Capter 2 - The Highwaymen

The Highwaymen

“They are gaining on us Malus!”came Emerson’s warning shout, “Come on son, pedal to the medal!” It was about four in the afternoon, nearly twelve hours since Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus had bid Arnold adieu outside the clock/house in the Wheatstone Waterways, thus beginning their fantastic quest.

By far, the most treacherous part of their journey over the first eleven hours had been navigating the great steam-powered carriage around the canals and narrow streets of New Babbage. More than once, Malus had been required to disembark in order to push past an obstruction while Emerson shouted out words of encouragement. The next several hours had been rather unremarkable. Emerson had managed to write a few letters despite the bumps of the road. But then, quite suddenly, as they were considering breaking for a late afternoon snack, they were beset upon by three dark riders of questionable intentions.

“I’m riding this confounded carriage flat out,” Malus shouted back, “it won’t go any faster!” The sound of stress was clear in his voice as he manoeuvred the steering stick with frenetic side to side thrusts in a futile attempt to avoid ruts and bumps. He looked a bit like a bug, Emerson thought, with wisps of brown hair flying out at all angles from under the edges of his shiny new, chestnut-brown, patent leather riding helmet and designer goggles. “And besides,” Malus continued, “these steam-powered carriages are no match for a good horse, everyone knows that… and I don’t care who built it!”

“Perhaps you’d like to pass that message on to Dr. Obolensky yourself...” Emerson was about to add: should we ever make it back to New Babbage alive; but before he had the chance he felt the sting of something nick his ear just a bare fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the gunshot.

“They are shooting at us Malus!” He yelled with more than just a tinge of panic. He crouched down as low as could while still managing to peek over the top of the seat as the three highwaymen, riding at a full gallop, began closing the gap between them.

“Well?” Malus responded as he swerved to avoid a fallen tree covering half the road.

“Well what?” yelled Emerson gripping the sides of his seat so as not to be thrown from the vehicle.

“Shoot back!”

“Right…” Emerson made half an effort to look around. “Where did you pack my gun?”

“It is in that riding-gloves compartment in front of you!” Malus nodded without taking his eyes off the treacherous road ahead.

“That compartment is padlocked Malus!”

“You told me to lock it!” Malus didn’t even attempt to hide his exasperation, “to protect your hookah leaf!”

“So where is the key then?” Emerson didn’t like where this was heading.

“I gave it to you.”

“You did not!”

“I did so! Before we left, right when I gave you your riding gloves…”

“The riding gloves which are...”

“… in the compartment!” They both finished together.

Malus pulled the steering stick sharply to the left nearly tipping the carriage as it careened off the road and started a surprisingly much smoother ride across an open field beside them. Startled sheep suddenly scattered in all directions as the roaring steam-carriage, billowing a trail of thick black smoke mixed with clouds of steam, roared and hissed through their midst. Surely this was the dragon of legends!

Emerson desperately stared at the console, there must be something he could use with all the money he had put into upgrades. It was a pretty standard feature that Dr. Obolensky’s vehicles come rigged with explosives, but it seemed a pretty extreme measure to resort to that level of destruction at this point.

Before he and Malus had left New Babbage he had taken the carriage to Kamika Ying’s shop in order for her to add a few unique features. Unfortunately he got lost in her technical explanations of exactly what she had done so he wasn’t really sure what all the dials and buttons did. He pushed one marked with a grid-like symbol: “#”

Suddenly from the back of the car a canister flew high into the air. A second later the canister popped and a weighted net sailed through the air. One of the riders veered his horse sharply to avoid the net and in doing so crashed into two very confused sheep. The horse stumbled, tossing its rider before galloping off on its own.

Malus and Emerson cheered boisterously until the two remaining pursuers began shooting again.

“The horses!” cried Malus.

“What about the horse?” Emerson shouted back, hands hovering above the buttons uncertainly.

“You need to spook the horses and they’ll throw the riders!”

“With what?” Emerson turned, noting that the highwaymen continued to gain ground.

Malus scanned the flatness of the field with a mathematical eye, searching for a solution. Something about the geometry... “Snakes on a plane!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Snakes on a plane! Throw a snake at the horses!”

“Where am I going to get a snake?”

“We had a Ying Industries Mk 4 Pivot Mounted Pressurized Snake Gun installed as one of the upgrades! Surely you remember.”

“The Snake Gun! Of course!”

Emerson braced one hand against the console to steady his other hand as is sought the right button. It had to be the one marked with the symbol: ‘~’

A panel over the rear left wheel slid back and up popped an elegant brass railgun. Emerson turned and threw his bulk across the back of the seat, grabbing the snake gun with both hands to aim it while hanging on for dear life.

“Malus, why can’t you steady us out,” shouted Emerson in frustration as the carriage began to rattle over rows and rows of potato furrows.

“Just fire it!” yelled Malus.

Suddenly a half dozen snakes flew back across the field and fell writhing at on the ground before the approaching horses. As predicted, both horses reared throwing both riders in the process.

“It worked!” Malus laughed. “We did it Mr. Lighthouse, we did it.”

“We did indeed Malus, we did indeed." laughed Emerson, clapping Malus on the shoulder, caught up in the excitement of escape. Taking the pin from his riding scarf, he began to pick at the lock which was preventing access to the riding-gloves compartment. After all that excitement, he thought, this would be an ideal time for some of that hookah leaf. “From here on in, Malus, it is smooth riding...” he said managing to turn the pin with a most satisfying click, “...until we get to Bump."

Just then the ground collapsed beneath them. The magnificent steam-powered carriage and the two shocked riders quite suddenly dropped from sight.

Chapter 1 - The Wager

The Wager

At the sound of the opening door, Victor Mornington looked up from his seat behind the bar where he sat reviewing the day’s ledger, “Welcome Mr. Lighthouse.” he called out “What brings you all the way up to the Academy this fine evening?”

