Steven R. Southard
Growing up in the Midwest, Steven R. Southard
always found the distant oceans exotic and tantalizing. He served aboard
submarines and now works as a civilian naval engineer. In his stories,
he takes readers on journeys of discovery in many seas and various
vessels. Steve has written in the historical, science fiction, fantasy,
horror, and steampunk genres. Come aboard at
http://sites.google.com/site/stevenrsouthard/ and voyage with his
intriguing characters in tales of aquatic adventure.
Visit Steven's new website at:
http://www.stevenrsouthard.com/
New Title(s) from Steven R. Southard
Title(s) in The What Man Hath Wrought Series
Click on the thumbnail(s) above to learn more about the book(s) listed.
Heron of Alexandria, in the 1st Century A.D., invented a primitive steam engine he called an aeolipile, or “wind-sphere.” Persuaded by his friend Praxiteles, he used this engine to propel a ship. If his steam-ship could beat a man-rowed galley in a race, could Heron bring about the Industrial Revolution 1700 years early? The action never ebbs in this tale of friendship, technological vision, and one of history’s missed opportunities. Let the race begin!
Excerpt
Word Count:
6000
Pages to Print:
25
File Format: PDF
Price:
$2.99
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If the fog of time
had lifted a bit differently on the 19th century, and you could
mix a hauty Englishman tinkerer, a plucky American steam engine
repair-woman, laser holograms, giant dirigibles, and
ornithopters, you might just get one madcap steampunk romance.
Strap on your brass-rimmed goggles to see what happens . . .
Within Victorian Mists.
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Excerpt
Word Count:
6800
Pages to Print: 27
File Format: PDF
Price:
$2.99 |
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Alexander the Great might well be on his
way to conquering the world, but when he decides to explore
underwater in a glass-windowed wooden barrel, he enrages
Poseidon. The other gods may debate Alexander’s fate and make
their deals on Olympus but the ocean deity is determined to
frighten the young King out of the watery realm. Will Poseidon
defeat Alexander and prevent future deep-sea exploration by
mortals, or can a single clever Macedonian outwit a god? |
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Excerpt
Word Count:
7880
Pages to Print: 30
File Format: PDF
Price:
$3.99 |
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In 1515, Leonardo da Vinci built a
mechanical lion to entertain King Francis I of France and his
guests. Until now, no one knows what happened to this amazing
clockwork creation. Over half a century later, when a ten year
old boy discovers the lion in a royal storeroom, young Chev
doesn’t know he will soon embark on a strange and dangerous
mission. His quest will lead him many leagues through a French
countryside devastated by religious war in search of Leonardo’s
greatest secrets of all, hidden mysteries that could affect the
future of all humanity.
Word Count: 8700
Excerpt
Pages to Print:
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Price: $3.99 |
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EXCERPTS
The Wind-Sphere Ship
I see you’re playing with your toys again.”
Heron started at the voice breaking the silence of the room.
Candle flames flickered with the approach of the newcomer. Heron relaxed
as he recognized the voice of his old friend.
“Greetings, Praxiteles.” He returned to tinkering with a
mechanism positioned atop a pedestal. “Have you come to torment me in
particular, or do you generally go about frightening old men at night?”
“I torment all old men who haunt the gods’ temples after
dark,” rejoined Praxiteles, smiling, “so yes, just you.” They stood
alone within a cluttered workroom at the rear of the Temple of Saturn.
Heron looked up into his friend’s eyes. Praxiteles possessed huge,
wide-open eyes, eyes that missed nothing, eyes that seemed able to
pierce fog and human deception. They had to be huge, to see around that
nose, he thought, surely the largest eyes and nose in all of Alexandria.
“Be so good as to hand me a candle, won’t you?”
“What are you working on now?”
“I’ll show you.” Heron said, replacing a cover on a
cylindrical machine adorned with ornate decorations and taking the
candle from his friend’s hand. “Drop a five drachma piece in the slot
and cup your hands beneath the spigot.”
“Oh, so my curiosity shall cost me, is that it?”
Heron held up a finger and kept his face expressionless.
“Just one pentadrachma. Pretend you’ve come here as a faithful
worshipper of Saturn.”
“That will take some pretending,” Praxiteles said.
