Emma Catherwood

His footsteps echoed against the desolate streets. Max slowed his pace, each breath catching tight and sharp, the temperature dropping by the second. Snowflakes fell thick and silent, mercifully cloaking his footprints. 

With heavy lungs, he came to a stop, leaning on his knees to draw a breath. A blimp drifted lazily overhead, its rounded belly skimming the heavy gray clouds. Max turned his head, straining to pick up any faint sounds. Maybe a block away, he heard scuffed shoes and distant shouts.

Like dogs with prey in their sights, the Scout patrol wasn’t giving up; they were determined, relentless, money-grabbing fools. His stomach growled, his feet pounding the streets. He struggled to remember his last meal while wondering idly what price Scouts got for runaways these days.  

Misty orbs shimmered atop spindly black street lamps, casting a ghostly glow over the snow-dusted night sky. Wait! Lights? Max turned around quickly, checking along the streets and seeing only lines of flickering lamps, ready for nightfall. How had it become so late? His train left Wien Hauptbahnhof station at eight sharp. It wouldn’t wait.

With his heart pounding, he sprinted. 

He could not spend one month on Vienna’s streets. He’d freeze, for one thing. Forgetting his violin had been a rookie move, and Max was no rookie. What on earth was he thinking?

 “OY! Watch it, lad!” A lamplighter atop a skinny ladder cried out, his voice deep with panic.

Max careened into him, causing the ladder to wobble dangerously as it slipped from the lamppost. The lamplighter teetered unsteadily, his arms flailing wildly as if walking on stilts in a frantic dance. 

Max’s elongated thirteen-year-old limbs strained as he lunged, catching it just in time. “Gotcha!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up with triumph. 

“Easy, easy! Back it up, boy. That’s it, down a bit more.”

The ladder suddenly slipped from Max’s grasp, his eyes widening in panic as he held his breath, heart pounding. One, two, three seconds—the ladder thudded softly against the cold, unforgiving lamppost, echoing in the silent night.

Max sighed with relief. “Sorry, I didn’t…” He leaned on his knees, gasping for air.

The lamplighter wobbled to his feet. “Sorry, I didn’t,” he mocked, breath laced with ale.

Max crinkled away from him.

“I’ll let you fall next time,” he called, and ran on. He didn’t have time for ungrateful drunk lamplighter’s. Scruffy orphan boys with torn clothes and hopeful eyes rarely inspired kindness. He often wondered whether the icy wind in Vienna was the reason townspeople kept their distance, or if it was simply his presence that chilled them. It gave him a strange satisfaction to rob them.

The snow fell in thick curtains around him as he curved a corner, entering a broad boulevard with terraced homes. The air rippled, making the loose fabric of his coat flutter and swirl behind him like a ghostly banner. Pins and needles prickled his exposed neck, and he spun around instinctively. The street was empty, and yet…full of an eerie, unnatural silence.

A rough voice broke the quiet. “He went this way!” It was a Scout. Out of sight, but getting closer.

Max scanned the dark, empty streets. A sense of being watched crawled over him. He shook off the sensation and pushed on, but the feeling remained. 

At the end of the street, he entered a square. Too exposed, but he had no choice. One house stood out. They were all grand, but this one sparkled with Christmas lights. He dashed for it, head down. Within meters, he smelled the decadent ham and gravy dinner being prepared inside. His mouth watered. With a hurried glance behind him, he scaled the wall and hit the soft nighttime grass on the other side.

A thick hedge surrounded the garden, and miniature conifers encircled an ornate pond next to a bench. Nothing unique, just what he expected from a house like this. With a frown, he pulled his threadbare jacket close. Six large windows stared down at him, the velvet curtains still to be drawn. Within, Christmas lights illuminated a perfectly pruned Christmas tree strung with so much popcorn that Max could smell the butter. As he stared at the lights and inhaled the scents, a strange feeling came over him.