“Rumours, Mr. Mornington, rumours.” replied Emerson Lighthouse smiling as he closed the door behind him.

“And what would be the nature of these rumours?” Victor replied confident in the tone of his guest that these were the rumours of a friendly nature.

Emerson Lighthouse wasn’t quite ready to tip his hand just yet. “The Muirsheen Durkin seems a little quiet tonight Mr. Mornington.” Emerson smiled offering his hand before taking a seat opposite Victor.

“It’s a Monday night... and it is still early yet,” Victor replied with a shrug, “but don’t let that stop you.” he smiled. “What can I offer you...” he paused before adding “Sir.” The two men laughed.

“Well,” Emerson began “That brings me to the rumours of which I just spoke. Word is you have some fine Chivas Regal... aged 25 years.”

“Well, that ‘word’ would be correct...” Emerson held up his hand before Victor could continue.

“… and perhaps even, dare I say it, Montecristos.” Emerson looked smug.

“Really...” now it was Victor’s turn to be coy, “and where might you have heard that ‘word’?”

“Oh, I have my sources.” Emerson watched as Victor free poured two rocks glasses half full of Chivas Regal adding, “I assume you take it neat.” It was more a comment than a question.

“Of course.”

"Now as to that other item...” Victor’s pause had the desired effect of heightening Emerson’s anticipation, “...the Montecristos about which you heard word...” Victor continued, retrieving a box from the humidor below the bar, “well, those are fine for casual smoking...” Emerson leaned forward sensing something of a tease in Victor’s voice, “But for those of truly discriminating tastes I have....” Victor raised the hinged lid of the dark wooden box

Emerson’s jaw dropped, “Sagrada Lucias” he whispered barely able to believe what he was seeing. He was about to add: those look genuine, but he caught himself before the insult slipped out because beyond doubt Victor would never be one to offer knock-offs. “May I?” Emerson hesitated.
“Of course.” Victor grinned.

Emerson reached out, taking one of the cigars, marvelling at the exquisite craftsmanship that went into winding the red, gold and green leaf with such precision.

“How is this possible?” Emerson asked, “The Hoja del Diablo Dulce only matures once every 100 years. It is exceedingly rare. Families spend generations in an effort to cultivate just a single crop.” Emerson stopped himself noting Victor’s grin. “Okay Mr. Mornington, we all have our secrets.” Emerson conceded.

“You know Mr. Lighthouse,” Victor retrieved a guillotine cigar cutter from beneath the bar. “There is a remote island I know of, just south of the equator...” Emerson watched as Victor expertly sliced the end off of one of the cigars before handing it to him, “celebrating the 100-year harvest this very month of October.” Victor continued, returning the guillotine to its place below the bar after preparing one for himself. “But as you know, sales are brisk and such limited stocks won’t last long.”
Emerson nodded, “And how quickly could you deliver the product Mr. Mornington?”

“I could deliver the product yesterday Mr. Lighthouse.” Emerson laughed though something in Victor’s joke rang true. “But I have no need myself, being fully stocked.” Victor held a flame from a small flint-action gold-plated lighter.

“But you know the exact location of this island?” Emerson leaned in accepting the light.

“Of course,” Victor paused to light his own cigar, “but you will never make it in time.”

“The devil I won’t sir,” Emerson felt the heady aroma sending waves throughout his entire body. “For a box of these I would make sufficient haste. Why I could be there and back by my Birthday, November 11th.”

“Come now Mr. Lighthouse,” Victor said not unkindly as the purple tinged smoke drifted lazily from his mouth, “even if one were to take an airship there and back, it is extremely unlikely one could meet those time constraints.”

“If one were to catch just the right airstreams... the southerly flow which is accessible from just north of Bump, for example.” Emerson said. “Why I bet one could quite easily manage it.”

“An interesting boast” Victor mused “but for a truly sporting wager, such a voyage would have to have some restrictions.” Victor continued. “For example, at least seven means of transportation must be used, and you would have to send a telegram, or other message, marking your progress not less than once per week.”

“Are we negotiating the terms of a wager then, Mr. Mornington?” Emerson drained the Chivas and held the glass out for more. Victor refilled both the rocks glasses to the halfway mark.

“Well that depends entirely on what we have to bargain with.” replied Victor. “For my part I’m willing to offer a year of Chivas on the house, whenever you come to the Muirsheen Durken.”

“Okay,” Emerson began, “how about I offer you the services of my Majordomo, Arnold, for a year... in the unlikely event I lose.” Victor didn’t look quite convinced, “He could mop up the floor in the bar for you every night.” Come on, Emerson thought, the odds are in your favour. It was several moments before Victor nodded, “That would do.”

Emerson drained his glass again as Victor wrote out the island’s name and coordinates. “Very good then,” Emerson said, glancing at the information before slipping it into his pocket. “I best get started.” He stood, clenching the Sagrada Lucia in his teeth as he shook Victor’s hand. “Thank you for the Chivas, Mr. Mornington, put the drinks on my tab,” Emerson grinned, “after-all it should be my last bill of charge for about a year and a month.”

Victor shook his head, “Tonight was on me Mr. Lighthouse.” He paused before adding with all sincerity, “Good luck Emerson. Be careful out there.”

“Thank you Victor.”

***

Malus had just sat down to enjoy the steak and onions he had only moments ago finished preparing for himself. Even before he had cut his first bite, Emerson burst through the door, a cloud of purple smoke still emanating from the soggy cigar stump he clenched between his teeth. “Pack it up to go Malus.” Emerson sounded manic. “Start the fire in the boiler of the carriage and get word to Mr. Arnold to get here ASAP. He starts house sitting tomorrow. You and I are off to Bump before the sun rises.”

A Very, Very Brief Note

To Ms. Hienrichs

Dear Ms Hienrichs,

By the time you discover this note my squire Malus and I will be halfway to Bump on a mission of unparalleled importance. I shall be gone about 5 weeks. In my absence I have hired the services of Mr. Arnold to care for the properties next to yours. I apologize for this inconvenience in advance.