Heron smiled, knowing that his friend―a history teacher at
the Alexandria museum―regarded religion as one of the forces shaping the
larger human story, nothing more. Faiths come and go, as Prax would say,
and in Alexandria these days one could find adherents to the Roman gods,
Jews, and even believers in a new offshoot of Judaism who claimed their
messiah had come. Heron himself, though a teacher of mathematics and
physics by day, enjoyed his hobby of constructing automated mechanisms
for the temples. Since people thought his devices were supernatural,
Heron rather took pleasure in his role as the “god” behind the machine.
Groping in a pouch dangling from his belt, Praxiteles found a
coin and dropped it into the slot. From within the cylinder came a
clinking noise followed by two soft bumps. Five tiny drops of water
plopped into his hands. Prax wore a bemused expression as he looked up
at Heron. “Saturn is not very generous this evening.”
Heron glowered at him. “I was still adjusting the mechanism
when you barged in. Before I’m through, it will fill your palms with
enough holy water to cleanse your face.” He lifted the cover and reached
all the way in to retrieve the coin. “Here, Saturn grants you your money
back.”
Praxiteles looked at the pentadrachma in his hand, then back
at the machine. “It is a miraculous device, Michanikos.” He used his
nickname for Heron―machine-man. “Worshippers will be awe-struck.” His
face clouded then. “But I’ve been doing some thinking about these
deceptions and amusements you create.”
“Oh?” Heron, with his hand back inside the holy water
dispenser, had resumed tinkering with the lever and valve linkage.
“When do you plan to let your automata do something more?”
“I told you, Prax, with some adjustment, this will provide
enough water―”
“No, no, I mean something different, something more
useful.”Heron looked at his friend, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”
Back to The Wind-Sphere Ship
| Within Victorian
Mists |
Hoping for success this time, Stanton
Wardgrave threw the knife switch. Through smoked-glass goggles,
he watched his apparatus, fearing another failure. On the
laboratory table, an image began forming at the end opposite the
gleaming mirrors and prisms. A reddish apparition shimmered
there, a tall, glowing blob lacking any distinct features or
shape of its own. A voice issued from the crimson ghost,
Stanton’s own voice.
“John, by the grace of God King of England,” the voice said,
“Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of
Anjou, to his archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls—”
“The bloody devil take it!” Stanton said as he jerked back on
the switch lever to open the circuit. The apparition vanished.
Its voice ceased. Stanton stared at the arrangement of prisms,
mirrors, and lenses, wondering what other adjustments he could
make now. Nothing seemed to make a difference.
“Sir, may I present—”
“MacSwyny!” Stanton tore off his goggles to glare at his
rotund, red-haired servant standing at the laboratory’s
entrance. “I told you not to interrupt . . .” he trailed off as
he saw other people silhouetted by the sunlight in the doorway
behind MacSwyny.
“Apologies, sir,” MacSwyny rolled the final consonant, “but
‘tis Tuesday. Two o’clock on Tuesday.”
Stanton straightened up. “Confound it, man. My
no-interruption rule remains in force on Tuesdays at two
o’clock, and at all other times. Now, go.” Stanton dismissed him
with a wave of his hand.
“Sorry, sir,” MacSwyny remained stationary, but looked
uncertain, “but ye had agreed to meet with your sister at this
hour.”
“Eh?” Stanton frowned, searching the backroom shelf of his
mind reserved for social trivialities. “Amelia . . . Tuesday . .
. ah, yes, I recall now.”
“Oh, now you recall,” Stanton’s sister Amelia entered the
laboratory, blonde curls bouncing beneath her pink bonnet.
“After we’ve trudged all the way from the house to your dreary,
dusty hideaway.”
“Amelia, I’ll not put up with—”
“And did you also recall that I was to introduce my friend to
you today?” Amelia curled a gloved finger and a second woman
entered the room. “She’s the one I told you about, whom I
befriended during my trip to America. Now she’s visiting here.”
This newcomer stood taller than Amelia, almost to Stanton’s
height. Overcome by his foul mood, Stanton noted very little
about her other than her shoulder-length brown hair and rather
plain blue traveling garments.
“May I present Josephine Boulton, from New York, in America,”
Amelia said.
The American stuck out her right hand. “Pleased to meet you,
Mr. Wardgrave,” she said, in a pleasant alto voice marred by a
jarring Yankee accent.
Stanton was taken aback, being used to bows and curtsies at
formal introductions.
“Charmed, Miss Boulton,” he shook her hand, surprised at the
firm grip. “I really must apologize for the condition of my
laboratory.” With a glare at MacSwyny, he added, “I wasn’t
expecting visitors.”