It was cozy. Max hated cozy. He didn’t know why, but he suspected it had something to do with the peaceful look on the children’s faces as they snuggled into their parents’ arms. This was what he suspected. But he couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t something he could see, touch, smell, or taste, so it was NOT something he could believe existed because cozy was a feeling. And feelings were unreliable. Max didn’t like unreliable. Unreliable didn’t work in the real world. In his world.

Heavy footfall broke his train of thought. Two Scouts paused beyond the wall, where he crouched silently on the other side. 

“Let’s leave, Harry,” said a thin, reedy voice. “There’ll be no food when we return to the workhouse.”

“Get down that street! I’ll check the other one, and we’ll meet at the end,” replied Harry, his voice gravelly. “Oy! And no more whining, or you’ll sleep outside in wet clothes.”

After several aching seconds, they left. Max waited until their footsteps echoed no more.

Hurriedly, he popped the latch on his leather satchel. If he weren’t careful, he’d be the one sleeping in wet clothes, or worse. Inside were his brass goggles, a long, thin pouch, and a space where his violin should be.

He opened the pouch to reveal an array of colored lenses neatly stacked in individual silk sleeves. Max flicked through them until he found what he was looking for: copper. Twilight always demanded copper; it allowed him to see as if it were daytime. That was one reason he loved them. The main reason, though, was that encircling the black, inky pupils of Max’s eyes were two rings of gold, and if he didn’t wear the goggles, people stared. With the flying of blimps and steam cars, many people wore goggles, but no one had gold rings around their pupils. No one he’d met, anyway. Once, he stared at the rings until he could have sworn they sparked flames. He preferred the goggles.

They were also a gift, and he hadn’t received many of those in his short life. 

Max peeked through the hedge.

All clear. 

Confidently, he swung back down to the street, landing like a cat. He popped his collar against the wind and put his head down. He’d been foolish to leave his violin… although he couldn’t help smiling at the memory. The crowd had been rapt, their eyes dewy and their faces flushed with excitement, listening to him weave his father’s old song out of the new strings he’d just bought. He’d been foolish trying to thieve from that rich woman too with her enormous, feather-plumed hat.

“White silk gloves,” he scoffed.

Only the obscenely rich would wear something so utterly useless. Of course, she’d have guards. What had he been thinking? It was sloppy, reckless. One minute he had been flattering her, the next he’d laid his violin on the ground. Why had he done it? He hadn’t wanted to do it; his arms had become rigid, his fingers had trembled as they uncurled to place it on the cold ground. Before he could scoop it back up, the Scouts had yelled, and he’d fled. Had he been that distracted with the game of deception that he’d done it unknowingly? Plausible but unlikely.

As for the hooded girl who ratted him out… if he got hold of her, he’d teach her a thing or two about Street Kid Loyalty because she sure as hell didn’t dress like aristocracy in that shapeless shift.

He could have sworn he’d heard her whisper his name as she leaned over and whispered in the Scout’s ear, but that made no sense. They’d never met. Had they?

He dragged wet, raw fingers through his frozen hair—he should have worn full gloves, not the fingerless ones. Where was he? The thick snow blanketed everything, and his eyes stung from the cold. He felt the wind pick up and peered at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything that would tell him which way to go. The snow parted momentarily, giving him a glimpse of the Vienna Ferris wheel, hanging in the sky like a giant spider's web.

A grin cracked his cheeks. He knew exactly where he was, and he wasn’t far from the station, not far at all—wait—there was a clack of heels heading his way. Max stepped further into the shadows– it was a woman, her long black coat swept the snow as she hurried through the square; he would have mistaken her for a lady if it wasn’t for the glimpse of white apron beneath her coat. He let out a sigh, just a maid. The clack of her shoes died away as she took the next left and disappeared from view.

“I see you, lad!” a man’s voice bellowed from behind.

