Chapter 1 Episode 1 | The Machine God | The Drifting Isle Chronicles

Mai 4th

Professor Oladel Adewole put his cup down on the coffeehouse table. Thin, insipid, badly roasted, outrageously expensive--Eisenstadters called this coffee? At least the early Mai day was reasonably warm, warm enough to sit outside; still, scudding clouds just touched Erukso'i, the enormous island floating in the east above the city. The locals called the island Inselmond--he must learn to call it by its Eisenstadter name. He drummed his long brown fingers on the table and resumed nibbling on the sugared biscuit he'd gotten to wash the coffee down. At least these people knew how to make decent pastry.

A tiny rustling brought his attention toward his feet; small birds were searching the cobblestones for crumbs. They resembled the tiny yellow sparrows back home in Jero, but dun-colored and drab--rather a good comparison between Jero and Eisenstadt. A little brown sparrow hopped away from the clump toward him.

"Tsee! Tsee-tsee-tsee-tsee-Hi! You finishing that? Tsee? Tsee?"

Jero's tiny yellow sparrows did not accost coffeehouse patrons. "Pardon?" said Adewole.

"Tsee-tsee-tseeee simple question!" said another sparrow.

"Tsee? Tsee? Share? Yes? Tsee?" chirped the little birds, hopping by cautious, hopeful degrees toward the astonished man. Adewole crumbled up the biscuit's corner and scattered it on the pavement; the birds settled down to business, hurrying from crumb to crumb until one let out a shriek. "Cat! Cat!" The sparrows united into a flock and streaked to an overhead wire, where they abused a disappointed orange tom standing where the birds had lately been. "Tsee-tsee-tsee Bad kitty! Bad kitty!"

Adewole wondered which would be harder for him to accept: Eisenstadt's aggressively sentient birds or the coffee. No, hardest to accept would be the losses that led to this backwater. Definitely that. He reached a hand into his pocket for his watch fob, and absently rolled the good luck bead attached to it.

The sky darkened, and the temperature dropped; Inselmond's shadow approached the coffeehouse as it did this time every morning. Time to go. He paid his bill, adjusted the bright purple-striped wool kikoi cloth draped across his suit-clad shoulders, and headed toward his lodgings. Perhaps his last trunk had finally caught up. He'd been here more than a month, and it still had not arrived.

When he'd first told his colleagues in Jero he'd accepted a visiting professorship at Eisenstadt--the Mueller Chair in the Humanities--they'd peppered him with advice:

"Wear the dark pants and jackets the locals do, but bring kikois to wear over them--wool or silk, not cotton. It's cold even in the summer!"

"You can find real adeesah in the city--when the other expatriates trust you, they'll point you to which Jerian restaurants use black market chicken suppliers. The others serve rabbit stew with red pepper and garlic waved over the top, slop it over the wrong kind of rice and call it adeesah. All the birds talk there, even the chickens, the stupid things! And bring plenty of dried red pepper. Those people do not believe in food with flavor."

"Also fill one of your trunks with green coffee beans and bring a stovetop roaster with you. Not that trunk. The big one. The locals don't believe in coffee, either, and those beans will be worth their weight in gold with the Jerians there--get you introduced into all kinds of society."

The advice most often given: "Don't live near the Drift. It's cold and it's dangerous." Adewole glanced again at the island's approaching shadow above the city, the shadow the locals called the Drift. The University had arranged his lodgings before his arrival. They'd given him many possibilities, but unlike some academics he did not possess independent means and lived on his salary alone; he'd had to settle for a neighborhood in the penumbra. The street lights didn't come on in the day as they did in the full Drift, but he would have preferred lodgings altogether outside the shadow's path.

As he walked, the streets darkened around him, and he realized he'd taken a wrong turn; he was walking straight into the Drift. He cast about for the penumbra, but the rows of houses made it difficult. Timers inside the street lamps ticked and tocked; the lamps flickered into life. Adewole paused, trying to regain his bearings.

"Hey, bean pole," said a young, nasal voice behind him. Something sharp poked him low in the ribs. "Don't screw around. Put yer hands up and let Artur here in yer pockets." Another boy who must have been Artur appeared. He couldn't have been more than twelve, and Adewole towered over him. A dirty bandana covered his round face; squinting eyes appeared beneath a ragged cap's brim.

"Are you mugging me, little boy?" said Adewole.

The something-sharp poked him again, harder. "Shaddup, hands up, let's get this over with, bird-eater!"

Adewole shrugged and raised his hands above his head. "If you had asked me, I would have given you what I have, though you shall be disappointed--it is not much." Children were his soft spot, especially in recent days, and besides, better lose two pfennigs than take a knife in the ribs even if he did need the pfennigs.

