The Mechanical Turk, or All’s Well That Ends, by Tucker Cummings

For most citizens of the Anglo-Ottoman Empire, Unification Day had been a triumph; a cause for celebration late into the night. Photographers lined the streets of Constantinople, selling tintypes and albumen silver prints of the royal couple sharing their first kiss as husband and wife.

Queen Victoria had been resplendent in her white gown. Sultan Abdülmecid was every inch the modern monarch: formal dolman jacket, a top hat with a high horsehair plume, his mustache waxed into the most charming curvature. Their fingers intertwined, and with a single kiss, the two empires became one.

While the cameramen plied their trade on the streets, other vendors sold heart-shaped almond candies to small children, who raced through the streets with the sweets held high above their heads. Still other vendors offered up their own wedding day wares: commemorative clockwork dolls, specially-brewed teas, handkerchiefs embroidered with the new royal crest.

Miniature aerostats zipped through the crowds, blaring calliope renditions of “God Save the Queen” and the Mecidiye March. By the time the moon had fully risen, the streets of Constantinople were covered in drifts of confetti so deep that it would take three weeks to clear it.
But for for Helena al-Jazari, the royal wedding was a somber occasion. While revelers waited outside Topkapi Palace to catch a glimpse of the newlyweds, Helena sat by her father´s bedside and watched him die. In the moments before he passed, he took her cold hands into his own.

“Helena, you were not my natural-born daughter, but I have always thought of you as my own flesh and blood. I have taught you all I know, and I am certain you will make a fine physician. You have saved many lives, and will save many more, my beloved daughter. You have made me very proud.”

“But father, what will I do without you?”

“Lyilik yap denize at, balık bilmezse halik bilir,” he whispered. And then, he was gone.

#

Days later, after the funerary customs had run their course, Helena sat alone on the steps of her house. The Unification Day aerostats had begun to lose altitude, veering like drunkards through the empty streets. The nuptial blessings and songs played on, distorted but still recognizable. Helena stared at the sheaves of paper that blew about in the breeze. The man who had been like a father to her for all these years was dead. Who could tend to her if she should begin to fall apart? There was no brother, no uncle, no husband. No means of support, save what income she could earn with her father´s teachings.

Not all men were like her father, not even in this enlightened age of steam. A Turk and an English rose might wed, minutes of Parliament might be recorded in two tongues, but a woman still would find little respect if she styled herself a “doctor”. And her female form was not her only handicap.

A small boy scrambled down the street, tossing the afternoon mail against the doors of all the houses. A newspaper thumped at Helena´s feet. The headline read:

SULTAN FALLS ILL

MYSTERIOUS AILMENT STRIKES ON ROYAL WEDDING NIGHT

Helena´s eyes raced across the lines of text, distilling the meaning of the words and hoping that some phrase might give her a clue that would help her remedy his affliction.

Inside Helena, there was a steely resolve, a certainty of purpose that had eluded her ever since her father had fallen ill. As she trudged through piles of confetti on her way to the palace, her father´s last words echoed in her ears.

Lyilik yap denize at, balık bilmezse halik bilir. An old proverb. “Do good and throw it into the sea; if the fish don’t know it, God will.”

Her father had given her life, such as it was, for one reason: to do good work. With her skills, and her father´s medical equipment, Helena knew that she was more capable than any physician in the whole empire.

Her intent was fixed: she would use her father´s devices to cure the sultan. If she could do that, then she might finally be able to lead the life her father would have wanted for her.

#

Queen Victoria was determined to cement the security of her reign and her people. She had decreed that any doctor who wished to see the Sultan would be given audience. The queen would leave no stone unturned in search for a cure.

The hallway leading to the Sultan´s bedchamber was a maze of male bodies. Physicians young and old carried equipment and medicines towards the dying Sultan. One by one, she watched the doctors ahead of her in line enter the royal chambers, only to be thrown out minutes later, chased by curses and members of the royal guard.

Hours passed, but finally she was admitted into the royal bedchamber, her father´s medical bag clutched tight against her chest. The room was thick with the rank smell of diseased flesh, a noxious odor that forced everyone in the room to cover their faces with scented squares of cloth.