It was enough to push Max into a sprint. Cast-iron railings blurred as he ran alongside them, giving Max an idea,

“Let’s see you jump this,” he grinned, leaping over the railings, feet landing squarely on the ground with a crunch and ducking behind a bush covered in potato sacks before the Scouts saw him.

“Hey, you lot!” hollered a new voice, stopping just short of where he hid.

His well of luck was truly dry today.

There were six legs in steel-toed boots and gray pants, so three Scouts. He didn’t dare look up to see their faces in case they locked eyes with him. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly; they stood not two strides away. Tucking his head into his shoulders, he pulled up his collar. Time to listen and wait; hopefully, they’d leave before he missed his train.

“Too cold for this, lads,” said the thin voice from earlier, scuffing his shoes along the pavement. “That girl said he’d be easy pickings for the workhouse.”

“She was wrong about that, wasn’t she, George. Slippery kid this one,” said their new companion, chomping on tobacco with wet slurps. Max narrowly avoided a large phlegm-wad spat his way. It was all he could do not to vomit.

“Look at this! His footsteps end here. How’s that possible?” whined George, gulping from a brown bottle. Doubtful that’s lemonade, Max thought.

 

“It’s not bloody possible, that’s how. He jumped that railing, didn’t he!” This was the leader, Harry, and he must have hit one of the other two, because one of them yelped.

Max sighed; he really didn’t want to do this, but when he heard them jump the railings, he knew he had no choice.

He stood, realizing the three boys were almost twice his height, but that didn’t matter now. He thrust his arms out towards them, flexed his hands, and pushed the red buttons hidden inside each sleeve. The buttons sank in, revealing two pipes that snaked up his arms and connected to small vials hidden inside his jacket. Max pressed the red buttons a second time, igniting the charge and BOOM! A hiss of steam shot out of the pipes, hitting two of the men squarely in the chest, sending them screaming and throwing them into the snow.

“Two down.” Max grinned, but not for long.

“You’re mine now,” growled Harry, staggering to his feet, yellowed teeth gnashing. “Get here!” 

Max jumped back over the railing and down the street, lungs burning with every breath.

He checked his watch—7:45 pm—the train left at 8:00.

Music flowed down the street towards him. Not far now.

He skirted the corner and saw the town square lit up like a snow globe. The warm, toasted aroma of chestnuts wrapped around him, and children squealed at a clown juggling. Couples, linked arms as they waited in line for the chestnuts roasting over orange flames. And old couples, wrapped against the cold, sat on benches watching the merry scene and listening to street musicians play beautiful music for copper and silver Gulden.

There it was, lying beneath the bench—his violin. 

He jumped over a chained fence, slid across the dirt, under the bench, and snatched it up.

“Gotcha!”

It’s smooth brown wood polished so often it was soft, like an old shirt after a thousand washes: soft and familiar. His violin was not a fine garment, but it was treasured. Opening his satchel, he slipped it inside. There was no time to wrap it properly. The station was two blocks away. The gleaming dome of Wien Hauptbahnhof, Vienna’s Central Station, cast a radiant halo, like a beacon in the night. He was almost home. 

He ran down the wide two-way road.

The station buzzed with those arriving, those leaving, and those ready to make a quick Korona carrying trunks. Carriages clattered by their horses pawing nervously. Max darted through the chaos, narrowly missing a grumpy cabbie’s swinging lantern. 

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he searched the crowd, feeling the same prickling sensation again. The Scouts weren’t near, but something troubled him. The clock’s hands read 7:56 pm—time was slipping away.

He ran inside, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that he was still being followed. The station flared with bright lights, highlighting the humongous arched tunnels and corrugated ceiling. Steam burst from arriving trains, enveloping passengers who emerged like ghosts into the foggy, cold air.

Max craned his neck, eyes scanning the bustling platform. His gaze settled on the sign overhead: Platform 16. 

He moved into the throng; this situation demanded precision. Smoothly, he navigated through the swarm, blending into the flow toward his train. He slipped out of the crush of bodies once he reached Platform 16. His train was already pulling out, its wheels churning away from him.  