“It’s your own fault, really,” said his sister. “If you
concentrated on your social appointments as much as you think
about this—whatever it is . . .” She waved a hand over the
experiment table as if to sweep it away. “For some reason, when
I mentioned your silly laboratory to Josephine, she actually
wanted to see it, didn’t you, Jo? Well, I must go now. Entertain
Josephine, won’t you, Stanton? And try not to bore her to
exhaustion.” Amelia strode out the door with shocking swiftness.
“What?” Stanton stared after her in open-mouthed disbelief.
“Amelia! Come here!” He ran to the door, but saw no sign of her.
No doubt she’d hidden among the hedges of his nearby garden. If
he ran out to find her, she’d skip to a different hedgerow until
they would both be scampering about, making them both look
foolish. Stanton knew his sister’s games too well.
So now Amelia was playing the matchmaker again. Stanton
snickered at the thought of just how wide of the mark her
Cupid’s arrow had flown. Not only was he uninterested in the
burden of female companionship at the moment, but even if that
had been otherwise—what on Earth would attract him to this
Yankee creature?
Still, the present situation wouldn’t be helped by undue
rudeness to a guest. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Boulton,” he
cleared his throat as he re-entered the laboratory, “this is all
most unseemly, you being here without a proper chaperone. We
must locate my sister at once.”
“Chaperone?” the woman looked up from the apparatus on the
table, at which she’d been gazing. “Am I in danger, here with
you and you servant?”
“Absolutely not,” Stanton said. “It’s just . . . well, it
isn’t done . . .” Did Americans not know the rules?
“That’s settled, then,” she said, “and I’d very much like you
to explain this equipment here.” She pointed, her finger almost
brushing a mirror.
“Don’t touch that!” Stanton snapped. Then, softer, “I’m
sorry. Please, just leave the equipment alone. It’s delicate and
much too complicated to explain to, uh, to . . .”
“—to a woman?” Boulton frowned at him and crossed her arms.
“Well, of course, to a woman,” Stanton said. “This is
intricate machinery, well beyond the understanding of any—”
“It’s an experiment in optical physics,” she interrupted,
returning her attention to the table. “Here you use electricity
from a voltaic pile to produce light. Over here you split the
resulting beam, and there you guide the beams with mirrors and
lenses to that end of the table. The light rays meet there at an
acute angle . . .”
Stanton blinked. This strange woman had somehow correctly
guessed at the rudiments of his device. He found himself rather
impressed with her powers of discernment. What sort of female
was this?
“. . . and from the noise you were making as we approached
your laboratory,” she continued, “I deduce that this machine
doesn’t work.”
“It works, indeed,” Stanton struck a defensive tone, “just
not as well as I would like. You see, this device with the ruby
rod and the mirrored ends produces a powerful coherent beam of
light. I call it a ‘dynaphoter,’ from the Greek for ‘mighty
light.’ Where the separated dynaphoter rays meet again they form
a picture in three dimensions. I call the entire apparatus an
‘Omni-Sim,’ from the Latin for ‘whole image.’”
“You could as well have stuck with Greek and called it a ‘holo-gram,’”
the young woman pointed out.
Stanton would not admit that he liked that name better. “I’ve
kept the Omni-Sim small,” he went on, “so that it can be packed
up and carried in a briefcase.”
“Can you turn it on and show me?” Josephine asked with a
hopeful smile.
“I really don’t think—”
“I’d love to see it. The whole thing sounds wonderful.”
Stanton sighed. “Ah, well. Please bear in mind that it is an
uncompleted project. First, however, you must don goggles to
guard against the hazards of the dynaphoter rays.”
He handed her the goggles usually worn by MacSwyny when he
assisted Stanton, and told MacSwyny to avert his eyes. The
goggles featured brass frames, darkened round lenses, and
leather straps to go around the head. Josephine removed her
sky-blue bonnet and put on the goggles without hesitation, as if
part of her daily wardrobe.
When Stanton turned on the machine, the same vague reddish
blob appeared, and the voice began speaking again.
“It’s amazing!” Josephine studied the ghostly apparition from
all angles. “And it speaks quite clearly. What is it reciting?”
“The Magna Carta,” Stanton said, still disappointed in the
Omni-Sim’s image quality and in his complete lack of ideas for
improving it.
Back to Within Victorian Mists |
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| Alexander's Odyssey |
Poseidon wondered if the mortals
were, once again, up to no good.
