Candle to the Devil / Chapter 6

Chapter 6

While the cloistered cities of Joseon—and the rest of the world—protected their inhabitants from the Afflicted that roamed the aptly named Deadlands, they posed their own problems. The smaller area needed to hold both cities and farmland to provide food for the residents. The port cities fared far better in this aspect than their inland brethren. 

The largest problem came, however, in their isolation from one another. The rapid transfer of news between the cities was of paramount importance. This lack of coordination had been the downfall of many of the early walled cities, such as Jeonju and Hamheung. A solution to the problem began with the adoption of the railroad systems brought by the West.

Railroads were the safest form of transportation through the Deadlands but were prone to breaks and derailing. With the slow process of repairing Deadland tracks the use of trains to relay mail became problematic and faulty. Telegrams worked for small messages, but in a world so reliant on the swift information between walled cities, a new form of carrier was needed. Telegraph lines were difficult to maintain outside of the cities, posing the same problem as the railroad mail system.

It was the innovation of a group of doctors and engineers that bore the fruit that became the Crow Carriers. Birds made of metal and steam carried parcels of letters faster than ship and train. The bird-like machines were named Crows for the blackened color that their wings took on from the black steam they issued as they flew.

Early Crow Carrier design. London Museum of Natural History

While seemingly impractical in this day and age it was the innovation of the century and kept the isolated cities afloat. The trick to their invention was their programming. The ability to program the delivery routes for the seemingly insentient creations is a mystery to this day, a lost art of desperate times.

Sungkyunkwan University, Hanseong

Wednesday, 10:00pm, March 30^th, 1858

Kyungsoo’s back ached. It had been quite a while since he’d had to stand all day. He’d given his opening lecture five times—the entirety of Sungkyunkwan. By the third lecture he’d lost all nervousness. By the fourth he’d recited the entire thing from memory. He felt a bit bad for the first two groups of students. They’d hardly gotten the best experience. The next day would be better, he promised himself.

He reached his quarters with a longing for good and a bath and the knowledge that he would need to go over his lecture for the next day as well. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about his meals. The kitchen staff seemed accommodating, and had shown him where the professors ate. He wasn’t sure he’d be welcome there. He was young and British taught. To them he was an eyesore. On the surface they were all praise and flattery, but he knew that the moment he turned his back those smiles became mocking sneers. As much of an “honor” as a Western education was, it was also the sign of a turncoat to the Asian taught educators.

Maybe he’d be able to have his meals brought up…once he managed to buy his own home he’d have no more worries on that account. That’s right, another thing to worry about. He needed to find out of there were any homes available in the city. They had been abundant at the beginning of the outbreak, but were much more scarce now that everyone had taken refuge in the cloistered cities.

He loosened his cravat and gave a tired sigh. He placed his box of lecture material on the table in the small sitting room that adjoined to his bedchamber and paused at the stack of letters placed neatly on the corner. So his mail had arrived, it seemed.

He recognized the handwriting on the first letter immediately—his own name in tight, messy English. He gave a small smile, a bit of his tiredness slipping away as he grabbed his letter opener and popped the elegant wax seal. Several sheets of folded paper awaited him, covered from top to bottom in the same cramped scrawl. Even the margins were filled with hastily written afterthoughts.

He settled comfortably in his armchair and began to read.

Kyungsoo,

I hope that this letter comes to you in a timely fashion and that your journey to Hanseong was comfortable. I have heard that the railways between the walled cities in the East are badly made and prone to accidents. It’s a well-known fact that all the old steam engines are shipped to be used in Asia.

The new semester at Oxford began three days ago. None of my new students are half as promising as you, I’m afraid. There is no one here I could possibly trust with my delicate work. It is a pity, a terrible pity.

I still cannot comprehend why you accepted the offer to teach at that Korean school of yours. There is nothing for you in Joseon but death. If you had stayed here I could have put you up with a prominent official, you know they are all looking for private physicians and some more open-minded ones would look past your Korean background. It would have made things much easier for the two of us and our ongoing research.

