The Source of Inspiration

BY SARAH O'DONOGHUE

This story has previously appeared on the Sheridan Club page

Copyright Sarah O'Donoghue 2000. Bartok belongs to Paramount/Gekko. No profit is made from this work.

The room was dark and eerie; silent save for the occasional jets of steam hissing into the cold autumnal air. The large fire in the middle of the room cast strange, flickering shadows all around - if one had an overactive imagination, it would have been easy to pick out beastly shapes jumping across the wooden slatted walls of the laboratory taking part in some strange, mystical dance.

In the centre of the room sat Janos Kristoff Bartok, scientist extraordinaire hunched over an anvil: his face a sweaty mask of concentration. In his hands, rubbed raw from the heat of the furnace and the delicacy of his task was a tiny piece of hot metal, glowing and pulsating in the darkness. With incredible precision, Bartok picked up one of the multitude of elegant instruments set out on a nearby table as a surgeon's tools would be, and gently prodded and teased the object slowly taking shape. He had been struggling since the early morning to complete this most delicate of tasks. The metal sculpture had been alternately heated and plunged into freezing water more times than he could count, but gradually the work was beginning to pay off.

Finally satisfied despite the tears running down his face from the acrid smoke Bartok cooled the metal for the last time and collapsed back in his seat, his work done.

A man stepped out from the shadows, tall and similar to Bartok both in age and in build. He held his hat in his hands as he looked admiringly at the cooling metal shape in the bucket. With extreme care he drew it out with a convenient pair of tongs and held the object up in the flickering firelight. "An excellent piece of work my friend," he said as he examined the shape; his voice gruff and coloured with a strong Russian accent.

Bartok smiled despite his exhaustion. " You are welcome. I am hardly a blacksmith but I thought it best to show you my idea."

"This could be my family's salvation", agreed the man in wonder as he examined the detailed filigree work. It was exquisite; winding round the main shape and accentuating it's structure. "Where did you get the idea? Is it a traditional Hungarian design?"

Bartok smiled wistfully. "Let's just say I was inspired. It is of course not finished, but I think you are far more qualified to set the stones than I. Traditionally blue and white are incorporated into this pattern�"

"So it shall be set with the finest diamonds and sapphires", finished the man.

Bartok stood and looked over the other's shoulder. He indicated a tiny catch on the shape with a soot stained finger. "Twist that catch a quarter turn to the left."

The other man shrugged and obeyed, letting out a gasp on amazement as the object flew open to reveal a tiny golden bird which began to rotate.

"Exquisite!" he exclaimed.

Bartok shrugged. "It's merely a simple clockwork mechanism but again, a very versatile idea which should provide you with a template for your work."

The man smiled warmly, carefully closing the lid and folding the shape into his handkerchief. With his empty hand he grasped the Hungarian's and shook it warmly.

"Thank you again, Janos. I owe you a great debt that I hope one day I can repay".

"You've already paid that debt many times over, my friend," remarked Bartok. "If you had not been there for me in London�"

"Anytime," smiled the man. He checked his pocketwatch. "And now," he continued, "I really must be going. I'll telegraph you from New York before I board my ship."

The man took a few steps and suddenly snapped his fingers and spun as he remembered something. "Oh Janos, I almost forgot. You don't have my new address." He quickly scribbled the information out on a convenient scrap of paper which he placed on a nearby bench.

"Thank you Peter," said Bartok, and watched as his friend put the egg - shaped work of art into his pocket and stepped out into the night.

On the desk sat the address, in Saint Petersburg, of Peter Carl Faberg�.

This story copyright 2000 Sarah O'Donoghue. As with everything else on the Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for full disclaimer.