The sea-god knew several ways to monitor their
activities, but preferred appearing among them in human form.
Mortals reacted in a more natural way, and revealed more, when
among their own kind. Therefore, when he’d been informed by an
alert dolphin about an odd construction project on a beach in
the eastern Mediterranean, he had decided to investigate it
himself.
While walking toward the large, barrel-like object he
thought it did appear most unusual. He frowned as he smelled a
burnt, oily odor spoiling the salt breeze. Four humans worked on
the upright cask, a couple of them standing on stools to reach
its upper parts, their white clothes splotched with black
smears. The barrel stood taller than a man and spanned three
cubits at its midpoint, tapering to two at the circular top and
bottom. Six square glass panels ringed its circumference one
quarter of the distance down from the top.
One of the workmen looked up at his approach. “Pelagios!
We heard you were sick. You look well enough to work. Join us.
There are extra rags.” He dipped his own cloth in a heated
cauldron of tar and spread the black, viscid substance where
some of the wooden barrel staves joined together, rubbing to
work the sealant into the seams.
“I’m feeling better now,” Poseidon said. During the
night he’d come to the workmen’s tent and waved a hand over one
of them, imparting a fever to the slumbering man. He’d then
assumed the size and shape of that laborer, evidently named
Pelagios. “I’m ready to work again. But first, friends, tell me
the purpose of this barrel.”
All four of them stopped daubing tar and looked at him.
“What?” one of them asked. “Why, only yesterday you were . . .
Ah, I take your meaning now,” he smiled. “He has a riddle for
us, men. Very well, Pelagios. What is the purpose of this
barrel?”
Inside, Poseidon seethed. These humans were maddening!
He felt like killing them all with a thought, but restrained the
impulse. He needed the information he’d come for. “No, I have no
riddle. Perhaps I’m not fully myself yet today. I must have
forgotten about the barrel. If you wish me to help, I must first
know what manner of thing I’ll be toiling with. It’s an odd
thing, this cask with windows.”
Three of the workers showed a mix of puzzlement,
suspicion, and indifference. The other seemed more sympathetic,
and spoke. “Mark well, Pelagios. Pretending forgetfulness won’t
relieve you of your duties. You know full well the King ordered
this special barrel—his Colimpha—built. He intends to weight it
down with stones, get inside it, seal the opening on top, and
then be lowered from a ship into the depths.” He paused to work
some of the tar in at the edge of a square window, taking care
not to smear the glass. “Now that I think of it, I don’t know if
that makes us coopers, or shipwrights, or both, eh men?” He
laughed and the others joined in.
Poseidon did not laugh. Anger rose within him like the
tide; this sounded like a new and different way for mortals to
enter his realm. He struggled to keep the edge out of Pelagios’
voice. “Why is the King doing this?”
The workman nodded his head to the southwest toward an
island in the distance with high stone walls rising from its
shores. “It’s said he wants to check on how our divers are
doing.”
“Divers?” Poseidon fought to keep patient.
The laborer sighed again. “You’ve forgotten even
that? We must remember to keep you and wine safely separated, or
you’ll forget your own name!” The others chuckled at this and he
continued, “The cursed Tyrians put obstacles underwater to
impede our war galleys—jagged boulders and pointed spars. Divers
are removing them.” He looked around, then leaned closer and
lowered his voice, “I think the real reason for this Colimpha is
the King wants to go beneath the deeper parts of the sea. You
know how he loves to explore and conquer. I think he wants to be
King of the fishes, too!” He laughed once again and the others
also enjoyed the joke.
The bitter feeling inside Poseidon kept surging
like a storm-whipped wave. His jaw set, but he kept his tone
inquisitive, curious. “Why would the King risk angering
Poseidon?”
The man smiled. “You and I would worry about that, but
not Alexander. He’s not afraid of anything—man, beast, or god.
I’ll wager he’s actually looking forward to tweaking the old
seaweed-eater’s nose!”
Poseidon felt his rage burst like a bubble. He glowered
at the cask, then faced the sea. His eyes blazed, boring into
those opaque, blue waves, into the dark fathoms beneath.
In a few moments he heard a worker shout, “By all the
gods, look!” Advancing toward their spot on the beach came a
huge wave, its white crest towering fifty cubits above the
otherwise calm waters. At its southern end, the monstrous wall
of water tapered to nothingness, sparing Tyre and its teeming
populace. As it neared the beach, its main peak dwarfed the
Colimpha and the men.