Truly Kyungsoo I can’t trust anyone here with it. They’ll bugger the whole thing. I pray that you will rethink your choice of patronage and return to London forthwith. I cannot send you the details within this letter for fear of them being discovered, but I have stumbled across something big. Something important.

Our work is not nearly complete, Kyungsoo. I need you to return. I’ve sent a few formulas I would like you to go over. I cannot send samples. These blasted crows are only good for carrying letters.

My granddaughter continuously asks when you will be returning. I believe she visits me only to inquire of your whereabouts. She is to be betrothed and soon and will be unable to meet a young man such as yourself so easily once she has been married. She will be much too busy with her own household and children. As her friend, I hope you will see the urgency of your return and comply.

We are almost there Kyungsoo, almost! Soon we shall be written in the history books, you and I. It is a pity your father was unable to see live to see our breakthrough. Until you return I will continue my research. I suggest you do the same.

Doctor James Octavian Boulstridge

            The rest of the letter contained the formulas he wished for Kyungsoo to review and an extensive discussion of his crossbreeding experiments with begonias, which Kyungsoo decided could be read in full in the morning.

James Octavian Boulstridge had been his mentor since he’d begun his studies; a family friend who had seen his potential and been his only ally in a world of bigotry and hatred. It would be too generous to say he was free of prejudice. Whether he thought the color of one’s skin was a sign of inferiority was questionable. To Dr. Boulstridge, the mind was what mattered. He saw Kyungsoo’s eastern lineage as a regretful circumstance because it presented limitations in a white-washed society. Sometimes, words slipped, things were said, and Kyungsoo would be reminded that they were different—that Dr. Boulstridge had grown up in a world that announced white supremacy and that even he could not escape it completely.

            But he was as close to a friend as Kyungsoo had in London, he and his granddaughter Olivia.

            He remembered meeting Boulstridge for the first time at the age of 6. They’d traveled to Hong Kong—he, his father and his mother. A bright child, Boulstridge had called him. He’d seemed fascinated by the wide-eyed Korean boy with the photographic memory. He remembered being sent out of the room so that Boulstridge could change something—move a book on the bookshelf or add a fold to the tablecloth—and then see if Kyungsoo could point out what he’d changed. To Kyungsoo it had been a delightful little game. He liked games—but mostly he liked being praised and given a piece of peppermint candy every time he succeeded.

            It had been a happy memory. It had also been his only trip to China. Boulstridge had pleaded with his father to go to London with him. He had refused…and it had later cost him his life.

            Kyungsoo rubbed his temples. Too many depressing thoughts for the evening…he’d need a drink of brandy before he went to bed. It helped with the nightmares.

            The second letter was a telegram from Jongdae telling him that Baekhyun’s wound had reopened but the bleeding had been minimal and he was taking to the physical therapy as well as could be expected. Kyungsoo made another mental note to write him back with a few questions and more instructions. He wasn’t sure how far he could trust Jongdae, but he knew that he could count on Chanyeol.

            The third and fourth were notices from the University about his room and board and a request for a special seminar for the medical professors. That would be a headache in and of itself. It was one thing to teach a course on medical biomechanics to a group of students. It was something entirely different to tell a group of professors twice his age that he knew better and more advanced techniques than they did.

            He was sincerely beginning to regret his decision to teach here. It would have been better to be belittled by the British than his own countrymen. If he hadn’t been in a foul mood by then, the last letter certainly did the trick.

            It was embossed, thick parchment in an elegant looping script. His stomach began to sink as he read, twisting into a coil of uneasy knots by the end.

            Doctor Do Kyungsoo,

I would like to be the first to welcome you back to Joseon. I have been following your progress at Oxford with rapt attention. You have represented your countrymen well during your time there, but I can confidently say that I am most relieved that you have returned to us to impart your newly found knowledge on the young minds of Joseon.

I cordially invite you to dinner at my home this Saturday to recount of your time in London.

