History: A Distillation of Rumor
“History: A distillation of rumor.” – Thomas Carlyle, essayist, 1795 – 1881.
“Didn’t you want to go with them, my dear?” Mercier said to Fiona. Mirabella had, of course, gone with Gabe into the “potato” to provide whatever assistance he might need.
“No thanks,” she replied, shuddering. “I’m going to be born there soon enough. It’s messy and painful, and I really don’t want any advanced notice of how it’s going to be. I’m reluctant enough as it is.”
“Very wise, young lady,” said another voice, approaching them.
Mercier almost dropped the glass potato and swore. “Sacré Bleu!” he cried, carefully replacing the potato on its proper spot on the shelf before wheeling around to accuse the miscreant. “You! you…you…” he sputtered, turning red and searching for an inflaming insult. “You buffoon, you moron, you three-sexed, methane-breathing amphibian from the Pleiades! How dare you sneak up on me! May you get the French pox in an era before the discovery of penicillin!” Mercier was only getting started, but Fiona placed her hand gently on one of his waving arms. At first she was très amusé, but she remembered to be empathetic and tuned in to both Mercier’s growing anger and the stranger’s alarm and guilt.
“This is my friend, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “He didn’t mean…” she began to appease him.
“I’m very sorry,” said the man. “I had no intention of startling you. And, incidentally, I already died once of tertiary syphillis when I was Scott Joplin.”
Mercier got a hold of himself, drew in a deep breath to puff up his chest and took stock of the stranger. The man was tall, fair of face with black hair hastily powdered and tied in the back with a black ribbon. His waistcoat was threadbare, and his stockings had splotches of oil on them. The buckle on his left shoe had come loose and lay at an angle.
“And just who are you?” Mercier said coolly, raising one eyebrow and giving him the fish-eye.
“I am James Hargreave,” he replied, drawing himself up and taking hold of both lapels of his waistcoat.
“Yes,” added Fiona. “He’s helping me with my spinning lessons.”
“I’m sorry for not coming sooner, Fiona,” James added, turning to her. “I’ve been studying with Babbage and his difference engine. In my next life, I’m going to be something called an ‘information technology’ technician who works with ‘computers.’ And my name is going to be ‘Melvin,’” he added sadly.
“Ah,” said Mercier, dropping his shoulders and relaxing. “So you’re the famous inventor of the Spinning Jenny.”
James bristled a little at that remark. “Alas, History has recorded another falsehood and turned it into legend. I only developed someone else’s invention and made good use of it. They say that my daughter Jenny turned over a spinning wheel and gave me the idea for the machine, but I don’t even have a daughter named Jenny! In any case, Fiona, we had better go back to your studies. Your birth is scheduled soon, and you’ll want as much practice as possible, I’m sure. It’s a hard life you’ve chosen.”
“I didn’t choose it!” she replied, petulantly.
“Oh?” said Mercier. “You’ll find that you did eventually, waving his hand dismissively and turning back to pick up the potato. “See yourselves out, please. I’m going to follow up on this scene of Mirabelle’s. It’s an interesting case.” James held out his hand to Fiona, and when she gave hers to him, they turned and made their way out of the stacks, fading slowly as they went.
“Well, my new friend,” said Mercier, picking up the potato and staring into it, “let’s see what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