Sincerely,

Emerson Lighthouse

Prologue 2 - Brother Malus Takes a Walk

Brother Malus Takes A Walk

From within the shadows of the alleyway, a scrawny, mottled and mangy canal rat looked up from his nightly scavenging to see a dark hooded figure approach. The rat was not unaccustomed to seeing strangers walk passed, but this one’s stride seemed sober, which was a little unusual, given the area and the hour.

Unaware he was being watched the young, dark-haired monk, Brother Malus, paused under the light of one of the newly polished street lamps. He lowered his cowl allowing the cool autumn air to wash over his face and refresh his senses. Autumn has come early to New Babbage this year, he thought, lamenting the added expense of coal to the already stretched church budget. How had the tide of fortune turned so quickly?

Malus looked to the east, noting the lightening of the sky. It will be dawn soon and I should be getting back before Lapis awakens and knows I am still out.

Brother Malus had been walking since midnight. For the past several nights he’d been frustrated over his inability to work through a particularly troublesome fifth order differential equation. The eighteen year-old brother, never the humble one, had always taken pride in the unrivalled speed of his mathematical abililty. Meals were getting smaller, and without the usual diet the monks enjoyed, it was getting harder to concentrate. They were even reduced to eating the fruitcake stored in the cellar under the cathedral, the one item that had not been raided. Impoverishment was not a station in which Malus thrived.

It was during this brief reverie when he noticed a bill stuck to the lamp pole. He read through the advertisement twice and still didn’t know what to make of it. “Is this a joke?” he said aloud. Who in their right mind would seek the services of a knight’s squire in this age of modernity? He looked at the paper again shaking his head. Emerson Lighthouse, Malus had heard the name spoken around town, though the two had never met. Brother Malus tried to recall what he could about the gentleman, but the man seemed a bit of an unknown element, another eccentric who lived in a clock.

Well, it’s time we met Mr. Lighthouse, decided Brother Malus. Emerson Lighthouse, it was rumoured, was wealthy. In fact he even had the audacity to describe himself as a man of leisure, rubbing salt in the wounds of those who could afford no leisure. Well Mr. Lighthouse, in these times of economic hardship it should be the duty of those who have the means provide for those who don’t.

Pulling the bill from the lamppost Brother Malus quickly turned down a nearby alley, nearly tramping upon an alarmed rat in his haste. With a renewed sense of purpose, he made his way through the maze of canals that formed the Wheatstone Waterways eventually arriving at the clock-tower where Mr. Lighthouse resided.

Despite the early hour, the flickering of a lantern’s light could be seen through the ground level windows suggesting the occupant might be awake. As Brother Malus approached he discovered another sign that Mr. Lighthouse was awake: the strong scent of coffee spilling under the door. Malus felt his head start to swim as he climbed the steps to the door… that smell is proof beyond all else of the great divinity beyond.

Resolving himself that this was all for the church, Brother Malus gave three sharp raps upon the white painted door. Several moments passed without a sound from the inside. He was considering knocking again when the door opened.

Brother Malus was a little taken aback by what he saw. The man appeared to be in his early forties, tall with mostly silver hair and an odd style of red rimmed glasses. But that was not what alarmed Brother Malus. Mr. Lighthouse appeared dishevelled, as one who’d been up all night. In his eyes, Brother Malus saw the unmistakable signs of someone who had been crying.

“What can I do for you Brother?” asked Emerson finally breaking the silence. He then noticed the paper Malus still held in his hand. “Oh, you’ve come about the job then. Please come in.” Emerson stood to the side before adding, “Would you like a cup of coffee Brother?”

Coffee. The young monk hesitated at the doorway, taking a deep breath... savoring the rich and delicious aroma. Real coffee, not that burnt root and leaf substitute that Sister Loxely had been brewing after the rectory ran out. The man had real coffee. Like an epiphany, Brother Malus knew what he had to do.

“My name is Martin Malus. I am here about the job.”

A Letter To Mr. Arnold

Dear Mr. Arnold,

Thank you for your recent expressed interest in job competition #00001 for the position of Knight's Squire (in the service of a knight of the highest distinction and unimpeachable honour). Unfortunately the position for which you have applied has been filled. I understand how this news must come as a great disappointment for you (given your obvious fascination with me and my business affairs). Therefore, in an effort to mitigate your despair I offer you the following opportunity by way of a consolation.

As I am sure you have heard, Squire Malus and I are preparing to embark on a most remarkable adventure... a quest if you will. In my absence I require the services of a majordomo to maintain my property and discourage squatters from taking up residence. I can think of no one better skilled at discouraging visitors from overstaying their welcome than you. In addition, your duties will include collecting mail and managing my accounts (use the books on the desk, not the ones in the drawer).

Also, I would request that you power-up the Tesla cannon once per day to keep it primed. You may want to fire off a round or two every few days (to remind the theatre owner across the canal that it still functions). Miss MacBain may be stopping by to raid the ice-box. Try not to antagonize her, she is doing so with my permission. Please stay out of the basement of the house next to the clock, it is locked for a reason.

We can discuss compensation upon my return... but I won't expect you to pay too much for the honour of service.

Yours respectfully,

Sir Emerson Lighthouse, NBE

Prologue 1 - The Errant Knight

On the nature of titles: a letter to His Grace, Colonel (ret.) Sir Edward Pearse, 1st Duke of Argylle, 12th Earl of Primbroke, KWL, OWR

Your Grace,

Please forgive this unsolicited missive. I am writing you with a most urgent question on the nature of titles and, more importantly, the documentation one might require to rightfully claim such a title. My reason for the enquiry is as follows: I have recently determined that I have received a knighthood.  Having recieved such an honour, I believe I have a legal claim to the title ‘Sir’.