Lord Oh, Lord High Chancellor of the House of Lords of Joseon

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Wednesday, 5:00pm, March 30^th, 1858

            Jongdae could hear Baekhyun lumbering around upstairs, clumsy and slow. Every once and a while he’d hear the creak of the bed as Baekhyun braced himself on the headboard to stand and then moments later, a loud curse and a “thump” as he hit the ground.

            He knew better than to go upstairs and see if he was alright. Baekhyun did not want his pity. Besides, he had too much to do to waste time on a boy that wasn’t listening. Baekhyun’s problem was his mindset that his knee was still shattered. Because of it he treated his new knee like it was made of glass and refused to put proper pressure on it for than a few moments. Aside from that, he had associated any movement with pain and it was taking forever to get him past the initial steps.

            If he didn’t do his physical therapy diligently then it was going to be harder in the future to adjust to his new knee. Jongdae didn’t have personal experience with metal limbs but his uncle had replaced a weak ankle with a stronger metal one and he’d described the process in detail.

            Still, Baekhyun’s stubbornness to accept help and his unwillingness to listen was irritating. Baekhyun was right in that Jongdae didn’t have money to waste on cripples. He needed to hurry and get over his slump. If he wallowed in self-pity for much longer Jongdae was going to through him on the street and see how long it took for him to learn a little humility.

            Maybe he just needed a nudge…a solid promise of some sort to prompt him to work harder at getting stronger. With only Chanyeol working for him, he could certainly use an extra hand, especially since Kyungsoo would be taking the two Chinese brothers to work for him in the near future. Jongdae had gotten used to having them around. They were good workers, and they didn’t complain. And speaking of Kyungsoo…Jongdae didn’t like to be shown up by others, and the doctor had made it clear he was the epitome of philanthropy. Well, Jongdae could do that much.

            Jongdae still didn’t know what to think of Do Kyungsoo. People were two-faced. Everyone had some kind of hidden agenda. The trick was to find out what it was and exploit it. Jongdae had always been good at digging up the truth.

            There were very few people that were genuinely honest. Chanyeol was one of them, though Jongdae wasn’t certain if stupidity counted as honesty.

            Do Kyungsoo was the type of person he hated the most. The kind of person that was too good to be true. An honest, noble noble? Those didn’t exist. There were only apathetic nobles and crooked ones. So either Kyungsoo was an entirely new breed altogether or he was the best actor Jongdae had met.

            What made Kyungsoo tick? Was he a clock—ordered and predictable—or was he the counter on a dynamite keg waiting to explode?

            The bell to the front door rang and Jongdae sighed. That would be Chanyeol, Zitao, and Yixing with his supplies. He pushed away from his desk and walked out of his office to greet them. “I hope you got the right size paper this time.”

Baggerby and Green, Haeju

Wednesday, 7:03pm, March 30^th, 1858

Wu Fan was the type of person that did his job. Nothing less, nothing more. People that stood out always brought trouble. The Chinese that stood out were targets. He did his job efficiently but not enough to garner any unwanted recognition.

So now he had a dilemma. Two men who should be dead were alive and walking the streets of Haeju. Two men that were supposed to have died on his watch. That meant he would be held responsible if they were discovered. Not Ramsay or Hwang Jaerim. Him. The Chinese were his responsibility and even if they hadn’t been, he was the scapegoat. That meant he needed to cover his tracks.

The problem came in deciding whether to report this to the head foreman. If he told, there was a good chance he would be blamed and fired. If he didn’t say anything and they were somehow recognized and traced back to the company…there would be no warnings, no threats of unemployment, just a gunshot to the back of the head. What if they talked? Suddenly the baseless rumors he’d heard in the tea houses weren’t so groundless.

What was he going to do?

He couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around how the two had survived the Deadlands and made it back into the city. They were immigrants, friendless, clueless—how did they make it past the gate?

They had inside help, that was the only explanation. But who would help two poor Chinese railway workers? It all went back to the tall man he’d seen with them. If he found out who he was he’d have his answer.