“STOP!” A voice rang out behind him, sharp and commanding.

Max turned. On the opposite platform stood the three Scouts. Harry spat out a vile phlegm ball, pulled down his striped cap, and yelled orders at the two others, who sprinted around the back of the train to cut him off. 

Max hurled himself off the platform, slipping and sliding on the icy tracks. The train hissed as he ran alongside it, building momentum. This had been a mistake. He should have stayed on board; it was too damned cold. If he could just reach the rooftop, he’d be all right. 

The ladder affixed to the train was reachable. He broke into a sprint. It was so close, inches from his fingertips.

“Yes!” The cold rungs bit his fingers. Still, he held on for all he was worth. The train hissed, and steam enveloped him as it chugged. 

He was almost home.

A hand slammed into his back, yanking him backward by his jacket.

“I’ve got you!”

A hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked down hard. Max threaded his arms through the rungs and clung on until his fingers turned white. He refused to go down like this. With a swift motion, he grabbed his violin rod and thrust it into the Scout’s eye. 

“How do you see me now!” 

“Ouch! Get back here!”

A long whistle filled the air, and the pistons fired harder, the wheels picking up speed.

“Better luck next time!” Max laughed with a mock salute. 

“I’ll get you in Lemburg!” the Scout screamed before clouds of steam swallowed him from sight, muting his shouts to nothing. 

Max paled at the threat. Zeppelins allowed the police to travel quickly through the skies. It would be easy to find him if they decided to. The question was, would they bother? He clung to the ladder as the train rushed under the sweeping, arched tunnel of Vienna’s Central Station. The crisp night air found him, and he sighed. He’d probably be fine. Probably. 

The train lurched forward—it was the throttle releasing steam into the belly of the train. Max scampered onto the roof, gripping the rails along the sides. The vibrations traveled up through his feet and legs, but Max stood firm, as if on solid ground, as the train sped along, relishing the wind against his face. 

With the train running smoothly, Max slumped down cross-legged facing the city and waited for his favorite view. She emerged from the thick smog like a mirage. His twinkling Vienna, with her towering chimney stacks, ornate cathedral spires, and the blurry strokes of the Ferris Wheel against the pitch-black sky.

A zeppelin crossed the stark winter horizon, and he withdrew his violin, pressing it gently against his cheek. When the bow hit the strings, strident chords emerged, twisting and piercing. It began vigorously, each note swiftly following the previous, building to a peak before collapsing inward, then slowly returning at a softer, calmer tempo. Max swayed back and forth to the familiar childhood tune as the song filled the air, and each note marched into the sky.

“Until next time, Vienna.”

The weight of leaving sat heavily on his chest. After carefully stowing the violin in his satchel, he dipped a hand into some unseen pocket and pulled out a pack of chewing gum. 

For a moment, running through the streets, he’d lost everything, but somehow he’d made it back, with his violin. 

“What were you thinking, Max?” he said to himself, and lay down, stretching his long arms overhead and yawning.

Snowflakes fell heavily and fast, piling up on his goggles as exhaustion took hold. Reluctantly pushing to his feet, Max bounded over carriages and leaped across divides until the front of the train came into view, and just before it was the hatch he needed.

Max skidded to a halt before it, his frozen fingers fighting to spin the frozen wheel—sending fat chunks of ice shattering and falling off the roof into the speeding abyss below. 

 A slow hiss of steam belted him in the face, and he slipped inside.

Relief flooded him, and he leaned his head back against the wall. He’d made it back to his train. He’d made it home. 

The roar of the engine filled his ears, bringing with it the rush of a memory. It had been winter, and he’d sat staring out of the window while his father tinkered in the background.

“Papa, Vienna! We are here!” he tapped the glass excitedly.

“Not now, Max. I must finish this.”