Now while it is true I have no evidence for having received this knighthood (nor do I recall ever being knighted) I believe I actually am a knight. Since beliefs cannot be disproved (so long as one accepts that belief as a matter of faith) then there is, in fact, no proof I am not a knight.

Yet, as one steeped in the art of science, I acknowledge that this argument may not stand in the face of objective scrutiny. Further, I recognize the need for any theory to be rigorously tested. Therefore I set before you a mathematical proof following the course laid out so elegantly by Euclid in that most esteemed little manual: Elements of Geometry.

First we begin with an axiom, the truth of which is indisputable in that I know it to be true:

• Axiom: I have no recollection of my life before New Babbage.

Accepting this axiom I next offer the following propositions:

• Proposition 1: As I have no memory of a life before New Babbage, I therefore have no memory of not being knighted.
• Proposition 2: As I have no memory of not being knighted, it is therefore possible I was knighted.
• Proposition 3: We may thusly conclude there is a potential for two contradictory truths:

A) I was a knight and B) I was not a knight.

Here, Your Grace, we arrive at the crux of my argument. As the evidence clearly shows, I was as equally likely to have been a knight, as I was to have not been a knight in a previous life. Further, there is no basis upon which one might suppose I was not a knight. And if one were not to suppose I was not a knight then clearly I would be free to suppose I was a knight.

As you can see through this demonstration of mathematics and logic, while it may 'feel right' emotionally to believe I am a knight, it is more than just a subjective hunch. It most clearly and indisputably is scientifically mandated. Therefore I salute you as –

Sir Emerson Lighthouse, NBE

PS: Note that I am not indicating I plan to use the title, merely that I reserve the right to use the title should the fancy strike me, EL

Job Posting

Competition #00001

Position: Knight's Squire in the service of a knight of high distinction and unimpeachable honour

Duties: The successful candidate will be expected to perform standard squirely duties during parades, festivals and various civic functions; in addition, the successful candidate will be expected to take dictation on a daily basis as the employer has many great ideas that need to be recorded; finally, it is the responsibility of the successful candidate to correct grammatical and factual inconsistencies, without compromising the natural integrity of the employer's thought process.*

Further Qualifications and Limitations:

• Discretion is mandatory
• The consumption of alcohol between sunrise and noon will not be tolerated **
• The successful applicant must be willing to bathe at least once per week
• Hours are variable - but not flexible
• Compensation is nonnegotiable and will be based soley on the applicant's prior squiring experience ***
• Start date is yet to be determined

All interested parties are welcome to apply. Slip your resume under the door of the clock/house tower at Lighthouse Landing in the Wheatstone Waterways quoting competition #00001 on the outside of the envelope.

Fine print section:

* In addition to the above mentioned duties, on rare occasions, the successful candidate may be called upon to alleviate any negative repercussions resulting from possible moral indescretions (allegedly) committed by the employer.

**Unless for medicinal purposes, such as the treatment of insomnia, nervous anxiety, gout, etc.

***Experienced squires need not apply

Emerson Takes the Red-Eye

“Well… this has been quite the vacation.” Emerson Lighthouse said dryly, his voice hoarse from all the shouting.  He was cold and starting to feel quite nauseous drenched as he was from head to toe in blood and excrement.  The tiny rowboat which had facilitated their escape was being tossed this way and that in the stormy night seas. The one small consolation: it hadn’t yet started to rain.

“Look on the bright side,” Petharic yelled back so as to be heard above the wind and waves, “one way or another, this will all be over soon.” He waved the Colt around menacingly, as if drawing out a target around Emerson’s face.

Emerson might have taken the bait and snapped but his mood had festered into something so vile that he was no longer able to consistently respond.  More often than not, over the last several hours, he would lose himself for lengthy, sullen moments, caught in a loop where he was getting angry over nothing more than his own anger.  He licked his parched lips before recalling the noxious coating his body had been doused in.  It was all too much: the violent rocking of the boat; the suffocating stench; the lack of sleep; the fighting… and the stress of running for their lives from a foreign criminal justice system. He felt his stomach heave. Gripping the rail for support Emerson tried retch over the side of the boat. Somehow he missed. He began to wonder if the prudent course of action wouldn’t be to just jump in and drown.

“This is entirely all your fault!” he accused after he had somewhat finished being sick.  Under the flash of lightening, his rage took on an almost demonic countenance.   “I should never have listened to you!”

“My fault!” Petharic almost pulled the trigger shooting Emerson where he sat. But his hands were so cold and slick in their own coating of kraken goo that he wasn’t so sure of his aim anymore… a consideration made all the more relevant as he was down to his last bullet.

“YourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT!” Emerson bellowed nonsensically.

“Good God man, you’re hysterical. Pull yourself together.” Petharic sounded disgusted.

“If you hadn’t been threatening me with that ridiculously obscene gun of yours the police would never have pulled us over!” Emerson pointed out.

“Well, if you hadn’t had a bag stuffed with narcotics in the back of the carriage we never would have been arrested!” Petharic countered. “And besides, it was my plan that got us out!”

“Got us out! Out where? Where are we Petharic?” The question was purely rhetorical. He knew very well where they were: floating in a leaky rowboat in the middle of a stormy ocean about 150 nautical miles southeast of Armada Breakaway. “And what happens if and when we ever get back to New Babbage?” Another rhetorical question…they both knew Petharic planned to shoot Emerson the moment he handed over what Petharic had been sent to retrieve.

“Listen… there is no sense in starting into bickering yet again.” Yelled Petharic, “We’ve had quite enough of that don’t you think!”

Emerson was about to reply when the ocean began to foam and fizz like a soda-water float.  “Here they come!” Shouted Petharic as he holstered the Colt and gripped the sides of the boat. “Get ready.”

“You are sure this bath of bloody-entrails-sea-kraken-sludge will protect us.” While not strictly phrased as a question this statement demanded a reply.

“I think so!”