“Run!” the laborers shouted, and one paused to tug
Pelagios’ arm. The man gave up and sprinted inshore across the
sand.
But Poseidon did not budge. As if fixed in place, he
watched the mighty wave bearing down on him like a moving, blue
mountain. He heard it now, a monstrous, deafening roar of
gurgling, splashing, crashing spray and water. The sea-god
smiled, admiring his destructive creation, summoned by his own
command.
As if drawn by a heavenly chariot, a large, billowing
cloud passed in front of the sun. The sky darkened. In quick
succession, four jagged lines of lightning lanced downward. Each
bolt smote the immense wave, sending forth gigantic plumes of
steam. A fierce, sustained blast of wind came from nowhere and
whipped seaward, meeting the onrushing wall in a titanic contest
between the elemental forces of air and water.
Battered and beaten, the wave rushed on, much
lessened in height. Reduced to a gentle roller, it swept up the
beach and doused the fire beneath the cauldron of tar, then
wetted Poseidon’s ankles and the bottom of the King’s Colimpha
before receding back to the sea.
Only one being could be responsible for
preventing his destruction of the vessel, and the sea-god knew
whom, if not yet why. Poseidon glared at the cloud as it moved
past, allowing the golden sun to reappear. In a voice of fury,
as loud as crashing surf, he yelled, “Zeus!”
Back to Alexander's Odyssey |
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| Leonardo's
Lion |
With his good hand, Chev opened the
door, eased through it, and stood with his back against the oak
portal, panting.
“Mon Dieu!” An old man looked up from his
desk. “A visitor, here? By all the Saints! I never get visitors.
No one ever comes to see old Gaspard...” His creaky voice
trailed off to a mumble.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Chev interrupted in
a whisper, unsure if he could trust the old man. “Please don’t
tell anyone I’m here.” Since escaping the orphanage earlier that
day, he’d been trying to avoid people, clinging to shadowed
alleys, hiding in alcoves, and squeezing through wall cracks.
Any adult who saw him, he feared, would turn him over to the
authorities and he’d be back where he’d started.
“I won’t give your secret away, for
goodness’ sake.” Gaspard stood and beckoned to Chev. “Come in,
lad. Make yourself comfortable. I enjoy company, and that door
so seldom opens. What’s your name, son? And how old are you? You
look no more than ten. Very young to be running in fear...” He
continued speaking in a low murmur.
“My name is Chev, Monsieur,” he began to
catch his breath. “I don’t know how old I am.” Chev dared not
tell him he’d come from the orphanage.
“What happened to your hand, young Chev?”
“I caught the holy fire disease,” Chev
looked down at his right forearm to where it ended in a rounded
stump. He would never forget the pain that day the monks cut off
his blackened, withered hand while telling him it was necessary
to save his life.
The man nodded. “I’m sorry for you. A
terrible thing.”
Chev looked around at the room’s vast
interior. “What is this place?”
Gaspard swept his hand in a jerky manner.
“Welcome to King Charles’ Storeroom. Here go all the old,
forgotten gifts and decorations, all the royal possessions from
the Amboise palace no one bothered to send to Paris. These wine
goblets, for example, were given to Louis XI in 1475. And this
scepter...”
Chev stared in disbelief at the amazing
riches stacked in haphazard confusion in floor-to-ceiling piles.
The heaps included armor, tapestries, books, portraits, musical
instruments, polished wood furniture, ornate boxes, tableware,
and jewelry.
“...and with this sword, King Charles VI
knighted Sir Ambroise de Loré in 1415,” Gaspard continued.
“Notice this exquisite chessboard given to King Philip VI in
1345...”
While Gaspard droned, Chev wandered to
where the fancy clothing hung, each garment featuring delicate
trim and bold colors. He brushed some of the clothes with his
hand, feeling the smooth fabrics, devoid of holes or rips.
A fearsome face stared out from behind
some garments as he swept them. Chev fell backward to the floor
and crab-walked rearward in horror. “A monster!”
“Monster?” Gaspard asked, frowning. “Hmm.
There are no monsters on my inventory. It is here you found it,
no?” He pointed to some of the robes and dresses.
Chev nodded. “I swear it, Monsieur. Please
don’t—”
Heedless of the plea, Gaspard parted the
fabric.
There it was! A menacing face, like some
cat magnified to enormous size. But now Chev saw it did not
move, not even its eyes. Carved from ash wood, its tan and black
contours looked very real, but frozen in place. Chev sat up, a
little less scared.
