I apologize for the long absence, dear readers.  Business of a fairly mundane nature called me away from the city, but I have returned.  The snows have begun and I am afraid I have captured little of interest since we last spoke.  Instead, I have dug into my archives and found an image that represents a phenomenon that you will find scientifically stimulating.

Like the common gray squirrel of the 1st and 2nd worlds, many species of faery will build nests of leaves and other detritus in which to pass the time of the colder months, waiting for the world to grow warm again.  Most faery species have no tolerance at all for the cold.  It is my personal theory that the climate of the City Park has changed recently on a geologically recent time scale.  We have evidence of the beginnings of many cold weather adaptations in the species I study, but most simply hibernate, which I suspect is a relatively easy trait selected for in cold-intolerant species.

The above photonic capture is a typical wintering nest, found in the shrubs near a small brook that bisects the eastern side of the Park.  The bare limbs of trees and plants expose these nests everywhere, and they are a quite common site.  I often wonder if owls or hawks, or even the mink sometimes seen near the banks of the stream make meals of the hibernating faeries.  I have dissected a number of nests.  The faeries within the nests will die when exposed to the cold, but if one brings a nest indoors and subjects to them to warming, the faery will, within 24 to 48 hours, leave torpor and behave as if the spring has arrived.

The hibernation instinct seems to be brought on specifically by cold weather, and not any other external factor.  In controlled experiments, I can send faeries into and out of the hibernation state with this one external factor.  The shortening days seem to have no relation to their behavior, oddly enough.  In this manner, I am able to keep specimens alive in captivity throughout the year, provided I keep the heat up in my laboratory.  Should the heating units malfunction, as once happened last year, the faeries will die if not provided with suitable nesting material.  Since then, I have always made sure to line my cages with leaves and twigs so that my study subjects will not expire due to a faulty thermometer once again.

A Note Regarding Membership, Prints, and Members-Only Missives

And now, on to the unsavory matter of finance.  Miss Watkins would like me to point out that our membership kits have been reduced in price for the holiday season, and the single limited edition prints have been cut in price by nearly half! I am informed to remind you that shipping to your world is at no cost to you–I have no idea how we manage to make a cent for the Foundation with inter-world shipping costs as they are, and I must say I objected to these discounts, but Miss Watkins assures me that it will entice you to purchase seasonal gifts for both yourself and your loved ones and further enrollment in the membership of the Foundation can only be considered a good–nay–wonderful thing.

Additionally, the password sent out to some members had an errant space between the two words.  To enter the members-only area, you need to remove the space.  This error has been corrected in future membership letters. If you have difficulty, please contact member support via the Informatitron.

Lastly, the members-only area has been updated with new content regarding the missive on the Deadly Mr. Whiskers.  As members, you are welcome to request additional information or background research via the Informatitron.  Your input on such matters is highly valued as always.

I am told by Master Periat that he is nearly finished repairing the acoustic recorder, so you should have more Field Sounds editions to listen to soon.  I do hope so.  Miss Watkins has been badgering me about it incessantly.  I do believe she enjoys talking to you each fortnight.

Mrs. Dowd, my landlady here in the City, has a most unfortunate affliction. She is, I am sad to say, a lover of cats. As you may well know, cats are the natural enemies of naturalists. Mr. Whiskers, pictured above savaging his faery toy made from sticks and twine, is both her pet and the boarding house’s pest control. She purchased the creature after the black hob incident, despite my protestations that I would be certain never to allow an experiment to run amok within the house again.

I pointed out, as one does, that Childe & Smith demonstrated in their landmark survey of literature, An Examination Into the Feline Plague, that the domesticated feline has been responsible for the extinction of hundreds of native species across the Four Worlds. The pattern they describe is unmistakable. Wherever man goes, he brings cats. Wherever cats go, species cease to exist. She was unswayed.

Dwelling as we do near City Park, the Boarding House experiences a higher than normal level of invasive pests (not introduced by myself). There is the occasional black hob, sometimes a confused moth pixie attracted by the glow of the gaslights, and the usual infestations of brownies—the foul, disease-ridden faerie species that chews through anything even remotely organic. I have lost at least three shoes and two boots to the predations of the house brownies. They were becoming a serious nuisance until Mrs. Dowd purchased Mr. Whiskers—I will admit that the creature does its job in a satisfactory manner. But still…

Like many of the greater domesticates here, cats have a minor capacity for human speech, much like the parrot birds that are common to more well known worlds. Mr. Whiskers, having lived his entire life in a boarding house for young bachelors who are not quite permanent residents to the city, speaks a few words of six different languages. It would be remarkable if it weren’t for the words the beast has learned…

In order to stay on Mrs. Dowd’s good side, it is encouraged among the residents to greet Mr. Whiskers and treat him like a person. Ridiculous, I know, but this would not be so bad, even for me, if it were not for the foul language it uses to respond to such greetings, and in particular, mine.

Perhaps it is true what they say, that cats can tell whether you are a friend or foe by some factor of scent or other method. I am most decidedly not a friend to felines. And of course Mrs. Dowd is a respectable lady, but instead of being offended by its swearing, she laughs heartily. In my comings and goings, I occasionally encounter the two of them in the parlor. “Say hello to the Doctor,” she coos at the creature, and it gladly lets loose a string of expletives that would make a sky sailor blush.

As a side note—Miss Watkins greets Mr. Whiskers as we all do, and it never swears at her. More evidence that the creature despises me in particular. It even lets Miss Watkins pet it on occasion, something none of us male residents of the boarding house would ever attempt. One young day worker by the name of Jollikins attempted this shortly after Mr. Whiskers came to stay, and his hand was mangled badly enough that Jollikins required medical attention from the quack who lives in the room below mine. (I do not mention him by name because I do not wish to give the fool any more business). Jollikin’s wounds healed quite poorly, and I believe I could have done a better job myself in tending to the them, despite my relative lack of medical training.

Now, if Mr. Whiskers moderated his predations to the brownies and hobs, I would be more comfortable with his presence. However, the beast kills indiscriminately. Anything small enough to be carried in its maw is snatched up and shaken to death. I have seen Mr. Whiskers murder everything from moth pixies to boggarts to even the endangered clurichauns! I have considered attempting to educate the beast in the differences between pest and not-pest, but no amount of training could ever overwhelm a cat’s instinct to kill, I am afraid.

In the interests of full disclosure, I will admit that I am more of a hound lover. I know it is commonly held that people are either a lover of hounds or a lover of cats, but I truly believe if cats were not so dangerous to the native ecosystems and did not hate me in particular, perhaps I could come to appreciate them for their better qualities. Or perhaps not. As I pen this, I just witnessed Mr. Whiskers trotting down the hall with something struggling in its jaws, and I fear it may be a fir darrig of all things! I must hasten to see if I can save the poor thing.

Addendum: I could not, and I have received a large red scratch across my nose for my trouble.

Bloody cats.

Second Addendum: I will be away on business unrelated to the Foundation for the next two weeks and the Informatitron will unfortunately not be updated in my absence.  Please return December 8th for more communiques. I wish that you have a better Autumn than I am having.  More later.

The blasted acoustic recorder is non-functioning, and so we are unable to bring to you a new edition of Field Sounds this week.   The device is with Master Periat and I will not shed a tear if he is unable to bring the infernal contraption back to life.  To fill the time this week, I continue my informal dissertation on the faerie predators of City Park.  This week, I have pulled an older photonic capture from my archives to share with you.

Also known as the gardener’s friend, it is considered good luck for an inkblot spider to set up her web in a  garden by the City’s residents.  They feast on the more noxious pests that can spoil a garden, such as the moth pixies which bring with them the aphid analogues that make short work of an herb garden or even a small vegetable garden.  I’m certain that the inkblot spider’s ancestors were brought to the City by the Englunders, if not purposefully, then accidentally, hitching a ride among seed stock as so many invaders do.

I say ancestor because the inkblot spider has adapted to the local ecosystem and is clearly now a fundamental part of it, and one of its unusual traits could only evolve in the rarified environment of this world.  I speak of course of its namesake, the ever-shifting pattern markings so reminiscent of blots of ink.    It is not uncommon for gardeners to take their tea beneath the spiders web to watch the patterns shift, and calling out amongst themselves, as a kind of inkblot charades, what each thinks the spots resemble.   I have often said that the game reveals more about the players than it does about the spider.  It’s a curious thing, the spider’s markings.  Also of interest to the naturalist is the spider’s web.

The web is of a spiral structure, created from sticky capture silk.    A key feature of the web is the stabilimentum, the crisscross of silk through he web.  Dr. Argiopes, renown expert on arachnids, has hypothesized that the stabilimentum is created to increase the visual profile of the web so as to ward off birds and other larger winged beasts.  However, what warns a bird surely must warn a moth pixie as well, no?  It is here that I hypothesize that some fundamental aspect of  the stabilimentum attracts smaller prey while warning larger creatures.  How is this so?  What quality could be responsible for this?  I have no idea.

I have spent several afternoons watching Mrs. Dowd’s resident inkblot spider, not for the patterns, but for her method of hunting.  She rests in the center of her spiral  legs touching lines of web. Sensitive hairs on the feet detect even the smallest tug upon the web.  Like a fisherman, she waits for the action on the webbing to become frantic, signaling the difference between a breeze and a captured and struggling pixie.  Struggling only ensnares her prey more. Prey that tires quickly, she strikes immediately, injecting with her fangs.  Prey with more fight in it, she wraps with further silk, binding it to the center of the web, illustrated above by the poor, half-devoured moth pixie.

But I’d like to return before ending this missive to the matter of the inkblot spider’s markings.  What benefit do they provide?  Camoflage?  Attraction?  Or something else?  I have my own personal theories, but this week I would like to read your own.  It will give me something to take my mind away from the dreariness of the Autumn rains.

Making use of the remaining time before winter, I have been working on my survey of faery predators within the Park ecosystem. A surprising variety of species, both native and invasive, make meals of the faeries. Documenting predation can be a tricky task, but sometimes, a naturalist gets lucky, as was the case with this common red tailed hawk and his meal of a poor hard-wing faery.

It was a quiet morning, thankfully dry and without a rain cloud in the sky. I decided to take advantage of the air to take a walk, and I carried my equipment with me as I always do. This late in the year, I did not expect to make any a new discovery. The sight of the hawk resting on an oak’s branch, its prey hanging loosely in its beak surprised me to the point of making a quickly squelched startled cry, nearly ruining my chance to make a capture.

Hard-wing faeries are not well understood in the park. Their morphology is particularly unusual, featuring the hard outer wings of a beetle, but possessing more mammalian limbs. Their body structure lends more creedence to Mortonlowe’s theory that the faeries are not naturally evolved, but artificial creations, at least in their genesis.  I have always considered Mortonlowe’s theory to display a certain lack of imagination. The physical laws of this world are not the same as those that allowed for the evolution of insects and humans in another.  Perhaps an altered variation of the Anthropic Principle is at work here in the strange amalgam of traits to be found in the beasts.