The Sultan Abdülmecid lay sprawled diagonally across his bed, pillows piled high behind his head and under his arms. A pale blue blanket covered him from toe to chest, but a multitude of small, dark stains mottled the coverlet.

The sultan was dying, and Helena began to fear that she was already too late. If she did not act quickly, the Sultan would fade away, taking the dreams of a new era of prosperity with him.

“Your most supreme and excellent Majesty,” she said as she bowed her head, “I come to you with all bound humbleness to offer you my aid, for I do believe I can cure you.”

“You are not the first to say so today, and yet I remain uncured.” The sultan gave her a withering look. “You are bold, to promise me a cure before you state your diagnosis.”

“I have heard it rumored in the papers, and in the hallways of this palace, that what ails you is a fistula. I am Helena al-Jazari. My father, Doctor Ibrahim al-Jazari, operated on such things many times, and taught me his arts. Were he still alive, I have no doubt he would be here to tender his aid.”

“And I am sure it is easy for any child to claim the accolades of a deceased parent. Though my love for the accomplished Victoria is well known, you will forgive me for doubting the capability of a woman physician.”

“I am no impostor, my Sultan. On this, I swear my life,” Helena said, falling to both knees. “If I cannot cure you using my father´s arts then tear me limb from limb and end my life, such as it is.”

Before the Sultan spoke again, he gave her a second look. He made a small pressing of his lips, a minor facial gesture that seemed to suggest he´d found something in her on this second inspection that he´d overlooked before.

“I would ask you something, al-Jazari Hanım,” he said, addressing her with more courtesy than before. “You were the only physician to enter my rooms this day without covering your nose. Does the smell of my impending death not disgust you, as it disgusts my guard and my advisors?”

“Majesty, my father wished for me to follow in his footsteps and be a healer of men. Any natural function of mine that would have distracted me from tending to a patient was… discouraged.”

“Come closer to me, Helena al-Jazari. My vision blurs, and I would see you clearly. You speak unusually for one so young.”

Helena took several steps forward, and knelt beside the Sultan. Again the Sultan made a quirk of the lips, as though something had just clicked into place for him and him alone.

“Ah. Helena al-Jazari. I should have recognized you. I knew your father by reputation, of course. Out of all his achievements, you must have heard it said that he always considered you to be his greatest.”

“He was a kind man. He was not my natural father, though he raised me as if I were his child.”

“Tell me, Helena, daughter of al-Jazari…what cure would you offer your dying ruler?”

“May I inspect your body to confirm my suspicions?”

“Do as you will,” replied the Sultan, though Helena could tell that he was not eager to be poked and prodded again.

Her fingers moved deftly, if a bit heavily, across the sultan´s abdomen. Her mind whirred, and after only a few seconds, she had confirmed her previous theory.

“We must act quickly, your majesty. You have a pancreatic fistula, and I will need to operate. I will explain everything I will do, but I beg you to let me speak quickly and then give me leave to begin.”

“Speak then, Helena, and I will consider the terms of your cure.”

“The fistula has damaged your pancreas, far beyond repair. If I remove it, you will die, for it is an organ that regulates life processes. If I leave it be, you will die from sepsis,” she explained. “But I have brought my father´s medical bag, and I have a device that will save you.”

“What will this device do to me?”

“I will show it to you,” Helena said, quickly unfastening the buckles of the leather bag and removing a small metallic object.

It was ovoid, silver-toned, with brass chasing that gave it an elegant line. Part sculpture, part clockwork machinery, it looked as though it had sprung from the hands of a master craftsman. No bigger than a fist, there were two thin cylinders that extended from opposite edges. The top of the device contained miniature pistons and gears, housed under a bubble of thick blue glass.

“My father spent the last years of his life perfecting these creations. They will replace the malfunctioning structure in your body, an artificial organ, if you like. As long as your heart pumps blood, the device will keep working.”

“Until the day I die.”