The best course of action seemed to be patience. If the boys were caught and he was interrogated he could say he was using them as bait for immigrant sympathizers within Haeju. They needed to find the source of the problem. Yes, that was his best option.

He’d just entered the company compound when he spotted a group of foremen and Korean workers gathered near the mess hall. They were laughing about something.

Foreman Ha Ung glanced over and spotted him. He waved him other with a greeting, “Kris, where were you?”

Wu Fan walked over hesitantly. The gathered crowd eased a bit so he could see what the commotion was about. A small, crumpled form lay in the middle of the circle, fur matted with blood and dust.

“Stupid thing. It was trying to fight off Jack—you know how Jack likes to play with kittens.” The way foreman Dongju said play made the others laugh. Wu Fan’s jaw tightened. The man continued. “This one didn’t want her babies to play.” He kicked the limp animal with the tip of his boot.

“…and the kittens?”

“Jack got ‘em all, what do you think? There was blood all over the Mess, you should’ve seen the cook howling, beating the dog with his ladle.”

The others continued laughing. Wu Fan felt his stomach clench. He turned and walked away briskly, not liking how his eyes burned. Stupid cat, I told you to go. Trying to protect others will get you killed.

House of Lords, Hanseong

Wednesday, 4:12pm, March 30^th, 1858

Joonmyun had five days until the gala in celebration of British-Korean relations, three days to fix the seating for the head table, and two to find the specialty soju that Lord Bruce wanted served. He had spent the entire night before going over letter after letter from the Korean nobility, all of whom were inquiring about the seating order for the gala and how close they would be sitting to Lord Bruce. Several had come with hefty bribes that he’d wearily accepted. He’d been too tired to even feel guilty about it.

Between chauffeuring Lord Bruce around and writing out letters he’d hardly had time to think over his mother’s proposal. He’d been lectured harshly the night before because of it and he was in a foul mood.

It had not helped that while showing Lord Bruce around the city they had been accompanied by both Lord Oh and Lord Kim and the tense rivalry between the two had been almost palpable. Whether Lord Bruce noticed or not he gave no sign. He seemed more intent on enjoying “the exotic east” to the fight between the two.

It was a sad day when his only moment of reprieve was in the House of Lords meetings. He could lose himself in the droning of the lower lords as they argued over petty land disputes and new laws with the British while he pretended to look invested. He’d gotten quite good at it as of late.

Now if only he could learn to sleep with his eyes open…

Somewhere down the hall a grandfather clock chimed. The current debate in the center of the room lulled, and Joonmyun blinked. Time for lunch. If there was one thing that never changed no matter the circumstances or problems facing their country, it was lunch. He watched as everyone began filing out of the chamber, talking among themselves. Those that had been debating were collecting their notes.

Joonmyun stood and left the room, hoping to return home for a nice meal. He also needed to apologize to his mother and pick someone for the gala. His mother would choose a proper wife for him, he could trust that. She knew that his job was important, she would pick a woman that wouldn’t get in the way.

“Lord Kim,”

Joonmyun paused in the middle of the hallway, jaw clenching. The last person he wished to see had just spoken to him. He plastered a polite smile on his face and turned. “Lord Oh.”

Lord Oh looked resplendent as ever in his tailored western greatcoat. He was tucking a cane into the crook of his elbow, making sure the decorated top was visible. A lotus flower carved of jade and inlaid with mother of pearl and gold leaf, it was truly a thing to behold. Joonmyun was reminded of the simplicity of his own onyx capped cane.

Lord Oh’s smile was slick, his lips stretching easily. He looked quite content with himself, despite having lost his and Lord Kim’s latest duel of words. “I’m having a dinner at the end of the week. The graduate from Oxford accepted my invitation to dine. I wondered if you would be interested in hearing of his stay in London.”

Joonmyun gave a stale smile. “It sounds quite interesting. I will look over my schedule and send you my answer by the end of the week.” He knew it wasn’t an invitation. Lord Oh did not suggest, he ordered. Joonmyun would clear his schedule for that day, he had no doubt.