I will admit that the recent events of the Bird Boggart War was the first thought on my mind upon seeing the hawk, and I expected at first that I would determine the prey to be a poor unsuspecting boggart–a casualty to lingering hostilities.  I have heard of no boggart sightings since the end of the war, and I suspect that the tribes have withdrawn deeper into the Park’s boundaries, believing that they have acquired what they desired.

After I made my capture, I spoke softly to the hawk, wondering if it had something to tell me.  It fixed me with a dumb stare, swallowed its prey whole, and took to the air, disappearing above the trees.  I have read that the birds of prey–raptors–are of lesser intelligence.  It’s only anecdotal, but I wonder if the raptors are not part of the bird group mind that forms the Bird Queen.  Or perhaps they still have nothing to say to me.

In the coming weeks I will bring you more of the research I have been gathering on faery predation.  Some of the captures were made earlier in the season, but I suspect you will find them most interesting.  I would be very interested to hear of any examples of faery predation you have witnessed in your research, my fellow naturalists.  Perhaps we can co-author a paper for Urbana Natura…

Hello again, dear readers.  The weather has turned most foul, and unfortunately it has thwarted our attempts to make contact with the noble faeries.  We ventured out into the rain hoping that they would not hold to the letter of their message, but I’m afraid they are quite literal-minded creatures.  No moon light, and so they did not appear.  Or perhaps it has all been a game for them, and they never meant to?  When the moons are full again, we will make a second attempt.

I am not afraid to admit that I have not been in the best of moods since I last wrote.  Losing a friend is never a pleasant experience, and it has led me to be most reflective this past week.  I have read your messages, and I have been tardy in replying.  I apologize.

First, allow me to present the 5th edition of Field Sounds.  Miss Watkins relates a most astounding tale from her childhood.  I would not believe it if I had not verified the facts of the event myself in the local library’s archives.

Now, to answer your questions.

Dr. A.M. Acadine– I wish you luck in yoru research with the hibylik.  You are a braver soul than I.  Demons are entities that I very much prefer to avoid, regardless of the scientific discoveries to be made.  Your research sounds most interesting, however, and I do hope to read more of it from the comfort of my laboratory.  I am grateful that there are scientists like you doing such work.  My faeries and insects are rarely so dangerous. Although lately, it would not appear that way…

You are right that I should speak more with the boggarts and the Bird Queen regarding the totem and its function.  Unfortunately, I have seen not one boggart since the events last related.  There is a raven that has taken to sitting outside my window at all hours of the day, and I suspect that they are keeping an eye upon me.  I don’t yet have the courage to communicate with the Queen (and thus the birds) just yet.  She seemed–I should say, they seemed–quite annoyed by the thievery.  But birds are no strangers to thieving, and perhaps they will forgive with time.

Mr. Mortlewood,  I am terribly pleased to hear that my work with the boggarts has had such an effect on your own research. These Puff-Vipers you describe sound truly unique.  Please do send me more on this species when you can.  A specimen perhaps?  I would very much like to dissect such a creature.

Dr. Ventius, I believe you are correct in your solution to the mystery of the Queen’s appearance, at least in part.  I do not think that the Queen takes her appearance from my mind necessarily, as all those who have come in contact with her appear the same, and I am able to make photonic captures.  If she were a purely psychic manifestation, then I do not believe this would be the case. Still, I have wracked my memories and I am afraid I can remember no individual with a like appearance.  Something for me to ponder further, though, and I thank you for the suggestion.  As to the implication regarding the boggarts, I am in agreement there as well, but do not wish to speak at length on the subject, as I am pursuing a line of research into this very question.

Again, my friends, I apologize for dallying in my correspondence.  I will endevour to respond more quickly in the future.

I have just seen the Professor off by train back to the University.  We are not currently on speaking terms and I do not know if we will speak again soon. He leaves with enough collected information to write a dozen papers and I do not doubt he is already penning one as I write this missive.   Myself, I am reluctant to relate the details of the resolution, because the knowledge I must impart to make sense of it is dangerous in the wrong hands.  I will conquer my fears and trust in you, my readers.  Most knowledge is dangerous in some way, I suppose.

The Professor and I resolved that the best method of putting an end to the conflict was to make a copy of the totem, both physically and aetherically, and to allow it to fall into the hands of the boggart tribes by clever ruse.  The primary difficulty in achieving the first step was acquiring possession of the totem long enough to make a copy.  Professor Welterschmidt possessed the rites and materials necessary to make a copy of the aetheric fingerprint of the object, but as we had never seen it, we had no idea what physical materials would be needed to construct it.

After a late night of scheming, Welterschmidt stated the conclusion on both our minds.  “We must acquire the totem.  There is little chance the entity will part with it willingly. So we must steal it, at least temporarily.”

“I reluctantly agree,” I said.  “But there are numerous obstacles to your suggestion, Herr Professor.  First, we must locate the totem.  Second, acquiring the possession of an entity that controls an army of sharp-eyed birds cannot be, in any sense of the word, easy.  Stealing it may send her into such a fury that they attack the boggarts, believing they to be the thieves and not us.”

Welterschmidt nodded grimly.  “To stop this war, we must convince both sides that they have what they wish.  If we take the totem then it is certain that both sides will do combat.  We can control when this happens to lessen the impact on good citizens of the City.  After midnight, perhaps.  Bird and boggart will do battle while we fabricate a copy of the object.  Once complete, we allow the birds to recapture the true object, and the boggarts the facsimile.

“Finding the totem will be simple.  First, we find the Bird Queen.  As an object of power, it will not be far from her presence.  To find the Bird Queen, we simply find where birds congregate.”  He made it sound simple enough.

I wish I had been cleverer.  I so wish I would have come to some other course of action.  Unfortunately, I agreed to the Professor’s plan, and we set about it.

The urchins knew where to find the Bird Queen.  The first young boy I spoke with, after nipping his coin away, directed us to the ruined fountain the urchins refer to as The Big Drink.  A shallow depression lined with well-worn stones, it bubbles with spring water throughout the year.  Nestled somewhat far within the confines of the park, it provides an easy source of clean drinking water to both the urchins and the more wild natives of the park.  I worry about the healthiness of the water,.  While it contains spring water, the black clouds made by the City’s many factories rain down a bitter, stinging acid in the fall, wilting plants and poisoning rain barrels and the like.  The gathered trees may provide some shelter to the pool.  Or perhaps some old magics from the time of the noble faeries keeps the water pure, and my worries are unfounded.

Nevertheless, it seemed that the Bird Queen had set up court at the Big Drink.  The urchins no longer attempted to drink from the waters.  The birds had taken over the area entirely, and swooped and pecked at any intruder.  At this news, the Professor and I shared a knowing glance. The Queen had gathered her army to protect the totem.

We made our way through the park well after sundown the following evening.  It was easy enough to discern the direction of the fountain even in the darkness under a cloudy, moons-shielded sky.  The sound was like that of the crowd at a cricket match.  A low hushed rumble that became as loud as the steamworks below the City as we approached.  Birds of every species flocked in the trees overhead.  I had hoped that they would recognize myself and let us pass, and this was true.  They watched, but they did strike.

Our plan, hastily conceived, required that the Professor and myself distract the Queen while the Professor’s manservant and bound imp searched the area for the totem.  The Professor had tuned their aetheric vibrations low enough that they were nearly invisible to all but the keenest eyes, and even if they were seen, they could hopefully escape with the totem in their possession before the birds could raise an alarm. Birds, we reasoned, are dumb, simple animals.  It was the Queen with which we concerned ourselves.

“You return, Roundbottom. War comes and you have done nothing to stop it.  We are not pleased,” the Queen’s chorus said when we met her standing in the grove near the fountain stones.

“I’m not a bloody diplomat, I’m a naturalist,” I said, taking an aggressive tone that does not come naturally to me.  I struck upon the idea of initiating an argument, which would draw both the Queen’s attention and her minions.  “I even recruited my associates in this matter, and we have found no easy solution.

“I have come to inform you that I have not a single idea how to stop the boggarts from attacking.  Perhaps you should simply give the object back if you wish to avoid a war.”  My suggestion was met with a hail of bird guano and screeches of the likes I hope to never hear again.  Even Professor Welterschmidt seemed taken aback by the response for some reason.

“We will not turn over to the foul beasts what is Ours, Roundbottom.  Never! We would rather every one of Us die than see the boggarts have it again.”

“Then that’s what you will get,” I said.  “And how many innocents will be caught in the crossfire, do you suppose, Your Majesty?  How many innocent creatures will be killed in the boggart frenzy that is to come?  I have read the stories of older wars, and they are gruesome events.”

In the distance, an even greater cry went up.  I looked quickly to Professor Welterschmidt.  He nodded, and motioned for me to continue to distract the queen.  Her attention was drawn to the sound, but my shouting drew her eyes back to me.

“You have provided no proof to me that the item is even your rightful possession.  The boggarts claim it is not.  You claim it is.  Who am I to believe?  One might trust you because of your cautiousness in the matter, while the boggarts have short tempers and are already spreading destruction.  But this is in their nature, and they cannot be held responsible for it.   So I wonder—have you manipulated me into cleaning up your dastardly deeds?”

She sneered at this.  “This history of this dispute is older than your species, Roundbottom.  It goes back to the dawn of this world.  You doubt Us that this object is Ours?  It was paid for properly, and belongs to us.  We shall produce the contract!”

I glanced to the professor.  He seemed as confused as I.  “The, er, the contract?”

A trio of crows hopped forward with a leather scroll case.  They dropped it at our feet.  Professor Welterschmidt hastened to pick it up and I produced a match with which to read the words.

The words were meaningless to us at first glance.  The characters and symbols were not any that I had ever seen, no r I suspect had Professor Welterschmidt.   But their meaning became clear through some method of fey magics.  It was indeed a contract, between the birds and the boggarts.  The boggarts were to build the totem, and in exchange, the birds would serve three hundred years as their mindless beasts, acting as the messengers and watchers for the boggarts.

The implications of this document, which, alas, I cannot reproduce here, were so deeply profound that I know I need not explain it to you.

The contract did not outline what the totem’s purpose was, but we could guess.  As Professor Welterschmidt’s imp bounded from the darkness, carrying a small, wooden carving of a bird at rest, the court of the Bird Queen began to scream and take flight.   When the carving was passed from the imp into the professor’s hand, the Bird Queen vanished.  The birds attacked haphazardly, swooping and clawing.  I have several wounds that I fear may become infected if I do not secure an honest source of tinctures soon.  But the organization, the intelligence that I had nearly overlooked in my singled-minded focus on the Queen, vanished.  They were merely birds again, and while vicious, they were not capable of doing true harm.

We fled back to my laboratory.  Professor Welterschmidt laughed the whole way like a school boy.  “Astonishing! Simply astonishing.  An aetheric mind net, with physical world manifestations, tied to a simple foci, with such intense aetheric vibrations, I can nearly sense them without instrumentation!”