“Which will be many years from now, if you will stop interrupting, your majesty,” Helena said, a bit more harshly than she intended. “You will have to take a curative supplement that I will supply you with every week. This will keep your body chemistry in balance, preventing the need for any additional surgery. Now, you must decide: will you see another physician today, or will you give me leave to operate?

“Helena al-Jazari, you are a most remarkable creature. I fear I have no choice but to let you proceed. But hear me now: though you have shown yourself knowledgeable, far more knowledgeable than any doctor I spoke with today, my guards will still hold you to your vow. Cure me, or you will be torn apart.”

“I must work quickly. I will need clean towels, hot water, and ice.”

A guard returned quickly with the necessary items, and after administering 3 small doses of numbing solution from her father´s bag, Helena made her first incision. She looked up to see the Sultan staring at the opening she had cut into his body. He was astonished to see the inner workings of his flesh.

“I feel nothing where you have cut me. I fear that means I am fading away,” he said.

“No, Majesty, all is well so far. But please, you must lean back and stay still.”

She toiled for two hours, not stopping to stretch her fingers, rub her back, or mop her brow. Despite the closeness of the room and the death sentence awaiting her if she failed, Helena remained composed and focused on each step of the surgery. At last, Helena stitched the sultan up and stood at her full height.

“It is done. The organ is implanted. You´ll feel weak for a few days as your body acclimates to the new structure and you heal the surgical wounds,” Helena explained as she drew still more vials and canisters from her father´s bag. “You´ll need to take these tablets every 3 hours for the next 4 days, and one teaspoon of each of these solutions via injection before eating.”

“Helena, I feel no pain, but I do feel weak. I fear your effort was all in vain,” sighed Abdülmecid. “I would ask to see my wife.”

Helena sat beside the sultan on the bed and took his hands firmly into her own. She looked into his eyes, her own ivory and lapis lazuli orbs regarding him with a steely gaze.

“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie which we ascribe to heaven,” Helena whispered over the Caliph´s fevered brow. “I have done all I can, but you must do your part as well. You must believe that all will be well, Majesty, because I assure you that it will. My art is not past power, nor you past cure.”

Helena adjusted the pillows from the monarch´s head, laid a cold palm against his chest, and smiled. “Bring the queen,” she told the guards.

#

Two days later, the sultan could eat soft foods. Seven days after that, the he was able to walk unaided. And two weeks after the surgery, Abdülmecid and Victoria held a ball to honor Helena al-Jazari, the new royal physician and the Anglo-Ottoman Empire´s newest celebrity.

Helena had never seen so many luminaries in a single room. The massive ballroom was filled with nobles, scholars, ambassadors, and, much to Helena´s delight, the most respected physicians from throughout the empire.

The great hall was lavishly appointed, with a skilled orchestra playing for the enjoyment of all in attendance. Helena watched a dozen couples take to the floor from an alcove by a buffet table, entranced by the effortless movement of their bodies. She was roused from her reverie by the voice of Abdülmecid.

“Come, Doctor al-Jazari, we must have you dance,” proclaimed the Sultan from the royal dais. With a single sentence, the music and sounds of speech fell silent, for no one in attendance wanted to miss the Sultan´s conversation with the woman that all of Constantinople was talking about.

“I thank Your Majesty, but I am without a partner.”

“Then we shall provide you with a partner, not only for dancing, but for life,” declared Queen Victoria.

“A most intriguing idea, my beloved,” said the Sultan, enclosing her delicate hand within his own. “There is no woman living in our empire that is more deserving of the blessing of marriage than our doctor, a woman who single-handedly preserved our union when it was at its most fragile.”

Helena surveyed the gathering, and found that all eyes were on her.

“Your Majesties are too generous. I am too low for such honor.”

“Nonsense, Miss al-Jazari,” retorted the queen. “You have saved our husband, and we would reward you handsomely for this deed. Our matrimony has composed the happiest hours of our life, and we would have you find such bliss as well.”

Any other woman would have blushed a deep crimson, but Helena never showed color on her cheeks. She surveyed all the personages who had assembled before the dais, and her lips formed the whisper of a smile.

