"I assure you," Lysander said from the doorway. "She's not in any danger."
"She needs to be taken to the hospital."
"No, I don't. I'm fine, just a little tired from the anesthesia."
"You mean your father sedated you?"
"He wouldn't have operated on me without doing so. That would have been absolutely barbaric!"
Adrian reached for the blanket that was draped over her and tugged. With the covers removed, he saw that from the waist up, Cassandra remained a beautiful woman, but from the waist down, she was a machine.
"What has that monster done to you?" Adrian shouted.
"Our father is no monster," Lysander cried. "He saved our lives. My sister and I would have died in our early childhood had he not taken measures to save our lives."
"But look at her. She's ... she's ...."
Adrian was so horrified at the sight of the metal hips, thighs, legs and feet that could not put his feelings into words.
"Prosthetic devices are not uncommon," Lysander said, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his own mechanical parts. "For centuries before artificial limbs were invented, people used hooks in place of hands and wooden pegs in place of legs. Why, modern science has even developed a mechanical heart."
"The others? Do they know that this steampunk fashion of yours is nothing more than a cover?"
"Yes," Lysander answered. "For they are all like us. They would all be lying in their graves if it weren't for our father."
"What about me? Do you intend to kill me now that I know your secret?"
"We were hoping you might want to stay," Cassandra said, her eyes making a promise her body could no longer keep.
"As beautiful as your face is," Adrian said, "you're not a real woman."
However, the tears that fell from her eyes were genuine enough.
* * *
As Adrian returned to his room to collect his luggage, he felt certain someone would jump out at him with another hypodermic needle. Although he felt certain his life was in danger, he had to attempt to escape. Surprisingly, he made it to the elevator and down to the lobby without encountering anyone. He removed several hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and left them at the unattended front desk. Then he ran out the door, bolted across the parking lot and got into his Toyota.
This is the part in every cheesy horror movie where the engine doesn't start, he thought as he turned the key.
Surprisingly, the car started on the first attempt. He drove until the interstate was in sight.
There it is!
Regretably, a virtual lake of water stood in his path. At least they had not lied to him about the flooded road. With no idea how deep the water was, he had no alternative but to try to drive through it.
If I get stuck halfway, I'll get out and wade through the water to the other side. Hopefully, I can then hitch a ride from someone on the interstate.
Thankfully, the oversized puddle was long and wide but not deep. He crossed it with little difficulty.
I made it! he thought with joy as he turned onto the interstate entrance ramp.
Anxious to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Mayfair, he floored the accelerator. Too late, he saw the truck emerge from the Toyota's blind spot.
* * *
"Is he alive?" a middle-aged woman asked her husband when they saw Adrian Marsden in the wreckage of his vehicle.
"Yes, but just barely," her husband replied. "He'll most likely be dead by the time the ambulance gets here."
"What a shame! I'll bet he was a nice-looking young man."
Having made a hasty decision, the husband asked his wife, "Want to give me a hand getting him into the pack of our truck?"
"Always the Good Samaritan!" his wife said with pride as she and her husband attempted to save Adrian's life.
* * *
When Adrian opened his eyes, he was surprised to see the heavy velvet drapes on the windows, the gaudy wallpaper and the Victorian-era furniture.
"What am I doing back here?" he asked, his voice slurred with medication.
"You were in an accident out on the interstate," Lysander explained.
"You would have died if our father's friends had not arrived at the scene moments later," Cassandra added. "The hospital is a good twenty miles away, so they brought you here instead."
"No," he whimpered.
He struggled to get up, but Cassandra and her brother held him down.
"You must rest. You've just had surgery," Lysander warned.
Adrian then caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dresser mirror. His scream was one of horror, not pain. The left side of his body, from his neck to just below his ribcage, had been replaced with a system of pulleys and gears; and the left half of his once handsome face was covered by a partial metal mask.
* * *
A gentle snow fell on the Mayfair Hotel. Adrian Marsden stood in the turret, looking out the window at the SUV that pulled into the parking lot.
"More guests?" Cassandra asked.
"Looks like a family with three kids. I don't know where your father is going to put them."
"He'll find room. After all, we can't turn away paying guests."
"I ought to be getting quite a bit of money from the sale of my condo soon. And I still have my IRA should we need it."
"Don't worry about money. We'll get by. We always do."
Adrian looked at his wife, her face staring up at him with love.
"Play something for me," he asked, his hand gently caressing her blond hair.
He knew before Cassandra's long, graceful fingers touched the keys of the pianoforte that it would be Stephen Foster's "Beautiful Dreamer."
The image below is entitled "Trigger the cat" by Ruslan Svobodin.
Salem went steampunk for Halloween last year, although I suggested he go as Olaf from Frozen (complete with removable head).