“Speak plainly, Professor,” I begged.

“Bird Queen does not rule the birds.  The Bird Queen is the birds. My grammar is sometimes bad I know, but this is the correct way to say it in your language, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, slowly beginning to understand.  I had thought that the Queen spoke in the royal We.  I had thought that she spoke through the birds as a method of her power.  But the Queen was a ruse!  She was some kind of manifestation created by the birds using the totem.

“I have a very good memory for documents,” the Professor said.  “I wasn’t able to read the contract in its entirety before my imp returned, and in my haste to escape, I am afraid I lost it.  But I remember it well enough.  The ancient birds made a deal around the time the Englunders settled this world.  I imagine they could see how their world was changing.  They were not smart, but smart enough.  Even the crows in our world can use tools and sometimes learn to speak human words, yes?  So they made a bargain with the boggarts, trading their servitude in exchange for a powerful artifact that would allow them to pool their minds together.”

I groaned.  “Scientifically impossible.”

“Nevertheless, they did so,” said Professor Welterschmidt.  “You saw the Bird Queen yourself.  And the moment I possessed the totem, she ceased to exist, and the birds became dumber.  You saw it, I know you did, Doctor!”

I nodded hesitantly.  “That is what it seemed.”

“We cannot give this object back to the birds or the boggarts, regardless of the contract,” Professor Welterschmidt said, speaking quickly, his eyes gone mad with an ambition I had never seen before.  “It must be studied, picked apart.  To learn how to use aetheric spirits to form a web of energies between minds, so that their collective strengths could be amplified—imagine what this could do?  It is like your informatitron, Doctor, and the aetheric web between the worlds that it uses to transmit information.  Only this web is between minds.  Imagine what we could do with that knowledge?”

I could imagine all too well.  A single man, harmless.  But when men gathered and put their minds to it, they accomplished many things, and few of them good.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “We proceed with our plan as set forth earlier.  We have no right to take possession of this object, Finneas.  We’ve caused immeasurable harm already.  Let us set things right now.  We possess the highest facilities of thinking, and we are moral beings, which I cannot say is true about the boggarts or the birds. Nevertheless, we must do the right thing.  The power is astonishing, yes.  So astonishing that I do not quite believe it.  Learn what you can tonight, and then we must return it to its rightful owners.”

The professor stared at me for a long moment, then sighed and nodded.  “You were always the more level-headed of us, Julius.  You are right. Let us gather our materials and create our fake.”

Miss Watkins was roused by messenger from her sleep and summoned to our sides, having the greater artistic skills among us. Please—in the crisis, I ask you to let slip the scandal of two men working beside a young woman in the dead of night.  She was put to work carving the physical object, and did a fine job of replicating its form.   She cast aside three or four failures before making one that met her high standards, but we finished a mere hour before dawn.  The sky was already rosy on the horizon.  Outside my window, from the park, I could hear countless birds, and above it all, the war chants of the boggarts. War had begun.  The birds would be slaughtered, without their totem and their Queen.    I imagined a total ecosystem collapse in the wake, and it terrified me.  It would ruin my life’s work.  I could not allow that to happen.

Once the carving was complete, Professor Welterschmidt ushered us out of the laboratory, claiming that the aetheric tuning was too dangerous to allow us to witness it.  “I have seen these devices tear open the very fabric of space, revealing the terrible things that dwell between the worlds.  I know how to deal with such dangerous, Doctor, but you do not. Give me privacy.  Do not enter no matter what you hear.  I will exit when the work is done.”

Hours passed, and all manner of horrible sounds emanated from the door to my laboratory.   Even now, there is an acrid smell in the air that I cannot be rid of.  It is for this reason, and many others, that I do not deal in the supernatural elements.  When Professor Welterschmidt exited finally, just before the breakfast bell, he looked to ten years older.  We gasped.

“Do not worry.  When I regain my strength, the effect will fade,” he croaked in a hoarse voice.  He produced two carvings, nearly indistinguishable.    “This is the original,” he hefted his left hand. “This is the copy.  I must rest now.  Doctor, I trust you can put an end to this without me?”

I nodded.

“I am accompanying you,” said Miss Watkins in that firm tone that meant no amount of argument on my part would change her stubborn mind.  So we departed with haste, and made our way to the Park, which had become the scene of a terrible battlefield.  Dead and injured birds and boggarts littered the ground among the newly fallen autumn leaves.  Here and there, I saw the carcasses of innocent fey—brown moth pixies, maned sprites.  Collateral damage, as they say?  My heart felt heavy.

Just as we entered the brambles, a boggart war party spotted us from their perch high in a tree.  They screamed their war cries and scrambled to attack, throwing their tiny spears whose sting I know all too well   I shielded Miss Watkins as best I could, and we made to flee.  I “accidentally” dropped the fake totem to the ground, and we ran at full speed.  The sound of tiny cheering behind us, and the absence of a continuing attack, signified that the first part of our plan had worked.

Weary, nearly exhausted, we made our way to the fountain.  With the Queen herself gone, I had no idea how to return the totem to its owners.  Miss Watkins suggested that any bird might take it and restore the entity into existence.  We walked for half an hour before finding a small sparrow bird resting, ragged-feathered, atop a bramble bush.  We approached cautiously.  I brandished the totem from my pocket, and the bird’s eyes seemed to brighten perceptively.  I made a show of sitting the totem on the ground.  The little bird hopped to the ground, up to the totem, and touched it.

Nothing happened.

“Oh dear,” Miss Watkins said.  “Are you sure you kept them straight?”

In truth, I was not, and my sudden fear was that I had failed miserably.  But Miss Watkins inspected the carving closely.

“This is one of my discards! Cleaned up a bit, yes, but—“

“That bloody son of a—“ Miss Watkins began to say before I shouted an obscenity of my own that I won’t account.  It is to Miss Watkins’ credit that she did not blush too brightly at the sound and forgave me the faux pas.  We both realized immediately that we too had been duped.

“When does the first train for the University leave?” I asked.  Miss Watkins always knows such bits of trivia.

“Twenty minutes,” she said, checking her pocket watch.  “How far away from King Victor Station are we?”

“Half an hour at least at a brisk walk,” I said.

“Then we shall have to run,” Miss Watkins said with a hint of reservation.

“In public?” I asked, aghast.

“I am afraid so,” Miss Watkins said, lacing her boots tightly.  “We must make sacrifices at times, Doctor.”

And so we ran.  We ran until I felt as if my lungs might either collapse or explode, and could not make up their minds which would be the most expedient method of ending the torture.  I thanked whatever old fey gods were watching out for us when we found that the 11:30 train had been delayed due to damage on the tracks.  It seems that a young boy leading an army of boggarts had sabotaged the line for reasons unknown.

Mr. Wiggins, on a matter completely unrelated, I believe something of yours will be arriving on the 9:30 train from the City tomorrow morning.  My regards to you and your lovely wife.

So to our tale.  So it was that we found Professor Welterschmidt waiting for the train impatiently, pacing back and forth as his manservant spirit stood holding his luggage.  Miss Watkins marched straight up to the spirit, threw open the trunk, and began to root around inside!

“Sir, I have half-a-mind to give you a thrashing,” I said, barely containing my temper.

“Fair play, Julius.  Fair play,” Welterschmidt said wearily.  He could see that his gambit has failed.

“I have it,” Miss Watkins said.  She turned to Professor Welterschmidt and struck him firmly across the cheek.  I wanted to do more, but the years of our friendship checked my hand.

With that, my most astounding Foundation director turned and walked away.  I followed, leaving Professor Welterschmidt to contemplate his misdeeds, waiting for a train which I am told will not arrive until next Tuesday…

The totem was given to a pigeon a few blocks away. It expressed its thanks, and rode away on the shoulder of the Bird Queen.   She said nothing to me, only glared in a way similar to the above capture.

So the birds appear to be laying low for now. I hear strange stories of unusual behavior at the breakfast table in the boarding house, but nothing too obvious.  Their heightened intelligence is likely to draw attention some day.

The boggart hostilities have ceased.  In fact, no one has seen a boggart in the days since.   I wonder if anyone has heard regarding the state of one Mr. Morstimply?  In the aftermath, I have not been able to investigate that matter as I would like.

So.  Things are restored.  To an unnatural state, perhaps.  To think that I was so enamored with the intelligence of the boggarts.  The birds, however, present a much more interesting and difficult situation.

Two things are certain.  I shall never look at a bird the same way again, and I will not be presenting these findings to the Adventurer’s Club any time in the near future.

Hello dear readers.  Professor Welterschmidt (pictured once again above) and I are still deep in the thick of the Bird Queen/Boggart ordeal.  I should have a very satisfying update on that matter by next week.  In the meanwhile, Miss Watkins has put together a wonderful edition of the Field Sounds acoustic recording.  This week, along with the help of our Tinkerer, she has deciphered the hidden meaning of the noble faery music.  We would very much appreciate your advice on how we should proceed in this matter.

Fall is rapidly approaching the city and with it, the annual slow-down in my research.  Never fear, however. I plan to make use time with laboratory experiments and by turning to some ethnographic work.  There are many unusual peoples making their residence here in the City, and some of them suffer plights that cannot go ignored.  In particular, I hope to shine a light on some of the deplorable conditions that the buckmen and doewomen live under.  As the latest in a long history of refugee populations, they have it the worst, but there are other conditions that I wish to investigate.

I believe as an outsider to the City, I can present a fair view of these matters.  Local researchers often show their bias in using such terms as “savages” and the like.  While most here are Englunders, they are not native to this place, and yet they treat the more unusual arrivals very poorly.  It’s one of the great shames of my adopted city.

I have one other important bit of news to relate to you this week.  Miss Watkins insist that I spend time talking about our latest membership drive.  Memberships in the Roundbottom Foundation can now be purchased on the Foundation section of the Informatitron.  Memberships have a purchase price of $35 (translated to your local currency).  They include a membership card, a letter of thanks, and one 8 inch by 10 inch print of some of my earliest photonic captures.   Larger prints of all other photonic captures can be purchased for reasonable sums.  See the Print Store for more details regarding that.

Now, with the distasteful issue of finances out of the way, I present to you the fourth edition of Field Sounds:

My paper was rather poorly received last week by the Adventurer’s Club.  To be blunt, I was laughed from the podium, despite the considerable evidence I presented.  I fear it will be some time before I am invited back.  Bah.  They are close-minded fools, more interested in a rush of adrenalin than actual science.

Yesterday, my close friend Finneas Welterschmidt arrived by train at  King Victor Station.  I penned a hasty letter requesting his assistance with the Bird Queen matter, and for once, he found himself available.  Unfortunately, the time of his arrival had slipped my mind as I was absorbed in listening to the last Field Sounds recording, seeking for the noble fey messages.  Still no luck.  I hope to speak with the Tinkerer Periat this week to learn if we might transform the recording in some way to hear hidden sounds.  Mostly, however, Miss Watkins will be leading the research into this matter.  I have my hands full with the coming war between the boggarts and birds.