“I would not be so bold as to contradict the commands of my sovereign rulers. There is perhaps one man here who I would be content to spend the rest of my life with. But I know that what is free for me to ask is still your choice to bestow. Perhaps you will rescind your offer when you see who I would choose.”

“Helena, any man you would make husband will do so at our command and with our blessing,” said the sultan. His voice rising to completely fill the room, he added, “And who among you would not be proud to take this woman to wife? Any who would shun her love, shuns all his love in me. Now, Helena, your selection we bid you to make. You have all the power to chose, and they none to forsake.”

Helena turned on her heels, and walked slowly, but purposefully, towards the rear of the great hall. As she moved, the crowds parted in her wake to give the royal dais an uninterrupted view of her path.

She stopped before a young Turkish lord of about 30. His face was unlined, his eyes a startling shade of leaf green. His thin-lipped mouth, usually set in a smirk, was still and somber on his face. The color drained further from his face the longer she looked upon him.

“Bertram Pasha,” Helena said in a tone of soft wonderment, “You may not recall it, but your father and mine were much acquainted, and both spoke often to me of your bravery in the field. I have followed your exploits against the Qajar, and against the Tsar. Without you, they say, we would have lost both wars. You are a just man, both to your soldiers and to your enemies. To my heart, you are the most honorable man in all of this vast new empire. I dare not say I take you; but I give myself and my service into your guiding power.”

Helena smiled at Bertram, then turned back to face the Queen and the Sultan.

“This is the man,” she declared.

A joyous cry rose up from the entire assembly. The royals applauded, women wept, and strong-armed soldiers clapped the shoulders of Lord Bertram in congratulatory waves. The orchestra began to play an effervescent melody, and Helena embraced her intended. But Bertram would not move, and wrenched himself from Helena´s grasp.

“Bertram, take her, dance with her. Why do you withdraw from your wife-to-be?” asked Queen Victoria.

“My wife?” asked Bertram. “My liege, my queen, I beseech you both: in such a business as love, give me leave to use my own eyes to choose a suitable woman.”

“Bertram, you know what she has done for me. She is to be celebrated this night for saving my life.”

“Yes, my good lord, though I do not understand why I must be the one to marry her.”

“She is all that is virtuous, Pasha,” said the sultan, his voice deepening. “She is young, wise, and fair. If her lack of title is all that distresses you, then a title she shall have, and a dowry.”

“I cannot love her, nor will I strive to show her love,” Bertram yelled, his voice echoing throughout the entire room like a roar.

“My lord,” said Helena. “I was a fool to think any man would want me for a wife, let alone the man I honor most. I am happy enough that you are cured, overjoyed that I may continue to serve you. I love my work, I will let the other types of love pass me by, with no malice towards this man.”

“No, Helena!” the sultan cried out. “If he will not obey my commands, then it is a challenge to my honor and my station. Bertram, you will check your disdain, or you will face my mercy. Take her by the hand, and tell her she is thine.”

“Your majesty, I will take her hand, but no more can I do.”

“Bertram, I tell you that this night will be your wedding night, and Helena shall be your bride.”

“I will not marry a woman who is not flesh and blood,” Bertram said, prompted the guests to snap their heads and scrutinize the woman who had saved their leader.

“Then you defy me?” asked the Sultan, with a tone like venom.

“I am your servant, in this as in all things,” Bertram announced. “But I beg you, consider how you would disable me. Could you truly give me to this creature? This mechanical Turk? How can I be expected to marry her, knowing that her clockwork womb will always be barren?”

At this, hushed voices flooded the hall. Helena looked every inch a woman, with long dark hair and pale skin. While some of the guests seemed to know Helena was a creation of clockwork and steam, nearly two-thirds of those assembled had been staring at her all night and noticed nothing out of the ordinary about her frame, or her manner of speech.

“My most exalted liege,” begged Helena, “I would not be the spouse he needs. I would be as a shadow, a wife in name, but not the thing.”

She stepped away from Bertram, and towards the royal dais. “I cannot bear him a child, this is true. My father crafted me from pistons and cogs. My heart pumps oil and steam instead of blood. Though I will love Bertram all of my days, I would not see him made unhappy to bring me joy.”