“Ah, yes, the lion,” Gaspard smiled at
Chev. “Just a wooden lion, not a monster. I’d forgotten it was
there. Here, help me pull him out from his jungle of clothing.”
Chev stood and came closer, still worried
the huge beast might somehow come to life.
“You may touch it,” Gaspard patted the
lion’s head. “I don’t believe it’s hungry.”
Together they worked to slide the wooden
feline out from behind the clothing. It seemed very sturdy, yet
light, for such a huge replica.
Old Gaspard was out of breath from his
mild exertions, but kept up a steady, gasping monologue as they
pulled. “This lion was built by a man named Leonardo and
presented to King François I for his visit to Bologna to meet
Pope Leo X in December, 1515.”
“Lion? Leonardo? Pope Leo?” Chev didn’t
know if the man was joking with him and whether he should laugh.
Gaspard chuckled. “A coincidence of names.
Also, he brought out the lion again later when the King visited
Lyon!”
Chev did laugh with Gaspard at that, but
then grew curious. “1515? How long ago was that, Monsieur?”
“Well, let’s see, this year is 1569, so
it’s...well, quite a long time ago.” Gaspard continued,
“Leonardo was an artist and entertainer, inventor and scientist,
too. The King invited him to move here from Italy.”
Chev had never seen a real lion, but held
terrifying notions of them from stone statues he’d seen and
hair-raising stories told late at night by older boys in the
orphanage. The animal before him looked like someone had spent a
lifetime carving its details. Even the wood grains imitated a
living creature’s fur. Teeth and claws appeared as sharp as
sword blades. Overall, the statue showed more power, pride, and
grandeur than anything Chev had ever seen. “It’s wonderful,” he
shook his head in awe after circling the beast.
“It’s not just a statue,” Gaspard
scratched his gray goatee. “Let me see if I can recall how it
works. I think perhaps I first do this.” He grasped the long,
graceful tail and raised it up in an arc.
Chev heard a metallic clicking noise, like
the sound of winding the mantel clock at the orphanage.
Gaspard worked on the tail, moving it up
and down a few times until he gave up, breathing hard. The man
then examined the back of the lion’s proud, upraised head. The
mane’s hair curved down in real-looking locks. Gaspard’s bony
hand felt along this mane, feeling one of the locks in the
center, low, where the mane ended. “Watch now,” he said as he
lifted the lock up, then pushed it back into place.
The lion began to walk, and Chev almost
fainted.
Its gait was slow and stately. As the
beast moved, its head swiveled from side to side, its mouth
opened and closed, and its tail swished with its stride.
In delighted amazement, Chev overcame his
dread of the animated lion. He rushed to it and marched
alongside. As if pacing its realm, the creature strode down the
narrow aisle formed by towering piles of royal belongings.
Gaspard talked the whole time, in his
creaky, babbling voice. Chev ignored him, so intent was he on
the marvel of a moving wooden feline beast.
Without warning the lion stopped. It
lowered its hind end to sit on its haunches. It faced forward,
head held high, mouth closed. Its chest began to open up, like
the twin doors of a cathedral. Chev looked at its chest. The
open “doors” revealed only an empty compartment. A moment later
the breast plates closed and the beast returned to its standing
posture.
“...the festive reception when King
François I met the Pope,” Gaspard was saying, “Leonardo had put
lilies in the lion’s chest, and they fell out upon the floor.
Lilies are in the coat of arms of France, as well as that of the
city of Florence, Italy. Florentine dignitaries were also in
Bologna for the celebration, and the lion itself is a symbol of
Florence. Ah, think of the impression this machine must have
made on everyone present that day.”
Chev cared nothing for court noblemen at
some long-ago celebration. He wanted to see inside the lion.
Scrambling underneath and looking up, he saw the outline of a
second rectangular opening farther back from the chest area.
This one had two small metal latches Chev could move with his
hand. The panel swung down on hinges.
“What are you doing down there? Be careful
not to break anything.”
“I’ll be careful, Monsieur.” It took a
moment to see anything in the lion’s dark interior. Then details
became clearer. Metal gears and springs and rods and wheels,
like those of the mantel clock at the orphanage, filled the
animal’s insides. But this machinery looked far more complicated
than the clock. Everything connected to something else—rods
attached to wheels, gear teeth meshing, springs wound on axles.
Except one item. |
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Leonardo's Lion |
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