I arrived at the train station nearly an hour after I should have.  Dr. Welterschmidt fixed me with a fierce germanic glare  upon my sheepish arrival.  Shimmering like a mirage in the desert behind him stood a faceless entity dressed in common laborer’s clothes.  The figure was insubstantial, much like the steam wraith, and my heart raced at the sight of it, fearing that the wraith had escaped.  But no–it seemed that the spirit was carrying Professor Welterschmidt’s luggage.  Astonishingly, few of the other travellers passing down the steps from the station noticed this.   I took a quick photonic capture to study later, and hurried to greet my friend.

“You can apologize most effectively with a round of drinks,” the Professor said.  “Did you know that they do not serve alcoholic beverages on the trains into your city?”

I admitted that I did not.  He seemed to take great offense at the fact.  ” Unbelievable!  You Englunders are so…”

“Don’t say puritanical,” I interrupted. “And don’t say ‘you Englunders’ like I’m one of them.  You know I am not.”

He sighed.  “True, true.  But I am parched.  We must make haste to the nearest tavern and you can tell me of your troubles while I wash away the taste of the travel.”

I indicated to the spirit wavering behind him.  “Er, would it be more appropriate to take your luggage to your lodgings first?  They seem heavy as always.”

Welterschmidt laughed.  “My manservant does not get tired, at least not in the physical sense.  He has enough ectoplasmic energies to carry my luggage from here to Timbukk, should I wish it.”

“Are the faculty and students accustomed to the sight of your manservant at the University then?”

“Quite.  Why do you think I took my position there, instead of here in the city? And no, not just for the wealth of local breweries catering to the students.   Prauygis University is the most haunted in the four worlds!  One does not bat an eye at such things there.  A student in my 302 lecture is a lost soul, actually.  Much more actualized than this poor fellow.”

“Actualized?  Is this why he has no face?”

He nodded.  We began to walk away from the station.  I had passed a tavern nearby on several ocassions, and even though I never have the time of coin to enter such places, I had made note of its location.  Professor Welterschmidt has always done much of his thinking with a pint of stout in his hands since we were students together.

“Indeed.  Spirits are merely echos in the ectoplasmic frequencies of the aether.  This poor echo has little mind of its own, little motivation other than to work.  I provide it that opportunity.  With time, its actualization requirements will be satisifed and it will fade into the background energies. Anyway, you may note that most ‘proper’ people pay him no mind. Transparent and faceless he may be, but he is still dressed a low class laborer, which might as well make him invisible in these streets. ”

“Ah, well then.  You’re a lucky devil to have secured free servitude,” I said wistfully.

Welterschmidt shrugged. “You can always have another golem built, or one of those dreadful automatons I read about in the paper several weeks past.”

“Neither of which are precisely free,  although they do not require regular pay, true,” I said.  We arrived at the tavern, indiciated as such by the sign overhead picturing a cracked mug sloshing brown fluid over the lip.

“The Spilled Drink,” Welterschmidt said with a sigh of satisfaction.  “A name that does not bode well for the quality of service, but it will do.”

Inside, the tavern was nearly empty.  We took a seat at a table in the back.  Welterschmidt’s manservant put down the Professor’s luggage and went to the bar to retrieve drinks.  With his salary from teaching, Welterschmidt could afford to buy the drinks. I had offered him a byline on any research written on the subject of the Queen, so it was the least he could do.

Drinks in hand, I related to the Professor the details of the events leading up to the declaration of war.  I described the attacks that have been reported by you, dear readers, and the most troubling tale of a child general marching with a boggart army in the south, told by Mr. Wiggins.  He seemed skeptical at that tale, but he accepted at face value my description of the boggarts and their society.  He was most interested in my description of the Bird Queen.

“A most unsual entity,” he said.  “I would like very much to see it with my own eyes, and to examine it with a few of my instruments.  You say there is none of the transparency as evidenced by my servant here?”

I shook my head.  “None.  She seemed as real and solid as you and I.”

“So what do we know about this totem that the boggarts want so badly, what of what value does it serve to the birds and their Queen?”  he asked.

I told him what little I knew.   “As to what purpose it serves the birds, I do not know.  I have a plot involving creating a duplicate of the totem and staging a situation in which the boggarts could “recover” it.  This would settle the matter of honor, and the Queen would not press the issue if the boggarts cease in their aggressions, I believe.”

“Creating a counterfeit totem will be more difficult than you might suspect,” the Professor said thoughtfully.
“Resonant energies will broadcast out from such an object, and the boggarts would be sensitive to them.  A physical replica would not suffice.”

“This is why I have asked in your assistance,” I admitted.  “I know little of the supernatural, nor do I care to make it a subject of my expertise.”

Welterschmidt most unkindly laughed at this.  “You’re still not over the Incident then?”

“No.” I had nothing more to say on the matter.  The conversation turned to mundane matters of lodging.   I won’t relate such uninteresting matters here.

In the coming days,  Welterschmidt and I must secure a second audience with the Bird Queen and gain access to the disputed totem.  After a thorough examination, we will manufacture a counterfeit object and allow it to fall into boggart hands. And so we will bring this matter to a close.  With Autumn arriving so quickly, the boggarts will become more desperate, as the weight of the cold forces them into hibernation as it does so many of the faery species in the Park.   If we were to wait out the clock, so to speak, I would simply be forced to deal with the matter again in the spring.  I have much research to look forward to then, and playing peacekeeper of the Park has drained me of my time and energy.

Professor Welterschmidt has kindly offered to answer your questions regardin the super-natural sciences this week.  As always, I welcome your counsel, but please feel free to direct missives to the Professor as well.  Over the coming days, we will solve this matter once and for all, I believe.   Between you, Professor Welterschmidt, and myself, I believe we have some of the finest minds in the field dedicated to the problem.

Regarding the matter of the Bird Queen, I am awaiting the arrival of noted expert of the supernatural Dr. Finneas Welterschmidt to continue with plans to design a ruse that will satisfy by parties and avert the war.  At present, I am off to present my preliminary research notes on boggart intelligence to the Adventurer’s Club.   When there is movement on the matter, I will report to you, dear readers.

Until then, Miss Watkins has a most fortuitous Field Sounds edition for your aural examination.  After many years of futile search, the noble faeries may have initiated contact!  As you may well know, noble faeries say nothing simply, and the music captured on cylinder her is most curious.  I hope that in my absence, you may help discern the meaning with Miss Watkins.  I leave you for now in her most capable hands.

Miss Watkins here– perhaps one day, Dr. Roundbottom will create a profile for me on the Informatitron.  Until then, I will post my communications via his profile.

I am proud to present to you the third edition of Field Sounds.

My ramblings aside, I look forward to your thoughts on the unusual music and what message the song may contain.   I cannot escape the feeling that it holds some meaning that if only we can untangle, we could reach out to this world’s first inhabitants and finally open a dialogue.

When my ancestors first settled here, building their city on the Lower Machinery, tapping crudely into the mess of gears and pumps to warm our homes and power various factories, the noble faeries retreated without a fight.  I have always wondered why.  Soon I hope to ask this question and more…

Since I last wrote, I have spent days digging through my collection of tomes looking for more information about the Bird Queen, seeking some method that I might contact the entity to parlay on behalf of the boggarts.  No–that’s not quite right.  I do not wish to represent either side in this matter.  I represent the interest of the Park itself, which would suffer harm if the birds and the boggarts were to launch a war.  While seeking a method for contacting the Bird Queen, I also sought a source for the conflict.  I’ve given up on communicating intelligently on the matter with the boggarts.  My research was pointless in the end, as it was the Bird Queen herself who found me, rather than the reverse, but more about that later.

My inquiries as to the nature of the conflict with the more well-spoken and less enraged boggarts have been met with naught but mumbled nonsense.  All they will reveal is that the Bird Queen stole something (and this something has varied from a valuable treasure to worthless junk in their barely intelligible stories) that must be returned as what appears to be a matter of “boggart pride.”  The boggarts hold their tribal pride to be one of the utmost ideals of their primitive society, and any insult to this pride is met with violence at the very least.  I have found evidence in the old notes of Doctor Thistledown, one of the City’s earliest scientific investigators, of earlier boggart wars.  They were certainly not recognized as such, but with recent revelations, the true nature of their wars is plain to see in the record.   A boggart war is too terrible a thing to allow happen now.  Allow me to explain why I believe this to be so.

The boggarts suffer from terrible rages that work their nervous and muscular systems into overdrive, giving them heightened reflexes and keen strength beyond what the fey species would ordinarily have.   They move quickly, attacking and overwhelming any living thing in their path, as our most recent Nature Sounds edition documented.  Since then, the boggart tribe within the park have been creating havoc.  News was brought to me recently of an urchin gang’s leader laid low by an attack.  Urchins are one thing, but if the boggarts attack a respectable member of society, fey exterminators would be hired and there is no telling how many innocent creatures would be murdered in the toxic mess they spread.  There are few things I truly loathe. An exterminator is one of them.

It was while I was pondering these notes, late into the evening, in my room at the boarding house, that I heard a tap-tap-tapping at my window.   I  held up my lantern to identify the source of the noise and found a large black raven resting on the window sill.  It cocked its head to look at me with one bright eye, waited a moment, and then rapped again at the glass as if asking to be let in.  I watched, open-mouthed as it repeated the behavior a third time.  Against my better judgement, I opened the window, fully expecting to be attacked, but not thinking of any other action to take.

The raven hopped in and walked across my desk, scattered as it was with papers and open books until it came to a drawing I had made of one of the boggarts.  The raven struck at the illlustration with its sharp beak, cawing loudly.  Before I could shoo it out the window, it did something even more startling.  It spoke.

“Trouble!”  it said.  Not clearly, but clear enough that the word was unmistakable.  Now, I am aware that corvids are capable of mimicking human speech, but I had never heard it myself.   If the recording device had not been damaged by recent events, I would have fired the boiler and made a recording of the utterance.  Instead, I stood dumbfounded and watched as the raven shrieked “trouble!” and tore my illustration to bits.

It then hopped back across the table to the window sill and turned to look at me, fixing me with that one bright eye.  Then it said, slowly and much more clearly, “Follow.”  And then flew out the window to land on a branch of a tree not far away.

I did not stop to think or even dress myself properly.  I threw on a coat and boots, snatched up my photonic capturer,  and bolted down the stairs to the street.  The raven took flight, but thankfully, the moons were both risen high in the night sky and so I could see their reflection on its glossy feathers to follow its path. It lead me to the Park, not even flying “as the crow flies” but making allowances for my poor earthbound self.

It was most strenuous exercise to keep up with the bird, and I was panting for air by the time we cut through the bramble and into a small clearing.  The cries of all manner of birds went up around me, whether warning me or announcing my presence, I was not sure.