Helena crossed back to Bertram, and knelt before him. Looking up into his eyes, she spoke.

“In all the newspaper stories written about you, in your dealings with all assembled here tonight, I found you wondrous kind. I would not turn such warmth to fiery hate, not even to have you as my own.”

“In this, Helena, you are powerless to disobey me,” bellowed the sultan from his throne. He rose from his seat and, crossing to Helena the automaton and Lord Bertram, placed their hands forcefully together. “It is my will that you be given to this man, and he to you. I will not permit him to disobey my commands, and neither will I let you aid him. You are our most valued servant, and any loyal subject of ours should see betrothal to you as the high honor that it is.”

The room fell silent, completely silent, without even the buzz of a fly to ease the tension. After a span of moments, Helena extended her hand to Bertram, and spoke.

“Then, my lord Bertram, it seems we have no choice,” said Helena. “You have been chosen by me, and by our all-mighty Sultan. With all this done, will you be mine, now you are doubly won?”

“I will take your hand, and this night, if the Sultan and Queen demand it, we shall be married.”

The crowd released a second sound of approval, though it was more restrained than their first cheer. There were huzzahs, and applause; but there were also whispers and murmurs that soured the announcement.

“A wise choice, Bertram Pasha. You shall be wed this night to our fair Helena. But know this: if your marriage vows should prove untrue, then deadly divorce will step between Helena and you. On this, I will not waver.”

#

And so it was that Helena al-Jazari, a steam-powered creation, and Bertram Pasha, one of the most decorated captains of the Anglo-Ottoman Empire, were wed.

Helena was tucked beneath the covers of her wedding bed, waiting for her husband to join her. The sky was beginning to change from obsidian to cobalt, and she knew dawn could not be more than a half hour away.

The door swung open, the heavy wood impacting with great force against the stone wall. Betram rushed in, wearing his full uniform and carrying a large leather rucksack. In his left hand, he carried a his rifle, in his right, a white rose.

“Husband, what has happened?” Helena exclaimed, drawing the covers up over her chest.

“I have been called up to fight in Syria,” said Bertram, tossing the flower onto the bed. “I must leave immediately, but the sultan and his Queen wished for me to see you before I head to the front.”

“Then I must come with you! I can work as your field medic, and should anything happen to you, I can heal your wounds.”

“No, Helena, you must stay. The Sultan and his Victoria will not entrust the creation of his medicines to someone who is mere flesh and blood. Your cool precision is essential to the stability of the empire.”

“Tell me, husband. Will you miss me while you are waging war?”

“Helena, I have known you for a span of minutes. My heart is not so easily given, though the rest of my body is yours by decree of our Sultan.”

“Then will you not let me kiss that which is mine?” Helena said, slipping out of bed and walking towards him.

“I must go. Guard our royals carefully,” Bertram said, side-stepping Helena´s advances and walking out the door.

“When will you return to me, Bertram?” she called after him.

Without turning back to face her, Bertram replied: “When all the wars have been fought and won. Not a moment sooner.”

And then he was gone.

It was too much loss for one month. First her father, now her husband. For all her lifelike appearances, these few days had highlighted how different she was from everyone around her. Her heart was breaking, but she had no tears with which to cry. Father had never thought them necessary; they would be just another distraction when treating patients. She had just enough emotion to cause her pain, just enough to give her a compassionate bedside manner, but not enough to have catharsis.

“Do good, and throw it into the sea,” she whispered, recalling her father´s final words. If she could not make tears, then she would find an ocean of salt water to down her grief in.

And yet, she could not throw herself into the sea. It was not in her nature, her father would not have approved.

But her mind could not be turned from Bertram. If it was her offer of marriage that had propelled him towards this war that spared none, then she must be the one to bring him home. And she knew the one thing he wanted most from her, a way to end their separation: a child.

She was the royal physician. Whatever resources she required were hers for the asking, no matter the cost. Her father had taught her how to create steam-powered organs. Could unlocking the secrets of conception be much harder than that?