“You THINK so!” Emerson’s indignation flew into an all-out rage.  “I thought you knew for sure. I thought you had some sort of educated insider information in the area of air-kraken mechanics.” At this point his ire became so intense that it actually slipped out by way of a snort. “I’ve sat in dead kraken guts for two days and you think it might work!”

Emerson completely lost it. He charged the stern of the little rowboat with his hands aimed for Petharic’s throat.  Petharic responded by cuffing both of Emerson’s ears, followed up by an unexpected head-butt.  Emerson staggered momentarily stunned before responding with a sharply thrust knee to the groin. Who could say what threatened to overturn the boat more… the increasingly violent bubbles bursting around them or their own increasingly frenzied attacks.  The cursing was obscene as they wrestled for dominance. There were no rules with which either combatant constrained himself. Petharic eventually succeeded in flipping Emerson onto his back and pinning him down with the gun-hand while slapping him across the face with the other yelling, “Wake-up dummy! Wake-up!”

Emerson woke up by wrenching the Colt from Petharic’s grasp.  He then beat him in the side of the head with the butt of the gun to knock him away. Emerson regained his balance first, rising to his knees and pointing the gun at Petharic chest. With his free hand he started pulling at his shirt and vest, popping buttons as he tore it open down the front.

“I can’t take another moment of this intolerable stench!” Emerson shouted as he struggled maniacally to free himself of his top.  Switching the Colt from hand to hand he worked himself out of his shirt then balled it up and threw the bloody, crusty garment at Petharic.  Rather unsteadily, he continued the process with his pants and boots.  In the end, Emerson made for quite a sight, swaying almost to the point of being off balance, naked as the day he was born, aiming the loaded Colt at Petharic’s head. He looked as if he had every intention of shooting… but he never got the chance. Something came up under one side of the boat so suddenly, and with such force that Emerson went over the rail.

The underwater turmoil roared in his ears. He spluttered and splashed, flailing madly as the cold salt water repeatedly washed over him. He tried to kick his way to the surface but the water was so agitated with an effervescent turbulence making it a challenge just to stay afloat.

Somehow he managed to get his head above the surface long enough to shout, “Petharic, throw me an oar, I’m drowning.” But before Petharic could respond the Kraken began to take flight rising from the frothy brine. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them broke the churning surface of the ocean. Dripping, dark and horrifying… mantles pointed skyward… great writhing tentacles like suckered serpents trailing beneath… the creatures took to the air.

 

Something brushed against his legs. Emerson felt himself being pushed to the surface… the calcified mantle of one leviathan breaching the surface beneath him.  As the creature continued to rise, Emerson’s slid down along the hard surface towards the soft fleshy part. While admittedly vague on his understanding of cephalopod anatomy, he identified the soft ‘centre’ as the head.  Eventually he came to rest against the outward curving lip of the mantle. He was surprised to discover it provided a somewhat secure backrest against which he was able to settle in with a moderate degree of comfort.

Below, not wanting to lose his chance, Petharic leapt from the boat catching a creature as it rose from the depths. Emerson held his breath as Petharic somehow managed to find a handhold and scramble securely to his own little nook. Suddenly Emerson started to panic.

“Petharic!” he called out. “The water has washed me clean of the dead sea-kraken guts!” But Petharic was in no position from which to offer assurances. Emerson watched with a mix of horror and relief as the beast upon which Petharic was perched reached a great suckered tentacle up and with a very precise flick, knock him into the air.  Another tentacle caught Petharic before he hit the water and deftly brought him to its mouth swallowing him down in a gulp and a half.  It all happened so fast that Emerson could hardly believe what he had seen.  Who would have thought that dead sea-kraken would be the perfect bait.

Despite howling wind and churning sea, the night seemed to assume a sombre silence. Emerson waited, hardly daring to breath, expecting at any second the tentacle that would knock him off his perch… but it never appeared. After his bath in the ocean he smelled more of salt water than dead sea-kraken.  The beast upon which Emerson rode appeared oblivious to its passenger.  It continued to rise-up leaving the storm clouds far below, joining the monstrous flotilla adrift towards the northwest, beneath a starry sky. The winds, according to Petharic’s jailhouse plan, should carry him and his hosts all the way to the skies above New Babbage.  As Emerson settled in for the flight he was suddenly bothered by two nagging thoughts. First, how does one entice a giant flying squid to land upon arrival at one’s destination and, more importantly, how does one maintain a sense of dignity when disembarking fully nude!

The Highway Incident

1

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the way the day dawned across the forest. For the timid little lemur, about to make his run to the other side of the two wheel ruts (which the locals called a road) the breaking dawn of this day was essentially no different than any other day he’d ever known. Yet through the astonishing quirks of chance, disparate lives will often converge resulting in a complex set of unknowable consequences… each consequence representing a change to our comfortable routines. And so it was, with blissful ignorance, our little lemur left the safety of the trees, unaware he was about to spark a debate on philosophical ethics. For not more than five-minutes up the road, mounted atop a steam driven carriage, two tourists assaulted the morning’s peace most rudely.

“Why don’t you just admit you are lost?” Emerson Lighthouse goaded

       “Please enlighten me as to just what indications I have given that would suggest I don’t know where we are?” Petharic‘s patronizing tone was a well-honed skill.

       “There’s just something about this that doesn’t seem right.”

       “Listen, we were instructed to continue riding straight until we reach to the first major intersection. We then turn right. We’ve passed no major intersections therefore we continue going straight.” He punctuated the last three words by synchronizing them with three consecutive hand chops.

       “There was that road about a mile back.”

       “On the left.” Petharic’s every breath reeked of exasperation. “And, as I said back then, ‘T-intersections don’t count.’”

       “I think you should pull over at the next sign of civilization and let me get out and ask someone.”

       “I’m not pulling over just to satisfy your anxiety.”

Emerson remained quiet for almost a minute before breaking the silence: “How is it possible that you can drive stick,” his voice rising above the clamour of the steam engine, “and still manage to point that offensive weapon so steadily at my head?”