And there, laying in an unladlylike fashion and surrounded by ravens, was a young woman.  She wore filthy clothes, carried a tattered parasol as she did in all the stories.  She even wore a pair of tinted lens goggles upon her head as all people must in the City to protect their eyes against the harsh slanted light of the middle day sun.  I thought it unusual that a supernatural entity would have to make such base and physical allowances, but no matter.  There she was before me, smiling in a way that could only be described as mischieviously.

I quickly took a capture, which is attached to this missive above.  She seemed to wait patiently for me to finish, then turned to look at the birds gathered around her, perhaps issuing some order.  Then she nodded, and opened her mouth as if to speak.

Her words did not issue forth from her body, I am certain of this.  Her birds came from the ravens gathered around.  A syllable here, a word there, from different birds, but acting in unison, they formed all the sounds necessary for speech.  It was unsettling, most unsettling.  The supernatural is not my realm of study, and it has always left me most uncomfortable and this was no exception!

“You are the one they call Roundbottom,” the Queens said through the birds, not posing it as a question but making a statement.   I nodded, carefully folding my photonic capturer away.

“You will make the boggarts cease in their aggressions,” she said.

“I would like nothing more than to do so,” I said.  “Honestly, Your Majesty, I would love nothing more than to prevent their rampages.  But they believe their honor has been slighted, and I cannot find a way to restore it.  I am too ignorant of the issues at play in the matter.”

The queen cocked her head, as if listening to the whispered caws of a raven that fluttered from the trees and perched on her shoulder.  She smiled.

“They are angry because We took away the totem,” the Queen said.

“May I ask why you took their totem?”

“We took away the totem, but it was not theirs.  They had taken it from the birds many years ago as spoils in one of their many battles.  We have searched for many nesting seasons for the totem,” she said.

“Ah,” I said.  “So you were simply taking back your… property from thieves?”

The birds screamed together in one voice.  My pulse raced with the thought that I had angered them, but it seemed that they were only agreeing with me.

“What do you want me to do about this?” I asked.  “I will admit to being too trusting, yes, but I don’t see that I should get involved in this property dispute.  I’m a scientist, not a barrister.”

“If you do not take action, the things you love will suffer,” the Queen said through the birds.  “We know you, Roundbottom.  We have watched you often.”

Of all the things she said to me, I found that statement to be by far the most unsettling.  Even now, remembering those words causes the hairs upon my nape to stand up.

“I don’t understand what you expect me to do, Your Majesty,” I said after a moment of thinking.  Try as I might, I could not see what she was driving towards.

“Stop them, or We will fight,” the Queen said. The birdsong around us became a cacophony then.  “If we fight, no one wins.”  And then the birds mobbed me, one after another, as if a curtain of feathers had descended upon me.  I swatted instinctively and brought my arms up to protect my face.  When the birds were gone, so too was the Queen.

So this is where I sit now, pondering the Queen’s ultimatum.  She will not give back this totem, which she claims is her property.  But the boggarts will not stop their terrorizing until they have recovered it.  Once again, I find myself standing between two forces more powerful than I, and I must somehow find a solution.

I am tired, dear reader.  Speaking with royalty has always left my mind exhausted.  The effort of it… Tomorrow I will ponder more on this matter.  If you can offer counsel on how I might resolve this conflict, I and the denizens of the Park will be in your debt.

I enter this missive into the Informatitron with a great amount of pride and no small amount of pain.  Three days ago, Miss Watkins and I took the recorder deep into the Park.  The second edition of Field Sounds provides all the evidence I believe the scientific community will need to prove that the boggarts possess more than a basic intelligence.

Not much more, mind you.  Please excuse my behavior and words in the latter minutes of the recording.

Yes, ahh–so. Moving forward, I am determined to locate this figure known as the “Bird Queen” before the boggarts can.  A battle between a bird army and a tribe of highly armed boggarts would disturb the habitats of countless rare species and while I prefer to remain uninvolved in natural matters, this is clearly a case where intelligent beings could do harm, and I have no qualms of becoming involved.  While I have successfully documented the intelligence of the boggarts, be that what it may, I have not yet determined what the cause of this conflict between the two forces.  What could this Bird Queen have done to anger the boggarts enough that she should be killed, to work them into such a rage? Listen carefully–perhaps some of you can make out some of the boggarts native language, and provide clues as to the nature of the conflict…

I present to you the second edition of Field Sounds:

Postscript:
Returning to the matter of intelligence, I hope that you will agree that the boggarts possess an intelligence more than say a common moth pixie or the sprites. I now have numerous tool samples to add to my collection, as well as the captures and this recording.  Arrangements have been made to present these findings to the Urban Explorer’s Club in two weeks.   My latest wounds should be healed enough in time.  The members are a notorious rambunctious group, and the dinner party afterward will test even my constitution, fully healed or not.  Until this, I will convalesce as best I can and research the Queen.  I have sent word to the Park’s urchin gangs that I seek an audience, and with their keen eyes on the lookout, it will only be a matter of time before her whereabouts are made known.

I have been strong proponent of the view that the intelligence displayed by many faeries is a form of mimicry and that, outside of the so-called noble fey species, true sentience is not a trait possessed by the creatures. Dr. Heineman and I have clashed repeatedly on the issue of intelligence, and I am sure he will gloat when I state the following: the included photonic capture proves that the so-called “primitive” boggarts are not nearly so primitive as once thought. Their use of tools is not the only evidence I offer to support this statement. The boggart in this photograph spoke to me.

Not well, mind you. His grasp of the common language was not firm to say the least. His grammar was poor, and the vocalizations were difficult to make out, but we carried on quite a conversation, which I will now relate to you in the hopes that you can provide me your thoughts. Let us move past the revelation that the boggarts are not evolutionarily the ancestors of the noble genera, at least not to the degree previously accepted by all the experts in the field. I am writing a detailed paper for Urbana Natura in which I will offer a detailed examination of their tool and language skills. For this missive, I would like to focus my subject to the matter of the conversation between myself and the boggart. His name is Krethun.

I can see Dr. Heineman laughing loudly at this, but nevertheless. I shall press forward, swallowing my pride, as it were.

With fall fast approaching, I had decided several days earlier to press deeper into the Park in search of a body of water. I have been reading of late a wonderful paper by E. D. Smithe on the hunting of dragonfaeries –a faery analogue for what I remember in my youth as brilliantly colored predatory insects similarly named. Their aerial acrobatics are unparalleled, according to Smithe. I took with me my equipment of course, so that I could share any discoveries with the larger world.

After countless hours of stumbling, I had a nasty encounter with a hive of stinging flits of which I will say nothing except to thank Mr. Wiggins for his recommendation of Mrs. Morstimply’s Tincture. It has done wonders not only on my moth faery wounds but it soothed the burning from this encounter with the flits as well. I have written a letter of praise to the parent corporation behind the medicine.

Despite my fresh wounds, I pressed on, for I was determined to perform feats of science and when I am so determined, no stings or bites will stop me. Minutes after taking a break, I saw the glint of sunlight reflecting off water through the trees, and I knew that I had found a small pond. I’d previously stumbled upon such a body of water in my earlier explorations, but as my notes have been in such a disarray, I could not return to the exact spot. Sometimes I wonder if there may be a supernatural force behind my inability to properly map the geography of the Park. It seems at times that things are not where I would have expected them to be. Now, I am sure some of you will accuse me of perhaps sipping tonics to excess, but I assure you, I am always stone cold sober, especially after an unfortunate incident at a dinner party with Miss Watkins a month ago.

No, I will not go into the details of that either, I am afraid.

To return to my narrative. I had located the body of water and I proceeded to set up my P.C. at the edge of the water. The dragonfaeries move so quickly and are so shy to the presence of bipeds that I set my newly patented (No. 139201-1) Automated Clockwork Shutter Actuator to make captures at a predetermined period of thirty seconds. I attached my experimental automated plate loader (patent-pending) and fed a dozen plates into the hopper. Then I retreated to the shade of a lovely Willow not far from the water’s edge to catch up on my reading and perhaps, if I am being honest, a little sleep.

I woke some time later with a start to the sound of my capturer falling into the water! Oh dear readers, you can imagine my anger and panic I am sure. I flew to my feet and dashed to the equipment. Immediately I could see that the automated plate loader was utterly destroyed, but the rest was most likely salvageable. I set to work cleaning and disassembling the device right there, despite the waning sunlight. As I am sure you know, the longer you wait to make such repairs, the more difficult than ca be.

I was somewhere between polishing lenses 3 and 4 when I felt a sharp poke in my calf through the fabric of my trousers. I assumed the source was an errant weed and brushed at it with my hand. I received a sharp stab to the hand, a pain that was accompanied by the tiny bellow of the ferocious boggart!

I am embarrassed to relate my next action. You must understand that I acted purely under instinct– When something at a height of eight inches wield a tiny spear attacks me, I react in self defense.

I kicked the poor creature half-way across the pond before I knew what had just transpired.

I have seen illustrations of boggarts before, mostly drawn from trap-caught specimens, as they are generally considered too ferocious to approach when living. Never have I read an account of a boggart wielding a stone-tipped spear, fastened with rope made from reeds, wielding a ferociously painted shield decorated with what appeared to be a rat skull.  The capture included with this missive was made by my timer shortly before the boggart attacked my capturer, thinking it some kind of weapon.

And of course I most certainly do not recall reading of any previous incident in which a boggart was seen wearing a little red fez.

If I were an unlucky scientist, this story would end here, but fortunately, boggarts are a hardy bunch, and he was merely dazed by my counter attack, and his hat, shield, and weapon had fallen to the ground at my feet after he was catapulted into the water. Boggarts, similar in form to amphibians, are natural swimmers, so he was in no danger. If anything, my attack had only made him more angry. It was as he swam back toward me that he let loose a stream of foul-mouthed curses enough to cause this scientist to blush, and may I remind you that this scientist has spent time at sea!

I believe at this point I sputtered something along the lines of “You have the capacity for speech!” And my memory is a tad hazy on this fact, but I believe his response was something along the lines of—

“An’ Krethun can kick your arse too!”

With rapid and tense negotiation involving the handing over of several coins and a bit of rope, I was able to negotiate a cessation of hostilities. Fire faeries began to rise from their day’s resting places and lit up the air around us as night fell and our conversation deepened beyond slurs and profanity.

It seems that the boggart had mistaken me for another human, and having seen very few, is apparently not capable at telling one person from another. His tribe lives on a small island in the pond, and lately, they had been under attack by the minions of someone he called “Lady of the Wings.” I have taken the liberty of replacing inappropriate slang with the word “lady” for the purposes of this missive.

As he described his tribe’s recent battles, I began to suspect that this Lady he spoke of was identical to the urban legend of the Bird Queen! You may scoff, but as I pressed him with questions, I was able to discern that the boggarts’ ultimate adversary was a woman with an unusual bond with birds. The stories are uncannily similar, you must admit.

Like anyone, I had assumed that stories of the Bird Queen were a story told by city guardsmen to frighten urchin gangs into returning to their orphanages of origin. I’ve heard firsthand an account from urchins of their attempt to rob a seemingly addle-brained woman in the park, and being assaulted en masse by dozens of large ravens. I thought it merely a tale meant to entertain, a boast of sorts perhaps. But now I am not so certain.