A whistle shrilled. "Hoi! Stop! Hoi!" a man shouted. The something-sharp retreated. Artur and the boy with the something-sharp took off running, away from the street lamps and deeper into the Drift. "Hoi!" yelled the man again. "They went that way!" Three sturdy young men in policeman's uniforms ran after the muggers, arms and legs pumping. They were faster, but those boys were probably trickier. The whistle-blower came to a stop beside him. "ARE…YOU…HURT……SIR?" he bellowed up at Adewole.

"No, nor am I deaf, officer," winced the tall Jerian. "But I am still new to your city and would appreciate directions back to my lodgings."

"Begging pardon, sir, not everyone who comes from elsewhere speaks the lingo," smiled the police officer.

As he followed the policeman's directions back to his flat, Adewole pondered the years he'd spent learning "the lingo." Whose lingo, he'd never been fussy about; he'd always been a natural polyglot, and his mother had been a translator and teacher to Jero's many immigrant communities and tourists. The language of symbols--pictographs, hieroglyphs, talismans, runes of all kinds--fascinated him as well; so many appeared across cultures, some across every culture, and figured in his work.

Adewole glanced at Inselmond, floating in the sky to the east, perhaps the biggest symbol of them all. The island wasn't one of the world's marvels, it was the very marvel itself. Whatever event had thrown it into the air reverberated throughout the world. People everywhere told stories about the island, even in far-away Shuchun. All speculated on how the island came to be and what was up there; most stories involved an angry god, a concept frustrated agnostics like Adewole himself found hard to believe but fascinating all the same. The same stuff wove through so many stories around the world, and Adewole had made it his life's work to trace the threads. He'd always intended to come to Eisenstadt but on his own terms, not like this.

He arrived at Mrs. Trudge's boarding house, a shabby-genteel, three-story brick building stucco'ed in faded yellow plaster. Coral-red geraniums drooped in the planter boxes below each window; the Drift's penumbra starved them of just enough light they would never thrive, but not so much they would die. "Little flower," he murmured, gently flicking a petal, "I know just how you feel." He climbed the steps and went inside.



Gudy's picture


... those sparrows. Although I would probably find them annoying if confronted by them in person. Smile

Poor professor, though. Bad coffee, pushy sparrows, a mugging, and a police officers who believes that sufficient loudness will overcome a lack of linguistic knowledge. What an inauspicious start...

In other news, why would you stop eating birds just because they can talk? As one farmer once said to me: "PETA has it all wrong. If cows could talk I'd eat them even more. Cows are *stupid*." Blum 3

Capriox's picture


Second all this! Especially the sparrows - they seem like the sort of thing that on a good day are *hilarious* and on a bad day, make good kicking target practice *wry*

(was that farmer me? I can't remember saying something like that, but I do agree that my cows are NOT smart!!)

Gudy's picture


... a lovely lady originally from Idaho (I think) but now living in California, where she encountered PETA's specific brand of stupidity far more frequently than in her home state.

Capriox's picture


Given the US's geo-political/cultural distribution, that sounds about right.

Or as we here in New York State like to say: "Well, at least we're not California" Wink

Cheez-It's picture


I was soooo trying not to read the ARC so I could follow along with the serialization but something aboute Adewole and the talking pigeons was just so fascinating... I had finished the story 48 hours later. -chuckle-


Alyxe's picture



I always forget to log in when I am making comments here, I do it so rarely. -sheep-


MeiLin's picture

Most High

I'm going to try to give people a reason to come read the serialization anyway. More in a blog post and on my next comment.

MeiLin's picture

Most High

When the Drifting Isle project started, no one knew what the machine god was, just that we (read: Joe Lewis) wanted one. Since I write about religion and myth a lot, I got the assignment.

In thinking about who would discover the god, I knew it would need to be an academic. I knew he would have to be disaffected in some way. A close friend--two, actually, as this story was written--had bad run-ins in academia's hallowed halls, and so my main character would be denied tenure.

That led to him being an outsider, a visiting professor from elsewhere. Perfect, the outsider perspective is what you need to explain the unfamiliar, whether it be a Royal Navy ship in the Napoleanic War (Stephen Maturin is our outsider in Master and Commander) or fantasy places like Eisenstadt. Let's make him more miserable. From a warmer place with good coffee--coffee as a crucial social linchpin--spicy food and no talking birds. Voila: Oladel Adewole, one of my favorite leads. (Later we discover he's even more miserable than we knew.)

When this was out for beta, one of my readers said, "I think you have the sentence about the pastry washing the coffee down backwards." I wrote back: think about it. Wink

Gudy's picture


... for the background. I really enjoy reading your author's notes. As for your friends, I can't help thinking that, just like with Adewole, it's academia's loss even more than that of those two people.

The coffee and biscuit made complete sense to me, FWIW. But then I am a huge fan of that kind of word play. Smile

MsGamgee's picture


I DO like these author's notes. I'd like to see the commenting community grow again, and this is a good way to add something new to discuss. Great idea, Mei!

MeiLin's picture

Most High

As I have time I'm going back through the books.

Add new comment

Get an exclusive free ebook from the world of the Intimate History! Exclusive content, contests, new releases and more.