“We’re getting off this time, Papa. We are to find a home…”

“This is our home.”

“No, Papa. A proper home like other people.”

“Shh. I must finish this.”

He saw his father, as usual, attending to the phonograph. 

It was an exquisite device that sang sweet melodies. It had a fluted tunnel, shaped like an eardrum on two brass rests. Beside it, among copper wires, stood a cylinder with a sheet of smoke-blackened paper embedded with lines that functioned as sound waves. Each line was read by a small bristle connected to a thin material stretched over the small end of the large funnel. As the bristle moved over the undulating lines, the sound issued forth from the funnel. The square base was engraved with tiny brass birds sitting on branches so delicate they looked like they might snap beneath the bird’s weight. Max had liked to trace a finger along their graceful lines.

He would watch his father deep in fascination, as he played everything he could get his hands on: Handel, Purcell, and Elgar. None of it was the music he longed to hear. He wanted her music. The song Max’s mother had sung constantly, the song Max still played on his violin. His father had a disc made of it by some musicians, but it was never quite right.

Night after night, he worked on it, until their last night together, when he’d kicked the machine in his frustration and left.

The train picked up speed.

Shaking the memory loose Max wiped a tear from his cheek. The engine room was dark, but his goggles allowed him to snake around pipes.

The familiar din embraced him like an old comforter, with its endless clattering of steel wheels and the soft pulse of firing pistons. He slipped behind a furnace onto a narrow walkway, barely wide enough for one person, and that was the whole point—if any wandering train inspector ever checked on the furnace, they wouldn’t dare inch their fat bellies through this gap.

With his back flat against the wall, Max inched along it, careful not to touch the scorching metal. He counted his paces.

 “One. Two. Three…” 

Touching the wall, Max located a small handle and pulled on it, releasing the mechanism. Steam hissed as the wall slid open to reveal a hidden room. 

Max entered and pulled a lever to his right.

The wall hissed shut, sealing off the clamor of the engine room. 

Inside was quiet and dark. He moved through the shadows to an old lamp hanging from a pipe and struck a match, igniting the oil.  

“No need to wear you now, old friends.” He pulled off the goggles and placed them back inside his satchel, before hanging it on a hook.

He paused, allowing his gold-ringed pupils to adjust to the shadows. The flaming wick cast the room in a muddy light. The kind of light that summoned dusty memories. Max prodded them into the recesses of his mind, and let his hand brush over his beloved books: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, a Roget’s Thesaurus, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and a leather-bound copy of Greek Myths —a small yet mighty shelf.

“Time to investigate the new passengers. First, what to wear?” he smirked, pushing the Scout’s threat out of his mind. Perhaps they might be at Lemburg, perhaps not. Either way, it would take them time to organize. 

He pulled hard on the rope above his head. A small trapdoor opened, releasing a shower of clothing: bloomers, starched shirts, beards, cravats, wigs, and ankle boots tumbled out—a mass collection of disguises. Scooping a crinoline hoop, he tossed it and a corset aside.

“Not today, thank you,” he said, and grabbed a scarlet velvet suit. “Ah, you will do nicely!” 

A Skeleton Suit. Thus, named for its suffocating size. Max slipped it on without difficulty, but couldn’t help yanking at the lace collar. Excessively tight. How did the privileged tolerate this? Trussed up in tight suits and adorned with baubles, they were easy targets. Turning to the mirror, he slung the satchel over his shoulder, strapped on his tool belt, adjusted his goggles, and checked himself out one last time.

He grinned. 

Steam hissed as the door’s pressure valve released back to reveal the engine room once more—the heart of the train. A cacophony of deafening whirling cogs, pumping pistons, and clanging pipes. Not a place to linger. Sweat beaded his upper lip. Even the walls perspired.

Max slipped through and out of the door, quicker than a wink. 

 CHAPTER ONE

Max

Somewhere inside all of us is the power to change the world.

(Roald Dahl, Matilda)

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