Krethun claims that the Bird Queen wishes to subjugate his people like she has the birds, and while I have seen no evidence to this, Kerthun displayed a wound that was clearly delivered by the talons of a hawk.

I have promised to think of how I might assist the boggarts in this matter, and now I turn to you for your counsel as always. Something seems missing from this story. Why would the Bird Queen want to control the boggarts as well as the birds of the Park?

I believe that there is a mystery here, and one that I must solve soon, or a war will break out in the Park! Krethun informed me that messengers have been sent to other tribes of boggart in the Park, and soon they will gather to do battle with the birds. (More tribes! How many might there be, I wonder with amazement?)

I have promised to return to Krethun for further discussion, and I believe I will bring Miss Watkins with me. Her work on Field Sounds has gone so well that I would like to include her, and make recordings of the boggart. Our next edition should contain these recordings as more proof that the boggarts are not the mindless beasts previously thought.

Unfortunately, I must keep this missive short.  Recent experiments have led to injuries that prevent me from sitting for long periods of time at the Informatitron.  While I recuperate,  please entertain yourselves with the latest innovation in scientific research and education– a cross-world audio transmission!  Narrated by the invaluable Miss Watkins, this “acousti-cast” details some of my recent research in imitating moth pixie mating calls.  Regarding my injuries, I do not wish to say more.  Far too embarrassing.

Er, yes, anyway.  Much of the credit for this achievement goes to Master Tinkerer Nathaniel Periat for repairing my acoustic recorder and instructing me on the operation of the device.  Additionally, Master Periat was so kind as to provide a sample of music he recorded underground–apparently, the product of a band of steamrat musicians!  I hope to bring you more of  these songs in the future for your amusement.   We cannot be all business around here, my readers!

I do so hope you find this acousti-cast edifying.  We seek suggestions for new subjects to record, so please, if there is something you are dying to hear, do not hesitate to write via the Informatitron.  Let it not be said that we are unresponsive to feedback.  We value your input in this and all other matters.

Without further adieu, I give you the first edition of Field Sounds.

With the steam wraith captured for the time being, I should have been able to return to my biological studies of the Park—I would have, if the monsoon season had not arrived. As of late, heavy summer rains have begun to fall upon the city, bringing flooding in the lower elevations and making the brambles even more difficult to traverse than usual.

The past two days have brought only light drizzle, so I have bravely ventured forth in search of new sights to document in the name of Science. Yesterday, I made quite a discovery, one about which I am very pleased to share with you.

I have long found the concept of mutualism a fascinating subject. How do two species evolve to rely upon one another for their mutual survival? Normally, the relationship between species is quite antagonistic, but under unusually and poorly understood circumstances, a kind of truce comes into existence. Such is the case of the carrier snail and its relationship and a previously undescribed poisonous mycoid.

I stumbled upon this unusual pairing quite by accident. My trousers, being in a terrible state of disrepair mostly due to my absent-minded neglect, have developed holes in the pockets—probably caused by my hasty pocketing of various instruments in the field. I was strolling down a muddy path when I heard the clatter of coin fall out of my pockets, bounce from my boots, and into the mud.

It is my passionate belief that if one looks closely enough, every square inch of soil will reveal to you amazing sights. We are too often caught up in the bustle of life and do not take the time to examine the smaller things. Most residents of the City give not a thought to the variety of life that abounds here. It is not due to a lack of interest—at dinner parties, I am often the center of attention when I discuss my latest discoveries. The modern lifestyle, with its focus on punctuality and efficiency, has blinded us to the smaller mysteries. Even I must pass over many discoveries in my hurry to make some appointment or examine something larger and more charismatic.

So I cannot say that I was surprised when I bent down to recover my lost coins to discover an unusual string of tiny mycoids glowing faintly in the underbrush. It is not unusual to discover circles of mushrooms growing within the Park, especially after the monsoon rains, but I have never seen a line such as this, nor a species not subterranean that glows with bioluminescence.

I took samples of course, tucking them away in cheesecloth among my tools and on a whim, followed the line of mushrooms as it led away from the path I had been following. The mushrooms grew larger with time, and so I determined that whatever was responsible for the unusual pattern was a vector with a direction. I turned about and followed the trail of little lights as they grew smaller. It was not long before I spotted the beautiful gastropod captured here.

Adorned as it was with mature specimens of the mycoid, it was easy to conclude that the snail was the source of the trail. As I watched, it inched along carefully. The mature mycoids rooted upon its shell brushed against the undergrowth now and then, and with each contact, a puff of glowing spores were ejected into the air.

At first I suspected a simple case of parasitism, and if not that, perhaps commensalism. However, the gastropod appeared to be in perfect health, so I discarded the notion of parasitism. It was clear that the mycoid was using the snail, slow as it was, to help disseminate its spores. Given the bioluminescent glow, I suspect that both species originate beneath the soil, and the monsoon rains flooded their native habitat, forcing the snail to climb to the surface and avoid drowning.

It was not until after I conducted experiments on samples in my laboratory this morning that I was able to conclude that the relationship was in fact mutualistic. I performed a very form of toxic screening with several captured specimens of rodents, moth pixies, and a boggart that had been brought to me in recent days. Most pointedly ignored the samples. One mouse ate the sample, and expired within minutes, quite painfully.

My hypothesis is that the mycoid is unable to rely on wind to disperse its spores in the still air in the cave systems in which it resides. It gains a reproductive advantage by latching onto the snail’s shell. In turn, the snail gains protection against predators, which are, based on my brief experiment, well aware of the poisonous nature of the mycoid, avoiding it and carrier snails as a kind of “umbrella effect.”

I hope to find more specimens of the snails so that I can study them further. In particular, I would like mature specimens of the mycoid to examine the chemistry behind their glow.

I have been unable to develop a theory regarding why the mycoid glows as it does. I can thing of no benefit that the light provides to the mycoid itself. Perhaps you, my trusted readers, can offer theories on this small scientific puzzle?

Dear readers, your advice has proved indispensable in making a capture of the steam wraith. Mr. Mortlewood’s trapping wisdom reminded me that in a sense, I did know what the wraith fed upon—the fear of the living, particularly the wealthy residents of the Burroughs. To find where it “sleeps,” I followed Miss Eliza’s suggestion and marked the locations of reported attacks on a map bought for a dime in the market. Tylor the Lessor’s suggestion to attempt dowsing is one that I have filed away for later use. I generally do not truck with the supernatural if I can avoid it, but recent events have forced me out of my zone of comfort in that regard.

The map revealed that the wraith was striking within a six block radius, along common evening stroll routes. The newspaper clippings indicated that the attacks generally occurred just after sunset. Armed with this information, I wrote a letter to my friend and assistant Miss Watkins, home recently from her grand tour. I knew immediately that I would require her assistance in the matter.

I detailed to her my plan upon her hasty arrival at my boarding house. Mrs. Dowd frowned upon me having visitors of the fairer sex within my rooms and laboratory, so today, we met in the sitting room and schemed over the map. With our quarry located, we only needed to bait the trap. I would have asked no one to participate in my scheme, but Miss Watkins has proved herself valuable time and time again in my work. I trust her with my life, and I would wager that she trusts me with hers.

“I’m not certain I have anything that would pass for high society garb,” I admitted, pointing out the flaw in my plan.

“I have just the outfit for you,” Miss Watkins said with a grin. “My late father’s old dress wear should fit you well.”

I cleared my throat nervously and moved on to describing other aspects of my plan. Here and there, Miss Watkins made suggestions to streamline things, such as suggesting a route that could possibly allow us to encounter the wraith more quickly.

With the details hammered out, we parted ways. Miss Watkins promised to have her father’s suit sent over, and it arrived soon after she departed. I found that it did indeed fit me as if I had ordered it tailored to my own frame. A thought—but I will save that uncomfortable notion for later.

Miss Watkins and I met for an early dinner at a small café near the Burroughs. I would have liked to have dined somewhere more fanciful, but funds were short, as they always are for a scientist and man in my position.

We passed the hour with idle conversation until we could put off our mission no longer. I paid the bill and folded my photonic capturer away and tucked it within my jacket. It caused a ridiculous bulge, and I hoped that the steam wraith was not a perceptive spirit.

We followed our carefully prepared route. Nervous, I kept my eyes on the shadows and my ears open for the sound of escaping steam.

Within three blocks, the steam wraith was upon us, streaming out of the sewer grate and forming into a looming figure. Miss Watkins let out a scream and fell back into my arms in a dead faint. I lowered her to the ground carefully and began to back away. The wraith drifted forward towards her, and with its attention diverted, I withdrew my photonic capturer and assembled the lens.

“Do it now!” Miss Watkins cried out, and I threw open the shutter. The steam wraith turned its blank glow of a face towards me and brightened. It did not vanish.

“Oh dear,” I said faintly. “I believe I have forgotten to load the proper plate.” I had it in my pocket, and had planned to load it at the restaurant, but in my haste, I had forgotten! I could reload, but it would take me two minutes under no stress at all.

“Run!” I shouted. Miss Watkins gave up her ruse and following me at in a gallop down the streets. Sensing my true fear, the wraith gave chase.

I ran, as I always do in such situations, for home. One of my valuable talents is that no matter how lost I am, no matter how influenced by spirits of the liquid sort, I have always found my way home, wherever I considered home at the moment. Mrs. Dowd’s boarding house seemed as safe a destination as any.

As we ran, I fumbled with the plate door on my device. I removed the exposed plate, ruining it by exposing it to the moonlight, and threw it over my shoulder hoping that it might temporarily attract the attention of the wraith.

To my luck, it did hesitate, and this act on its part allowed us to increase the distance between until we could no longer see the spirit. I darted in and out of alleyways, trusting my instinct to guide me to my destination. I slowed to a walk to catch my breath and wait for my heart to beat at a rate slower than the wings of a pollen gatherer.

I finished loading the plate, not that I thought it would do any good now that we had run from the spirit. I wondered if it would fall for the same trap twice, if it still retained enough of its human intelligence to understand what we had attempted. The wraith did not give me an opportunity to find out.

It stood before Mrs. Dowd’s home, drawing moisture from the air all around it and growing in size. Steam tendrils wrapped in on themselves until the wraith had taken a corporeal form. I stood dumbstruck by the sight—until Miss Watkins walloped me on my back and cursed at me in a decidedly unladylike manner.

I brought up my capturer and opened the shutter once more. When I closed it, the wraith was gone.

* * *

I sent word to Cass the next day that the plate had worked. A letter arrived back via urchin in messy but readable handwriting.

The boys and I congratulate you in surviving, doctor! Unfortunately, I have some bad news.

Dorfan sends instruction that the photonic capture must be viewed regularly to ensure that the wraith has not moved. If it does, then its bonds have grown weak and it could escape from the plate. Another binding would be difficult, so do not let it escape once again.