Lord Oh wanted him to see something. Joonmyun didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was not positive. It was, however, inevitable. He nodded in farewell as Lord Oh headed down the hallway and out of sight.

Joonmyun stayed where he was for a few moments. He breathed in cigar smoke and old parchment before he placed his top hat on his head and walked to the door. There was much to be done before Saturday.

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Wednesday, 7:18pm, March 30^th, 1858

            Baekhyun lowered himself gingerly back onto the bed and took a few deep breaths. His legs ached, a residual soreness beneath the stabbing pain of overexerting himself. He could feel the sweat collecting at the back of his neck, sticking his hair to his shirt collar.

            Dammit, this wasn’t going to work. No matter what Kyungsoo or Chanyeol said this wasn’t working. He wasn’t feeling stronger at all, and his leg couldn’t hold him up. He swallowed back a curse as another wave of pain surface.

            Bending his knee in any way was impossible. The pain was so blinding he’d freeze the moment he tried and more often than not found himself collapsed on the floor out of breath. A part of him yearned for the pain medication that Kyungsoo had given him at the beginning. What had he called it…? It had been strong, he’d almost not felt the pain at all. If Kyungsoo had continued giving him that he’d be able to walk in no time.

            But it was highly addicting, or so he said. Baekhyun didn’t care. Baekhyun just wanted to walk again.

            He heard calls from downstairs—Chanyeol must have come back with the two Chinese. Baekhyun hadn’t seen them since he’d arrived here and he couldn’t say that he minded it that way. He didn’t know what he’d say if he did see them. He was ashamed that he’d been saved and ashamed that it had been them that had done the saving.

            He didn’t need to be indebted to anyone else. He had enough on his plate.

            Boot clad footsteps thundered up the stairs and his door opened to a bright cheerful smile and a mop of curls. “Did you sleep well?”

            Baekhyun gave a noncommittal grunt and busied himself by staring at his legs. He knew why Chanyeol was here. He was going to look over Baekhyun’s leg and add more of that damn poultice.

            Instead of staring right away, however, Chanyeol lowered himself into the chair beside Baekhyun’s bed. “In a few weeks you should be able to walk down the stairs and eat dinner with the rest of us.”

            Baekhyun scoffed. “I doubt I’ll be able to do more than limp.”

            Chanyeol frowned, “Kyungsoo fixed you. If you work harder you’ll be able to walk just fine—”

            Kyungsoo this, Kyungsoo that, you’d think that Kyungsoo had the power to raise the dead with the way Chanyeol went on about him. It irked him. Kyungsoo was just a doctor and that was it. There was nothing special about him at all, and if he’d done such a great job than why couldn’t Baekhyun walk? It wasn’t Baekhyun’s fault it hurt so badly!

 “You’re lucky it was Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol grunted, stretching his legs. “Most doctors are picky. They’re noble born, half of full, so they’re always complaining about getting paid.” The two shared a glance and a shrug. Nobles were too hard to comprehend.

            “How do the two of you know each other?” It didn’t seem likely, a nobleman’s son befriending a commoner. Baekhyun shifted, trying not to think about the pain in his leg and the soft buzzing beneath the bandages as he lifted his legs enough that they were lying flat on the sheets instead of hanging off the edge of the mattress.  

            “My mother was a seamstress. She made all his family’s clothes. And my father was his father’s head stablehand.” Chanyeol grabbed for the fabric of Baekhyun’s pants. “I’m supposed to change the bandages, remember?”

            Baekhyun looked away, cheeks flushed. He hated feeling so helpless. But his legs were useless right now. He’d spent the entire afternoon doing those infuriating stretches that Kyungsoo had prescribed. “He had horses?” Most people didn’t deal with them; too expensive to feed and house in the walled cities. Only the stagecoach company and Baggerby and Green had horses in large enough numbers to need stablehands.