       “You don’t need to start worrying about my driving skills.” Petharic defended with a touch more testiness than was required.

       “It’s a little odd, don’t you think? I mean usually the bad guy forces the good guy to drive so he can concentrate on being a menace with a gun.”

       “I never realized before just how incessantly you chatter. You haven’t shut-up since we left… and besides, I am not the bad guy here.”

Emerson remained silent for at least a half minute before suggesting: “Why don’t you let me drive, you sound a bit stressed out and I wouldn’t want that thing going off because of nerves.”

       “Listen, I drive. You keep your eyes on the road and look for signs of trouble.”

       “You’re the only trouble I’ve seen.”

       “What did I tell you about your chatter?”

       “I just want to go back to New Babbage now.”

       “The sooner you help me find the airship port the sooner we can board a flight back to New Babbage.”

Emerson started to tap his fingers against the side of his leg several times in apparent nervousness before calling out, “Would you mind pulling over, I have to relieve myself.”

       “What?” Petharic sounded incredulous at so obvious a ploy.

       “Are you going to make me repeat myself? I need to pee.”

       “Hold it.”

       “I can’t, I really have to go.”

       “Are you serious, we’ve been driving for less than an hour.”

       “What can I say other than… pull over so I can pee!”

       “You know, there’s probably a better place to stop just around this next bend, perhaps an inn or something. Try to hold it.” Just then a small ring-tailed lemur ran into the road!

      

“Look out!” Emerson grabbed for the wheel causing the carriage to veer sharply to the side thus narrowly missing the stunned creature. “You nearly hit that animal.”

       “So!” Petharic shouted, hitting the braking mechanism. “Never turn the wheel like that again. If we hit the animal we hit the animal. That will be one less dumb lemur to reproduce… better for all the smart ones.” Petharic had been reading a lot lately.

       “But if you can reasonably miss the animal with limited risk to yourself then isn’t that the compassionate and thus the morally responsible option. You surprise me Mr. Morally-Uptight-Bounty Hunter/Judge or whatever.” Emerson countered Petharic’s sanctimony with the hypocrite defense.

       Petharic responded by employing a tone of academic erudition. “I believe it was John Stuart Mill who said: logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” Petharic paused relishing his own sagacity. “In this case, we are the many, and the lemur is the few.”

       “Or the one.” Emerson said barely above a whisper. He then added with a tone of exaggerated disbelief: “Are you sure John Stuart Mill said that?”

       “It may be a paraphrased version.” replied Petharic. “But forget that now, this is your chance.”

“Chance?” Emerson was suddenly overcome with a wave of suspicious paranoia. He’d never, in actuality, had to relieve himself. It was all just an attempt to get Petharic to pull over. Emerson was, in fact, working through a rather promising plan. The steam carriage (which he’d bought through a neighbourly acquaintance in New Babbage) came rigged with explosives. On the right underside of the passenger seat was a little dial which, when turned, started a clock mechanism. Exactly one minute after being activated the carriage and everyone in it would be blown to pieces. If he could turn that dial, then get far enough away from the carriage (while Petharic remained in the driver’s seat of course) his problems would be only moments away from being solved. Unfortunately this potential outcome depicts a best case scenario, not necessarily a most likely to succeed scenario. And here is the root of Emerson’s anxiety. What if Petharic has somehow figured it all out?

“We’re stopped,” Petharic squinted his eyes quizzically as he broke Emerson’s reverie. “Your chance to find relief.” he waved towards the trees along the side of the road.

This seems promising, Emerson thought, for from his vantage, it didn’t appear as though Petharic knew anything about the dial-detonator. Emerson breathed relief… just baseless paranoia. “Okay,” he said, swinging his leg over the side of the carriage all the while reaching for the dial. “I’ll be right back.” But the dial wasn’t there! In its place a hole marred the leather seat cover.

“Looking for this.” In his nongun hand Petharic held up the dial, still connected by wires to the car (and, one would assume the explosives).” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Amateur.”

Emerson lost it. He lunged at Petharic in a desperate bid to wrench that detonator switch from his grasp. He managed to get his fingers under the edges of the box casing before Petharic deflected the attack by delivering a nasty elbow blow to the ribs. He then followed this with a rather questionable kick to the kneecap. Emerson, despite the pain, was determined to hang on… and would have done so had he been stronger. Petharic inevitably managed to wrench his hand free and push Emerson to the floor of the carriage. He raised his arm and took deliberated aim. Emerson found himself staring straight down the barrel of the Colt. Somehow Emerson knew he wouldn’t be shot.

With a heart jolting suddenness, a single shot rang out, shattering what little early morning peace remained. The little lemur, having endured enough excitement ran off deep into the woods. Emerson and Petharic both jumped at the unexpected report. The round had been fired in the air by the leader of the 12 member, heavily armed cavalry now circling the two combatants and their rather remarkable steam powered carriage.

2

The Captain of the Royal Guard had heard of such fantastic machines before, but never actually seen one until now. It was spectacular. Brass and polished steel gleamed with the pride of industry in the subtropical summer sun. The two riders, while largely hidden by the sides of the carriage were no longer shouting at each other. The Captain called out a greeting followed by orders to disembark from the carriage and surrender their arms.

“There you go Mr. Petharic!” Emerson pointed up from the floor of the carriage (where he still lay sprawled). “You are going to go to jail!” He sounded almost gleeful. “I believe even in this remote island kingdom attempted murder remains an indictable offense.”

“No one is going to go to jail.” Petharic assured as he casually re-holstered his Colt. “They are just looking for a bribe. Give me your identification papers.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I am going engage in a parley and they will want to know who they are dealing with. Satisfied? Now, give me your papers.” Emerson nodded, acknowledging the sense of Petharic’s plan.