Keep the picture as a reminder that you should check your curiosity in the future, Dr. Roundbottom.

Yours below,
Cass

Dear readers—by now you must know that I do not have the most reliable memory in such matters. Time will pass and I will forget to inspect the image, and it will become lost among my many capture prints. So I provide you with this image and ask that you check it regularly on my behalf for signs that it has begun to move. If it does, notify me by post immediately, and run, run as fast as your legs will carry you. A twice-bound wraith will not content itself to merely frighten its victims.

Sincerely,
Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom

Two days passed before a note arrived from Cass via urchin boy that I was to meet her at the gates to the steam tunnels where I had first inquired after her, and to bring the case.  I made haste to the rendezvous as soon as my work allowed.

She met me at the gates and led me once more into the tunnels, until we arrived at the spot where, she said, we would be meeting her friends.  She asked to see the case, and I offered it to her.  When she opened it and examined the inside, it still emitted an unnatural glow.  I made the above capture.

Two large brutes stalked out from behind machinery, each glowing with coldfire tattoos.  Other steam rats, but perhaps the term “rat” would not be appropriate to describe these men.  I think the term “steam gorilla” may be more accurate.

I calmed myself as best I could, attempting not to show my fear.

“You scientists are a bunch of bloody idiots,” grumbled one of the men in an accent that marked him as a Hildesman from the far north.  I thought of them as superstitious barbarians, in accordance with everything I had read of their people, but superstition ruled the day in this case.

“How you manage to break seal on vessel, I never understand, but it no longer useful.”  He took the vessel from Cass and casually tossed it over his shoulder to a rubbish heap–a pile of discarded lunch remains and newspapers, circled by buzzing garbage faeries that had been drawn to the fetid stench.  I winced when I heard the lid crack completely.  Now it was not even useful to me as a case for my implements.

“We make new vessel then.  Not cheap.”

I must confess I was tempted to haggle on the price, but I did feel responsible for the turn of events, so I offered the remainder of my funds left after recently restocking preservative fluids for my specimen collection.  The freighters have had strange troubles with attacks from beneath the waters, and the cost of my supplies has nearly doubled in the past months.

Despite my generosity, the Hildesman grumbled and he and his companion consulted privately once again.  I attempted to make conversation with Cass, but she only nodded, or made dismissive gestures to my comments.  I gave up and waited in silence, passing the time by watching the patterns the garbage faeries cut in the air.

The silence was broken by the HIldesman bringing his bear paws of hands together in a thundering clap.  “Right! So we identify way of capturing wraith again. First binding no longer work, see.  Keep safely trapped, requires new, stronger binding.  Yes?”

I nodded hesitantly.  I was completely out of my league, you might say.

“And you make pretty pictures I see sometimes, the plates, from light, yes?”

I nodded again, uncertain what my captures had to do with anything.

“Very Good!  Picture work for type of binding we try.  Keep eyes on it all times, spirit never escape.  Old Hildespeople trick.”

I looked to Cass for explanation.  She rolled her eyes and sighed.  She turned to the Hildesman and they spoke his lilting native tongue.  Cass was revealing herself to have hidden talents I would not have expected, but her mastery of the language made sense.  Many Hildesman turned to steam rat work in the City–nearly as many that turned to soldiering or bodyguarding work.  Despite their superstitions, they had an uncanny knack with machineries, especially the old stuff beneath the city.  Some think they are descended from the original Builders, but I find little evidence for that claim in my reading.

“He wants you to make a photonic capture of the wraith,” Cass explained.  “Dorfan  will etch a special plate with runes for you.  Once you put the picture on the plate, it will be locked inside.”

“Inside a photonic capture?” I asked incredulously.  “I hardly believe such a thing to be possible.”

Cass scowled, and I felt properly chastized when she explained that the other man, Dorfan’s older brother, was responsible for binding the spirit previously.  They were the experts on this subject, and due to the vagaries of communication what with shipping lanes disrupted, I could no longer rely on Dr. Welterschmidt to assist me in the matter.

“Something that confuses me,” I said, “is that you said once I put the picture on the plate, it will be locked inside.  Do you mean to say that the act of capturing the scene will not bind the spirit?”

Cass grinned in a very unkind manner.  “That’s exactly right, Doctor.  The wraith will not be bound until the picture is etched into the plate itself.”

I swallowed hard at that.  It takes me hours to properly release the photonic capture from the lens matrix onto a plate, and sometimes, I must repeat the process several times before I succeed.

“Give them a plate,” Cass said.  “The brothers will prepare it for binding.  When you’ve spotted the wraith, take your shot and develop it quickly.  He will sense your intention and he will not let you escape easily.”

The Hildesmen brothers laughed at that.

“You run fast, Doctor Roundbottom,” said Dorfan smiling.   With that ominous statement, we parted ways.

In the intervening days, I have received the plate back, it having been carved with runes of a delicate nature I would not have expected from the Hildesman hands.  I attempted to make a capture of the rune-etched plate, but in my captures, the runes do not appear.  I do not wish to think of why, and looking at them for any length of time greater than a few seconds causes my head to throb most painfully.

I have begun sorting through the clippings I have made from the papers seeking a pattern in the appearances of the wraith.  It’s the only way I can think to locate the spirit and make my photonic capture.  Perhaps you might have some suggestion as to how I could find the wraith about its dark business?  I value your advice as always, dear readers.

Finally, I have made progress in the mystery of the wraith that escaped several days ago.

At the suggestion of Nemo, I subjected the containment vessel to a thorough investigation while I waited for a response from my confidant Dr. Welterschmidt.   Close inspection revealed a series of tiny Faeronic runes etched inside the lid of the case.  They are burned into the wood deeply, and I believe that they must have been the source of the containing power.  Mister Mortlewood’s suggestion of singing hinges unfortunately did not play out.  The hinges were of an ordinary sort, but I have made notes of these interesting contraptions he has described. I might have use of such a thing in the future. Ultimately, I believe Tylor the Lessor was correct in suggesting a connection to the old tales of spirit trapping.  I thank the three of your for your advice in this matter.  It helped very much to keep my mind focused during the wait.

The post was agonizingly slow in bringing me Dr. Welterschmidt’s response.  I had hoped that he would take a leave of absence from his position at the university and visit me in the City.  It’s been some time since we have seen one another, and with recent events, I could use his guidance in person.   Sadly, his written advice will have to do instead.   Just a day ago, his letter arrived.  He wrote:

My Dear Julius,

How ironic is it that you, a skeptic, would stumble upon such convincing evidence of the spirit world?  This would be yet another example of your confounding ability to find yourself in the middle of bizzare events.  I’ve never encountered a wraith so well formed as the one you accidentally released from its prison!  I do hope that you will find an opportunity to make more of your photonic captures for me?  I’ve already begun drafting a paper on your experience.  I’m terribly sorry that events have conspired to keep me from visiting you at this time, but I do hope that in the fall I might be able to make the journey.  The train lines have been under attack by savages, did you know?  Sounds thrilling!

But to return to the matter at hand.  Your spirit is an unusual one, and if it is malevolent as you say, your determination to recapture it is well founded.  Spirits often feed on the energy of spent emotion–fear being so easily tapped by them to grow their power.

As to its more precise nature, I am afraid I am at a loss.  It is a unique variety that I have not encountered here in cold Mordovana.  Nothing here ever takes such a distinct shape, but is usually composed of such thin whisps as to be completely invisible to photonic capture.

I believe the clue to identifying the spirit may rest in the nature of the case.  Is it not a steam rat’s tool case?  I know that you are loathe to associate with the lower classes, but I believe I saw just such a case among the belongings of a steam rat in the City while on a ghost hunting expedition in the tunnels.  My suggestion would be to find a steam rat and seek his advice.

And so that is just what I did–

I inquired with my landlady Mrs. Dowd immediately to determine if any of the other boarding guests might practice in the steam power trade.  Curse my luck, but a young woman (woman!) had recently departed who did work the steam tunnels.  I loathe to use such a crass term as “steam rat,” as I very much admire the work those brave souls do bringing power and light and warmth to the City in the depths below, among the great gears and boilers upon which the City was built.  Without their sacrifices, we would not have many of the modern amenities that make life so much more pleasant.

Mrs. Dowd luckily knew the young woman’s working area.  Her name name was Cass, simply Cass, not Miss Cass,  as Mrs. Dowd was quick to impress upon me.  “In the dark, one pair of hands is as good as another, but the men would rather not know if those hands be feminine, Dr. Roundbottom.  So be careful what you say.  Girls work the steam as well as men, you know, some are small and can squeeze into tighter spots.”  Mrs. Dowd seemed quite proud of this girl Cass, and spoke so highly of her that I made no attempt to locate a more conventional steam rat.  I determined that I should seek out the girl and show her the case.

There are six entrances to the steam tunnels within walking distance of the house.  I asked for Cass among the loiterers at all six before a grease-stained boy of perhaps thirteen years grinned with crooked teeth and offered to lead me to her, for a price of course.  No one ever does a scientist a simple favor in the City.  So I paid what coin I had in my pocket.  The boy stripped bare to his waist and led me down the steep stone steps, far beneath the streets.  At first, I stepped with no small amount of fear in the darkness.  But soon my eyes adjusted and I could make out a blue aetheric light emanating from very skin of the young boy. Now I understood why he carried no lantern.  The tunnels are notorious for pockets of noxious, flammable gases.  No steam rat in his (or perhaps her) right mind would dare to carry an open flame into the tunnels.   A few more minutes of following, and I could make out the intricate pattern of glowing tattoos.   I wondered as to the nature of the substance responsible for the glow aloud, and he merely laughed.  “This is cheap stuff, fire faery juice.  I have to get new ones every six months.  Wait to you see Cass.”

As we traveled further, the air filled with the sound of heavy machinery grinding away, the hiss of escaping steam, and a deep ever present thrum coming from below.  No one knows how deep the machinery continues. although I have read wild theories that the machinery runs all the way to the world’s molten center.   No expedition has ever found an end to it, nor has any expedition identified the machinery’s purpose.  The City’s people have tapped into it, draining away some of its power, but much of it works without a known purpose.   I find the whole lot of it unsettling, and I leave speculation to engineers and others so mechanically inclined.  The mysteries of my park are mysteries enough for a lifetime.

I could barely hear the boy by now, but his gesticulations made it clear that he would continue no further, but the object of my search was to be found very close.  Indeed, I could see a blue-white light ahead.  He turned and hurried away while I forced my feet to carry me forward towards the unusual light.

Cass–I have attached a photonic capture that I was able to persuade her into sitting for, as you may have guessed–was clearly an expert in her field.  As I approached, I watched her patch not one nor two but six holes in a venting duct.  She tightened pipe fittings instinctively. The air, at first filled with muggy steam, began to clear.  She nodded to herself in satisfaction and then turned an eye to me.  She was not pleased to see me.

