And for inciting a riotous stampede. Darwin thought. And for making a young girl cry in my arms. And for terrifying me, yet also making me happier and more relieved than I’ve been in a long, long time.
An hour later, the end-of-the-world publicity stunt was the talk of the party as comet-watchers resumed their previously scheduled frivolities, though some of the elderly celebrants had taken their heart medicine and gone to bed. If the end of the world was nigh, they had chirped, they would greet it lying down, dreaming of greener pastures and tinctures of laudanum. Several of the guests had been taken to the hospital to treat their bumps, scrapes, bruises, and one man’s broken leg.
Despite the somewhat subdued atmosphere, Darwin quickly ran out of machine-crafted cigars from Havana and had moved on to the hand-rolled labels from Trinidad and Brazil. No one seemed to mind the rough cohibas. And Lucy resumed her duties, though her pink cap had been crushed in the scrum.
Darwin stood his post and gazed out the window as the Madison Street cable car descended the steep hill to downtown, past sodium-arc streetlights that flickered in the darkness, beneath the aurora, which continued its heavenly performance, unfettered. He thought of Lucy and her touch, and the end of the world seemed farther away than it had been sixty minutes ago. But, perhaps he’d earn a measure of insurance just the same.
In Chinatown, Darwin heard that the locals had taken to the Underground—which had been publicly closed during the bubonic plague scare of 1907, but had quietly been repopulated ever since. First for opium dens, gambling parlors, and pleasure houses, and now for handsomely built comet shelters complete with brass bottles of air and Dr. Melvin’s Comet Tonic, which was advertised as wormwood but was probably nothing more than castor oil. The brick bunkers were so popular that only a few were left and could only be had through a lottery run by the Chong Wa Benevolent Association.
Darwin had bought a ticket last week, just in case, as a way of preventing disaster, like taking your bumbershoot out because you know it only rains when you leave it behind. The ticket had cost ten dollars, an extravagance that now seemed affordable as he palmed a pocketful of old folding money he’d earned in tips from guests who had currency to burn and perhaps a limited lifetime in which to spend such wealth.
“Quite the evening, eh?” Darwin said, as he cut and then lit the cigar of a cotton-haired gentleman stooped over a silver-tipped cane.
The old man looked back with a twinkle in his eye that might have been a tear. “Perfect night for the end of the world. And not my first, young lad.” The old man’s lips trembled and his hands shook as he spoke. “I saw the Sidereal Tramp back in 1835, the last time it came ’round—course they called it Halley’s Comet back then. Few of us are around to remember the same panic, the same stupidity. The same… indulgences.”
Darwin nodded, not realizing that people were still alive from the last apparition. “They say the Tramp’s gravity is closer this time. And the poisonous tail…”
“And this you believe?” the old man asked, but his question felt like a statement.
“Begging your pardon, sir. I honestly don’t know what to believe.”
“And that’ll be your downfall, your lack of faith in science. But soon… all will be revealed. Because at my age, I feel every storm, every snowfall—I feel it in my bones. This storm—this thing—I feel it coming. This unkempt world is falling to pieces.” The old man’s voice quavered. “I’ve lived my life, I should be so lucky as to expire with an entire continent to keep me company.”
Darwin sensed the same dread he’d felt in the boiler room. He heard the crowd’s chatter settle into a bouquet of delicate whispers. Everyone stopped dancing, or mingling, and slowly, timidly, drifted to the balcony, yet again.
“That’s more like it,” a woman cooed as she sipped a glass of sparkling wine.
The hunched old man stood a bit taller to see outside, and Darwin noticed the detachable collar of a retired science minister.
“When beggars die there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes,” the old man said. “That’s Shakespeare.” He squeezed Darwin’s shoulder. “G’night, lad.”
Darwin bid him well and peered, with the rest of the wait staff, over the shoulders of the regal men and women they’d been serving. He could see the Tramp appear just above the horizon, drifting slowly across the Western sky—an unmistakable white light, the size of his thumb as he extended his arm away from his body. The light flashed a ruddy crimson, arcs of fire hovering above the Olympic Mountains. The deep curve of the comet’s tail stretched out behind the glowing orb as partygoers made silent wishes, offered solemn toasts, or kissed as though celebrating the New Year all over again. There was a wave of apprehension that conceded quietly to relief.
He felt someone take his arm and knew by her perfume that it was Lucy. He continued watching the Tramp make its way through the darkness and through the glowing curtains of the northern lights. “It’s breathtaking.” He smiled and nodded. “The end of the world should happen more often, don’t you think?”
“Darwin—” She paused. “Darwin, I…”
And then the comet flashed and the lights went out—the comforting thrum of electricity gone—everything dark but the candles and the jellied fuel which glowed pink and yellow beneath the chafing dishes and coffee pots, then that too was snuffed out in a rush of air that stole Darwin’s breath and shattered every pane of glass, exploded every bottle of wine, and gave voice to a primeval sound that was felt, not heard—something great and terrible, a city, surrendering its death-rattle.
Somewhere amid the maelstrom, between the flutter of heartbeats, bounded by the turbulent light that enveloped the sky and the Stygian dark that would follow, Darwin thought of Lucy Stringfellow. He wished he’d touched her lips, at least once.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jamie Ford is the great grandson of Nevada mining pioneer Min Chung, who emigrated from Kaiping, China, to San Francisco in 1865, where he adopted the western name “Ford,” thus confusing countless generations. His debut novel, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, spent two years on the New York Times bestseller list and went on to win the 2010 Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature. His work has been translated into 32 languages. Jamie is still holding out for Klingon (because that’s when you know you’ve made it). He can be found at www.jamieford.com blogging about his new book, Songs of Willow Frost, and also on Twitter @jamieford.
Ben H. Winters — BRING HER TO ME
Before she opens the door Annabel takes a moment to prepare herself. She smoothes the front of her frock, and tucks her hair behind her ears, and readies her face: smile, eyes. Ready.
“Hello?”
“Hello! Hi!”
The woman from the Center launches right in, full force: “Oh my goodness we are really getting down to it now, aren’t we? We are really getting down to it now!”