Petheric reached down to offer him a hand up as Emerson retrieved the documents. Quite casually (during the process of helping Emerson to his feet) he accepted and pocketed the papers in an outside jacket pocket.  All the while, the Captain of the cavalry continued to call out what they assumed were surrender orders, but they couldn’t say for sure. Not only was the Captain’s dialect foreign to their ears, but neither of them had been paying attention.

“Come with me,” Petharic instructed so as only Emerson could hear. “Stop just before I reach him. And don’t say anything,” he emphasized, “let me clear this all up.”

“You don’t have enough rounds to clear this all up.”

“I believe diplomacy is still the best course of action.” He then disembarked the steam carriage closely followed by Emerson.  Together the two men advanced towards the horsemen.

As they approached, the Captain held up his hand for them to halt. “What business have you gentleman this morning that we should find you coming to blows?” The Captain’s speech rang with the rich phonetics of his native tongue. Emerson found the foreign dialect to be surprisingly cheerful.

“Please let me apologise for this most unfortunate incident.” Petharic offered.  “What began as a minor misunderstanding between fellow travellers ashamedly escalated to an unacceptable level. Rest assured it will not happen again… so long as we are on your native soil.”

Wow, thought Emerson with a genuine sense of admiration, this guy can sugar the truth into something quite palatable.

“It has happened to the best of us.” The Captain dismissed half of his guard to inspect the carriage. He then seemed to hesitate before continuing… as if pondering some sort of moral dilemma. “One might be persuaded to look the other way had a weapon not been involved.”

“Oh, I’m sure one could still be persuaded to look the other way,” said Petharic “should the flash of silver catch in one’s periphery.”

“The flash of gold is so much more blinding don’t you think?” The Captain would have continued to converse most favourably, had he not been interrupted by the approach of one of his men returning from the steam carriage. In his hands was a green leather satchel emblazoned with the monogram “EL” in orange and gold. The soldier opened the bag and held it at an angle so the captain could peer inside.

The Captain’s face fell at once to a very serious countenance. “Who’s bag is this?” He no longer sounded so cheerful.  Emerson and Petharic stood in silence. “Gentleman,” The captain was at once stern a severe, “I will not ask a third time: who owns this bag?” each word was punctuated for clarity.

“It’s his.” Emerson pointed at Petheric.

“What!!” Petharic couldn’t help the outburst. The absolute audaciousness of Emerson’s claim was incredible.

“It’s true, Officer, his name is Emerson Lighthouse and he kidnapped me.”

“You are going a little off script Dr. Lighthouse.” Emerson should have taken note of the danger rising in Petharic’s voice; taken that as a cue to remain silent. Instead he turned to the Captain and said: “It is a simple matter to confirm. Check his outside jacket pocket. That is where he keeps his identification papers.”

Petharic had heard enough. He drew the Colt and in a single motion, aimed it at the middle of Emerson’s head.  For the second time that morning, Emerson found himself staring down the barrel of the Colt… only this time it stared back with a bitter determination. Who can say with any certainty if Petharic would have pulled the trigger? It was enough that the surrounding cavalry believed he would pull the trigger. Within moments the forest resounded with the echoes of gunfire. Long before the last of those echoes faded in the distance, Petharic lay dead, crumpled like a marionette suddenly bereft of strings.

Something about this doesn’t seem real, thought Emerson, as if it we are living some thought rather than some action.  But there, before him, lay Petharic. How could he deny his senses? He shook off the sense of déjà vu. This is really happening. He couldn’t imagine a more fortunate turn of events.

“Well,” began the Captain, the discomfort he felt over the severity of the response apparent in his voice, “I suppose you would be free to go then… so long as you pay the clean-up and body removal tax. What did you say your name was…?” The Captain eyed Emerson.

“Petharic… my name is Mr. Petharic.” said Emerson reaching up to shake the Captain’s hand. “And I would be most delighted to pay any fine you see fit.” Before the two men finished shaking however, the air rang out with a mighty explosion! Apparently, just over a minute ago, as a result of a combination of curiosity and human nature, one of the cavalrymen upon finding a curious dial on the floor of the steam carriage, decided to turn it - just to see what would happen. In this case curiosity killed no cats, just a couple of horses and half the Captain’s men. Emerson felt the man’s grip upon his hand tighten with vice-like intensity. This was indeed a most unwelcome turn of events.

The Camping Incident

1

Emerson Lighthouse felt as though he was being eaten alive, a distinct possibility in this infernal kingdom, he thought as he swiped in mild annoyance at the tiny flying creatures hovering near the nape of his neck. Even though the sun was finally beginning to set, the heat of the day still held this tiny, uncharted island in an oppressive grip. As a rule, he found the tropics to be most unpleasant and longed to be back in the more temperate jungle of brick and steel. New Babbage… where it’s either too cold or too smoggy to support all these wretched bugs, he thought. But Emerson needed to focus right now; he had a job to do and there was no sense in whining about the heat without anyone around to appreciate the performance.

Ever so quietly, he crept along the upper lip of the escarpment. Below him slept the cold hearted killer who had hunted him across this island many times over. Maybe there is something to fate after-all, he mused, otherwise how ironic that my nemesis, who has hunted me without mercy now sits unaware of the fact that he is now the prey.

In front of Emerson, almost too well positioned to be believed, was a large round boulder just waiting to be nudged into skull-crushing motion. Yet as he placed his hands on the cold, hard stone a thought flickered through his mind: perhaps I should show a little compassion and take this opportunity to just sneak off quietly. But it was only a fleeting flicker that went dark almost as soon as it sparked. He leaned his shoulder to the boulder and heaved.