            Chanyeol tugged Baekhyun’s pants down, the fabric catching on the swath of bandages surrounding his knee. “His mom was crazy about horses. She spent all her free time on a horse.” The bandages came off easier than the pants, and Baekhyun was glad to see that the skin was less swollen. He still couldn’t stand the sight of the wires going into his skin.

            “She was the best rider I ever saw.” Chanyeol continued, and as he talked and worked his voice became less elegant. It was the type of voice that Baekhyun was used to. Rugged and common. “She could do all those fancy jumps. She’d make ’em prance and trot in the courtyard and sometimes she’d let me groom ‘em.” Another slather of the noxious poultice Kyungsoo had made and then Chanyeol was wrapping his leg again.

            Baekhyun liked Chanyeol’s voice. He liked it when he didn’t talk like he was educated. Chanyeol was a commoner just like him. He should speak like one, not like a noble or a merchant.

“She liked to take ‘em outside the walls. Everyone says she was too reckless, that’s why—”

            “Park Chanyeol I am not paying you to be a sickbed companion! We have a newspaper to run!”

            Chanyeol winced at Jongdae’s yell and muttered, “You don’t pay me anyway. All my money goes to room and board.” He grinned at Baekhyun, “I’ll come up later with your dinner. Can you get your pants by yourself?”

“Yes!” Baekhyun snapped, angrily bending forward to grab them. He heard the door close and was glad for it, because he found himself gasping for breath as he struggled with the cloth around his ankles.

What had Chanyeol been about to say?

At dinner Chanyeol would say no more about Kyungsoo or his parents. He seemed to have realized he’d said too much.

Auntie Fong brought him from the nursery to see her. 

“Your mother wants to tell you something.”

            His mother was having a baby. What did she need to tell him?

            She looked too white. She was the color of washed rice, with bloodshot eyes and damp hair. It was plastered to her forehead with a sheen of sweat. His mother’s hair was usually perfect. She never let it get so untidy. A woman's hair was a sign of wealth, she always said.

The room smelled wrong. Beneath his mother was a puddle of blood. It ran down her legs and settled between her toes. Two servants held her up, her arms hanging vainly onto the straps that were meant to keep her upright as she pushed.

“Yixing,” She whispered weakly, sounding out of breath. Her smile was strained. “My darling son, come here.”

“Is the baby here?”

She gave a laugh that ended in a sob. “Soon, soon,” She chanted it like a prayer. “Soon, soon.”

“I want a brother.” Yixing replied. “Then we can play army.”

A spasm ran through his mother and she gave a harsh cry, knees buckling. The two servants braced her on their knees. A fresh trickle of blood followed. The midwife said something he didn’t catch. Why was his mother bleeding so much? It was like the pigs on the day before the lunar festival, when the servants took them behind the house to ready the meat for the pork baozi.

“Little Xing,” His mother crooned, “Little Xing come here.”

He walked a few more steps, nose wrinkling. He didn’t like the smell. His mother lifted a hand and touched the top of his head. “Little Xing, I hope you get a brother. Will you love the baby if it’s a girl?”

“Sisters can be cute.” He acknowledged. But he already had one of those. She was a nuisance now that she was going to be married. She didn’t play with him anymore and complained about him being too rough.

“No matter what,” his mother licked her cracked lips, “Protect the baby. Protect the baby—ah!” She threw her head back and screamed.

He didn’t like the sound. “I promise! I don’t care if it’s a girl. I’ll be a good big brother.”

“Always…hold his hand…keep the baby safe…”

“I promise mother, I promise.”

Yixing’s eyes flickered open. He could feel tears burning at the corners as he stared up into the darkness. He felt his brother’s hand held securely in his own and let out a shaky exhalation. He’d broken that promise. He’d let go of that hand once. He’d let go because once, long ago, he had hated Zitao.

“…ge…?”

“…go to sleep.” Yixing whispered hoarsely, burying his face in Zitao’s neck. He breathed in his younger brother’s scent. Never again. Never again would he let go of Zitao’s hand. 

[A/N: A bit of a filler chapter, I think, but those have to happen sooner or later. The next one should be infinitely more interesting.]

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