Foreign Devils by John Hornor Jacobs

that?’ I asked.
    ‘Your pistol! Please hold it in your hand.’
    I drew my pistol and sat there, the bore pointed skyward, as if I was going have a duel.
    ‘No, no. Hold it in your lap,’ Wasler said. ‘But casually!’
    ‘Like this?’ I held it in a way it was pointed off, toward the shore, so that if it discharged it would do no harm.
    ‘No!’ He came forward and positioned it himself so that it was pointing down, at the roof of the hold.
    ‘That could hurt someone,’ I said, not liking how this portraiture had developed.
    ‘Then we shall be quick. Winfried?’
    She came forward with a small bowl and knife. ‘Your hand?’
    It was the wounded one she sliced and bled into the bowl. Not too much blood. Quickly she returned to the device and unstoppered a larger bottle of ink and mixed the two together and then, with a tin funnel, poured the mixture into the device. Very much like the Quotidian.
    ‘You will need to shut your eyes, Mr Ilys,’ Wasler said. ‘It is important. So that the daemonic link can be established.’
    ‘ Daemonic link?’ I asked.
    ‘Now, Mr Ilys!’
    I closed my eyes.
    It was a bright morning, so the sunlight filtered through my eyelids, making everything seem bloodred and veined. Then the redness faded and there was, behind my eyelids, a churning smoke that seemed to envelop me even though I could feel the fresh wind of the Whites on my skin and ruffling my hair. It was disconcerting because the sensations of my body belied the dulled sensations of my closed eyes. A tenebrous smoke churned and breathed in vaporous exhalations and I was contained and surrounded by it and had a sense of its massive size. I was just a spark in the darkness. The smoke swelled and grew in some dynamo of combustion. I could easily imagine some rough beast, panting, slavering, watching me from its smoke-wreathed vantage. It crept forward on tremendous claws and readied itself for a leap. And then …
    ‘Good! Mr Ilys. Very good,’ Wasler said, breaking the moment. The tension was gone. I opened my eyes. There was a furious scratching coming from the board. Winfried watched it closely.
    Once the infernographical device paused for a moment, Winfried said, ‘The proof is good! One take makes my day, Wasler!’
    The reality of what they were saying sunk in. ‘You mean, if something went wrong, we’d have to do that again? The blood?’
    ‘Well,’ Wasler said, uncomfortable. ‘It would be entirely up to you. But I’m glad to say, it won’t be needed.’
    The device scratched and shuddered on the board. Winfried watched it closely while Wasler went to make another cup of tea. When the device stopped moving, the Lomax woman unclasped the parchment from where it was affixed and then brought it to the makeshift table. She dusted it with salt, and held it face-up in the sun for a good long while so that the ink would dry. Once she was satisfied with it, she whipped out a pair of scissors and cut away a strip of the parchment from the edge and handed it to me.
    ‘Your proof, Mr Ilys,’ she said.
    The scrap of paper held my image. Eyes closed, I sat uncomfortably holding a Hellfire pistol in my lap. Behind me, the White Mountains were shrouded in gauzy scratches and lines, indicating clouds. It was me, made from tiny detailed ink strokes. A strange sensation to look upon yourself and not have you peering back. My visage was disturbing, eyes closed, like a death mask.
    ‘This is absolutely incredible,’ I said.
    ‘It is a clever, clever device,’ Winfried said, smiling.
    ‘May I see the larger one?’ I asked.
    Wasler shook his head. ‘Not until I tint it, if you please. Tonight I will carefully gouache the final image and it will need to dry, so that it will be ready in the morning.’
    I was a little disappointed.
    ‘But the proof is all yours, Mr Ilys.’
    Later I showed it to Fisk, after the Lomaxes had disassembled the infernographical device.
    All he said was, ‘You blinked.’

SEVEN
    3 Ides,