“You’re that daft scientist,” she shouted above the noise.  “Dr. Fat A-”

“Yes, yes!  I am,” I shouted hastily. “Julius Roundbottom.  I was told that you could help me solve a mystery.  Is there some place quieter that we can speak?”

Her face flickered in the glow of the coldflame light that danced along her tattoos.  Such tattoos, unlike the boy’s, were for life, and thus spoke of the seriousness of her dedication to the trade.  However, for a girl who wished to be taken seriously as in a field of men, I was somewhat surprised at the scantliness of her clothing.  I supposed the two thoughts worked at odds with one another, but ultimately, she was at least tolerated by the others.

After a moment of thought, she nodded and led me down further winding tunnels until the din had faded enough that we could hear one another without shouting.

I explained as much as I could about the case and the escapee.  Not long after I began my story, her brow set to a furrow and she gave me a most unsettling scowl.  “You really are daft.  You find a case that cannot be opened, and it never occurs to you that perhaps you’re not meant to open it?”

I had no quick response to that.  Indeed, it had occurred to me.  I simply wanted to make use of the case in my work. “So you know the nature of the thing?” I asked, embarrassed.

“I do, but I’m not sure I should tell the likes of you.”

“I am trying very hard not to take offense at that statement,” I replied curtly.

“Go ahead and take offense, I won’t mind.  So.  Now that you’ve let it free, what are you looking to do?  Make a study of it?”

I shrugged.  “More, I would like to recapture the spirit so that it can no longer menace the good folk of the Burroughs.”

She laughed at that.  “I could care less about the Burroughs, but it might decide to return to its old haunts–”she waved her hands around us, indicating the tunnels.  “And that would cause more trouble than I am interested in seeing.  Things are falling apart down here, and I have my hands full just keeping them together.  I don’t have time to deal with a steam wraith stalking around frightening the boys.”

“Steam wraith?” I asked.

“Yes.  Sometimes, when a man dies down here, when a vent tears open and scalds the flesh from his bones, their spirits rise from the very steam that killed them.  They’re filled with nothing but anger for what has happened to them and they want to take revenge on those who slighted them in life, such as your “good folk” of the bloody Burroughs.”

My ears turned red at the ease of her cursing.  “But–what have they ever done to deserve haunting?” I asked, truly not understanding.

“You lot on the surface take advantage of the hard work that goes on down here, but you don’t understand it.  Without us steam rats,  the City would stop.  No more trolleys, no more Center Clock.  It would all wind down.  Homes would grow bitter cold in the winter and not more than a few of you thin-skinned softies would survive in that.”

“The Council provides ample payment for your services,” I argued. “Our taxes go to keep you and yours at work. Is that not recognition enough?”

“Of course not,” she said with a sigh.  “Do you not wish to be respected and esteemed in your work, Dr. Roundbottom?  A person wants what they do to be important, and make no mistake, what we steam rats do beneath your feet is the most important job to be done in the City.  But we get no respect.  The grease and oil that stain our clothes make you treat us like common urchins.”

This, she had a point.  Steam rats were not by any means respected members of polite society.  It was understood that their work was necessary, and indeed, they were compensated with public funds, but… it was true.  No respect was given.  I felt ashamed to realize that the hard workers below felt nothing but contempt for us above, not because we hated them, but because we hardly regarded them as worth any sentiment at all.

“I would apologize for them if I could,” I said quietly. “I had no idea the struggle of it.  You have my admiration, mi–”  I caught myself before I could say the word I had been warned against.

Her stern demeanor softened at that.  “Ignorance is no excuse, but you mean well, I can see that.  I’ll help you recapture the wraith.  I’ll take the tool case see what I can find out among the boys about it.  I haven’t seen a wraith bound up since I was a little girl.  How that case ended up on the surface and not in the deepest shaft below, I’ll never know.” She shrugged.  “Maybe a steam rat wanted you surfacers to find it and set it free.”

I agreed to part with the case in exchange for her allowing me to make several photonic captures.  I think secretly she was pleased to pose for me, but I took the photos for a purpose.  I am determined to spread the world of the importance of their work to the inhabitants of the City.   Somehow,  I must do this, if for no other reason than to prevent more steam wraiths from being created.

So now I wait for Cass’s investigations to bear fruit. Once again, I find myself unable to work or think about anything else but this case.  Incidents of encounters with the wraith are on the rise, according to Mrs. Dowd (who I have of course not told of my connection to the spirit.  I am sorry but the rent here is too reasonable and the location perfect for my work in the Park).

What might I do, dear readers, to raise awareness of the work of the steam rats?  I do not wish to take much time away from my work, but perhaps I can inspire someone else to step forward and spread the word of their good deeds.  I am afraid I am no orator, especially in matters unrelated to entomology.

Let me begin by apologizing for my lack of updates to the Informatitron. Recently, my assistant in such matters has made significant improvements to the device, making it much easier for me to work with it. I plan to keep the information flowing in the future. Extraordinary events have made my life even more hectic than before, but also much more interesting to readers in the aether, I imagine.

So, I have inadvertently released a supernatural entity into the City. The photonic capture above was hastily made in an attempt to understand just what was occurring. I suspect I have unleashed something most foul into the streets. I must find the entity and capture it once more—but I should begin at the start.

Three days ago, while browsing among the junk merchant’s wares in the Lower Docks Bazaar, I happened upon a well-crafted tool case. It was dusty and looked to be as old as myself, if not older, but something about the craftsmanship captured my interest. The merchant explained that it was locked and he possessed no key. Sensing a deal, I haggled a much lower price than he would have otherwise required. I brought the case to my laboratory and set to work. I was very much looking forward to using it to carry my instruments into the field, replacing my decaying and well-worn leather pouch.

Astonishingly, the case resisted every one of my laboratory instruments. I poked, prodded, and pried, but failed each time to unfasten the latch. I failed to understand what mechanism hold the lid so fast, as there was no visible lock of any kind. In frustration, I threw the case to the floor, planning to kick it into the corner and leave it there with other embarrassing, failed projects.

It was upon impact with the floor that the case cracked open and began to emit a most frightening glow. As is always my first instinct, I made a photonic capture, and in truth, I was much too frightened to take any other action. The realm of the supernatural is not one with which I am comfortable. I had… unfortunate experiences as a child, ones that until recently I was convinced were products of my youthful imagination. That is all I will say about it.

Something within took advantage of the damage to the case and pried its way out. A pale gaseous substance poured forth much like smoke, or perhaps steam, and coalesced into a vaguely humanoid form. Flickers of humanoid shape coalesced within the fog, but faded rapidly. It glared at me with baleful glowing eyes before reverting to a primeval state and flowing out under the window sill into the night. The glow from the box faded, and I have examined it thoroughly since. I can find nothing unusual except for the cracked hinge on the lid.

After this examination, I penned a letter to my friend and old schoolmate, Dr. Finneas Welterschmidt, this world’s premier expert on matters of spiritology. I described the experience at length, as I have here, and sent it with extra postage to hasten its arrival in his hands.

Most alarming, there have been accounts in the papers of a shadowy figure menacing the gentlemen and ladies of the South Burroughs while they take their evening perambulations. I would have ignored such accounts as the products of superstitious minds if I had not seen the escape and even captured it to a plate.

I can do nothing until I receive Dr. Welterschmidt’s reply. If any of you dear aetheric readers have theories or suspicions as to the nature of the thing that I have freed, please share them with me without reservation, no matter how outlandish they may sound. I will entertain all thoughts at this moment.

The plan worked! Unfortunately, the last image of the sequence reveals that the Tinkerer—or, as I shall call him henceforth by his true identity, Doctor M__ K___, a noted entomologist and amateur horologist—became aware of my spy and attempted to destroy it. The katydid returned to its point of release quite damaged, and I’m afraid my prototype is unrecoverable. Luckily, the captures themselves were themselves recoverable, or all would be lost.

Ahh—A knock at the door. My heart leaps in my chest. It can only be Dr. K___ himself, come calling. He must have followed his creation back to me—

He paused for breath, and I counter-attacked, first explaining in unmistakable terms that violent acts on his part would be useless, but still explaining that I had no interest in ruining the career of a gentleman of his advanced age.

Of course, he took offense to this and spat insults and foul words, some of which I had never heard before. My ears turned quite red, but I did not let his crassness distract me from my plan.

I made my offer. I would not publish his identity if he would modify his works to function as an independent ecosystem on their own, never interfering with the natural struggle of fairy and living insect.

He seemed surprised at this idea, and remained quiet for nearly a minute in consideration of my deal. I will confess that I looked around desperately for something with which to defend myself should he fly into another rage.

Thankfully, he nodded at last, and agreed to the bargain. I made it clear that I would continue to trap and test his creations, and if I discovered predatory behavior on their part, I would release my information. He had no choice but to agree. He was clearly quite unhappy with this, and he departed quickly while muttering angrily.

Our agreement will have to do, for now, although I fear that it will be temporary. I must say, I still look forward to discovering K__’ creations in the wild, and witnessing how they will interact with one another. An artifical ecosystem would be something never before witnessed by a naturalist, and I am in a very unique position to carry out research on the subject. I believe this whole incident has worked out far better than I could have hoped! At least for the moment.

Originally published at Dr. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

After many sleepless nights pondering my dilemma, I struck upon a solution so clear and true that that I was shocked at how long it took me to come to the idea. My philosophy of naturalism dictates that I do not interfere with the clockwork insects, as they have become, in a way, part of the natural order of things. However, that does not mean I cannot interfere or make plans against their creator.

First, I set about capturing one of the clockwork creations of the Tinkerer. This was easy enough, and within a day, I had a modified katydid captured within one of my killing jars.

Next, I traveled to the Clock District, and asked for the best horologist who might be interested in peculiar work. I was pointed confidently to G. Hogglesmith & Son and after much haggling over price, and much astonishment on their part over the clockwork insect, they agreed to make the modifications I requested.

I have been working for quite some time now on a method to make photonic captures remotely and from a smaller scale. I have only one small prototype to work with, as the cost of cutting lenses so small easily empties my coffers. Reluctantly, I provided my tiny photonic capturer to the horologists, and they went to work.

Through careful examination of the innards, they were, as I had hoped, able to discover a failsafe that would cause the creation to retrace its steps back to its creator—probably installed so that the creator could make repairs to a damaged unit. Hogglesmith’s modifications made sure that this would happen, and upon arriving at its birthplace, it would begin to take captures. After a set period of time of about five minutes, it would then reverse its movements again and return to me so that I could develop the captures and identify the meddlesome creator.

I could follow the insect, you see, but given the letter, I fear for the state of mind of the clockwork creator, and his aberrant way leads me to fear that he may be dangerous. This way, I remain safe myself, at least for the moment.

I have just now released the insect back into the wild. A rain storm has struck in the hours since, and I sit here at my desk, and it is all I can do not to be consumed with worry. My prototype is far too valuable to be lost, and if this plan fails, I am not sure how I might identify the Tinkerer among the millions that call the City home.

Originally published at Dr. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.