Unfortunately the rock was a little heavier than he anticipated and it didn’t so much as budge. Intensifying his efforts, Emerson braced his legs and with a weightlifter’s grunt heaved for all he was worth. It moved… but maybe only an inch…

The next sequence of events all happened a bit too suddenly for Emerson to process… one moment he was straining against the rock, all muscle and concentration… the next moment he was flying backwards through the air. In the dim light of the setting sun he hadn’t noticed the loop of rope that snared his leg. Nor had he noticed the line running behind him to the branches which had been forced down and held in place by a pulley mechanism weighted to the very rock he was attempting to push. From most promising ally to most unredeemable betrayer; he felt like spitting on that wretched stone every time it flew through his field of vision, on the ground, ten 10 feet below.

2

“This confounded structure is going to be the death of me!” Petharic muttered as he kicked at the confusion of canvas, mesh-netting, stakes and wooden poles. “Nothing seems to line up properly.”

“Where is an urchin when you need one, eh?” Emerson commented dryly from within the confines of his cage.

“What?” Petharic did nothing to disguise the loathing from his glare.

“An urchin would have that tent set-up in a second.” Emerson taunted.

“So, what are you trying to say?” intoned Petharic with aggressive defensive intensity.

Emerson shrugged, “I’m not saying anything…” he replied, dropping his voice for maximum passive-aggressive injury… “just that a kid could put it together, that’s all.”

Petharic stormed the cage waving the sharp end of a stake in Emerson’s face. “You talk entirely too much for someone in as much trouble as you!” Petharic regarded the stake he held in his hand as if only now seeing it for the first time. With a look of bemusement, he threw it to the ground. “Just keep the snide comments to yourself,” he pointed, “or you just might find yourself gagged.” Petharic returned to brooding over the tangle of tent parts.

Emerson hardly dared breathe for fear of giving away the fact that Petharic had left the sharpened stake, forgotten in his haste and anger, lying by the edge of the cage. Ever so quietly, he reached his arm through the space between the slats of wood… he pursed his lips in frustration as it caught about halfway up the forearm. He’d need to be about a foot and a half closer in order to retrieve that stake.

With sudden inspiration, he gripped the sides of the cage with his hands and jumped. It worked. The cage had actually inched forward. The stake was almost within reach. Two more jumps should do it.

“Did you hear something?” Petharic turned.

“What?”

“A noise, did you hear that noise?”

“No…. was there a noise?” Emerson asked shrugging his shoulders, “I didn’t hear a noise.”

Petharic regarded Emerson with narrowed eyes. “Things might go a little smoother for you Dr. Lighthouse if you would only choose the path of honesty.”

“Honesty has such grey areas along the margins.” Emerson Lighthouse willed himself to not look at that stake. “I mean… how is one to follow a path so ill-defined as that?”

Petharic regarded Emerson with the expression one might don upon detecting something unpleasant in a befouled chamber pot. “There is nothing grey about honesty. Honesty is the only true course, Dr. Lighthouse.” He spoke slowly with an almost righteous cadence. “It is not that difficult to follow the only true course.”

“Oh come on… only true course… that is such a meaningless statement. You know very well there are an infinite number of ‘only true courses’… all existing side by side, yet separate, in some sort of fractal universe. Not one of them is right, they just… are.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about and can only conclude that you are under the amaazement…” Petharic stretched that last word in order to match it with his finger-gesture quotation marks… “of your medications.” He looked as though he were about to say something more when he slapped at the side of his neck. “Damnation! These flies are maddening.” Petharic returned to the ruins of his tent, his fly-induced interjection effectively ending the conversation.

Taking advantage of Petharic’s distraction, Emerson jumped the cage an inch closer to the stake. Once again Petharic looked up having thought he heard a sound. Emerson looked back nonchalantly. With the mesh lining from the tent tucked under one arm, Petharic walked back to the cage. He stopped just in front of Emerson, bent down and picked up the stake.

“I’m impressed. Look how close you came… consider it a job pretty well done?”

Emerson’s nonchalance took a sudden turn to sullen.

As Petharic regarded the stake as he asked, “What were you planning to do with this?”

“Poke it in your eye as you slept.” Emerson said. “Is that honest enough for you?”

Petharic put the stake in his jacket pocket then threw the mesh lining from the tent over the top of the cage as if he were wrapping a present. He then staked each corner deep into the ground. “There, let’s see you move that cage now.”

Emerson chose the low road: “Please accept my congratulations on getting the tent up.” His sarcasm carried the bitter edge of mockery, “I’ll sleep well tonight all comfy under my mosquito net.”

“You know what… I should just shoot you.” Petharic said with such conviction that Emerson was foolish not to believe it immanent.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you. But you can’t kill me. Your primary mission is retrieval… and I have something you want.” Emerson taunted boldly, “So, you need me.”

Petharic aimed the Colt at Emerson’s leg. “I just said I should shoot you, I didn’t say anything about killing you.” Petharic pulled the trigger.

Emerson screamed. Not because he had been shot (Petharic, in fact, had missed) but because the sound of the gunfire startled him so. Emerson was about to fly into a tirade of retaliatory curses when the words caught in his throat. Before him, not more than ten feet away, Petharic began to gyrate in a grotesque choreography… arms flailing, body twisting at impossible angles... it was as if he were fighting off demonic possession. The night quite suddenly seemed to take on a sinister quality as a profound darkness fell upon them.

Horrified, yet ashamedly fascinated, Emerson watched from beneath the safety of his netting as a shadowy, undulating cloud filled the air, enveloping everything around them for hundreds of yards in all directions. It was a swarm of some form of tiny carnivorous fly… millions, perhaps billions, of them… filling the air with a high whiny buzz. Though miniscule in size, in such numbers the results were quite impressive: they left nothing but clothes, bones and hair in less than two minutes. A shiver ran down Emerson’s spine as he noticed (in what little light the coals of the fire pit were able to cast) that the cloud had taken on a most unsettling hue of pink… more pronounced directly above the remains, dissipating back to black the further out one looked. It was only a matter of moments before the cloud had departed as if being absorbed by jungle itself. In their wake, an eerie, unnatural calm settled upon the scene. Emerson, no longer in such a hurry to escape the confines of his cage settled in to await the rising sun.