Autumn Epiphany

Petharic leaned out over the handrail of the Stora Canal Bridge staring down at the murky water below. He watched as his blurry image danced a choreography of variegated distortion across the lazy ripples. It was a quiet, crisply cool autumn afternoon during which he contemplated a life without purpose. What might it be like, he thought, to wander this world lost... without any clear sense of direction?

Mr. Petharic liked things to be concrete and predictable so this reflection came as a particularly troubling meditation. Existential angst did not become him.

It was in the midst of this rather dark reverie that the flash of something metallic near the end of the bridge caught his peripheral notice. The object, channeling what it could of the attenuated New Babbage sunlight, interrupted his thoughts not only as a curious distraction, but a welcome one as well. It looks a bit like a key of some sort lying by the end of the bridge.

Upon closer examination, having picked up the small steel item from the cobblestone nearest the bridge, he determined it was indeed a key of sorts… a wind-up key designed to work ratchet-like to tighten the spring of various clockwork devices. From what device had it come and what mechanical effect would its turning cause?

Petharic looked around wondering what to do. He contemplated taking the small metal key with the intention of keeping an eye open for whoever may have dropped it. But wasn’t that a rather foolish plan? The owner could be anyone? Petharic was not the type to just walk up to random strangers and ask them if they were missing a wind-up key. Wouldn’t it be better to simply leave the key where it had fallen? The owner, should they ever search, would likely retrace their steps and in that case taking it with him would have the opposite end result to what he wanted.

Wait…what he wanted! Something curious suddenly dawned upon his wonder. What Petharic wanted was to make someone happy. How remarkable! That sudden realization made him smile and want to laugh out loud because that desire… to make someone happy… was something he only knew from another life.

He twisted the little key back and forth between his thumb and index finger watching it as if it were enchanted with the hypnotist’s charm.

Distracted by the moment, he was uncharacteristically caught off guard by the approach of a little girl who couldn’t have been more than four.  In her hands she held a small music box adorned with butterflies. She held it up to Petharic who took it and inserted the key. He turned it several times before handing it back, with the key still inserted. By now the child’s slightly panicked and out of breath mother had finally caught-up. She looked relieved when she saw her child merrily dancing to the chimed rendition of a popular folk melody.

“What do you say to the nice man?” prompted the mother.

The little girl looked up at him with big hazel eyes and said, “Thank you mister” in the sweetest little voice he’d ever heard.

“Bye-bye.” she said with a wave.

Petharic continued to watch as the little girl skipped down the street, pausing to share in a moment of laughter with her mother. Within that laughter he found a new sense of clarity and a great deal of relief... he never needed to kill again. He may not have discovered a purpose, but he discovered a direction. He needed a new job.

Chapter 10: The Return

The Return

Friday, November 11, 11:50 PM

The sound of boats rocking against their moorings was a rhythmic percussive chant that the young couple had long since grown accustomed to. An unusually quiet night, she thought, though it was getting late. There was no other sound save for the click of their boots as they walked arm in arm along the water’s edge. He leaned in close and whispered something into her ear. She tipped her head back to laugh before giving him a whack on the arm. He was about to escalate the level of playfulness when he suddenly stopped and nodded. Following his gaze she saw the crumpled figure of a man lying on his side.

He quickly scanned the area, searching for immediate signs of ambush as she unsheathed her sword. Slowly they approached the body. “Scottie,” Sky said in a hushed tone, “it’s Emerson Lighthouse.” Scottie continued on down the pier, checking behind the various stacks of crates, ensuring there were no lurking surprises awaiting further victims.

Sky knelt down beside Emerson. His clothes were soaked through, leaving a pooling of water around his body. Dried blood caked along the bridge of his nose and one of the lenses of his glasses was so cracked it looked as though it had been fashioned by a spider. His lower lip was swollen and split… but at least he appeared to be breathing. She noticed a package, about the size and shape of a portrait, on the ground beside him. Next to that a half-gallon mason jar with something unidentifiable and somehow disturbing, floating inside. She was about to call his name when a sudden crash came from down the pier.

Her hand instinctively returned to the hilt of her sword all senses heightened. "Everything alright Scottie?" she called out.

"Yeah, just that cider-swilling spider monkey that's been hanging around the Port lately. Everything seems clear." he said, still alert to potential danger as he returned to her side. Scottie glanced down at Emerson, "It looks like he was on the losing end of this one."

“Emerson!” Sky called, “Emerson, wake-up!” She took his glasses from his face as he started to cough. Together she and Scottie helped him to a sitting position.

"Emerson, we thought you were dead.” she said when she saw he was beginning to focus. “We thought you went down in an airship crash. What happened?"

Emerson stared at her blankly for moment before he narrowed his eyes. “Sky,” he said… “Scottie...” the recognition suddenly taking hold. He started to laugh as he looked around. “What day is it?”

“November the 11th… Friday,” Scottie replied, “at least for a few more minutes.”

“I made it!” Emerson grinned and then winced as he reopened the split in his lip. “I did it!”

“That’s great!” said Sky, “Do you want to tell us what it was you did… and,” she looked around, “where is Malus? Weren’t you two travelling together?”

Saturday, October 29th, 4:30 AM

The coronation of Queen Princess, the first of her name, culminated with a party. Not your ‘grown-up, cocktail-talk, best-clothes, over-at-11:00’ kind of party, but the kind of party where you find yourself with your arms wrapped around the shoulders of total strangers as you all belt out ‘Louie Louie’ at the top of your lungs...

Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Almost twelve hours earlier, the young Queen, as her first official act, had commanded Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus to kneel before her as she bestowed upon them both the honour of knighthood. “You are now officially protectors of the realm and guardians of the Hoja del Diablo Dulce.” she declared as the crowds erupted in cheers and the kegs were tapped.

As the night stretched on into the predawn hours, the celebration showed no sign of abating. "I'm not one for pulling the tankard from anyone's hand." said Captain Quinn to Emerson. "but if we don't sail with the rising of the sun, I won't guarantee to have you back in New Babbage before the Friday after next."

"I hate to leave a party early," nodded Emerson, "but I will be ready just as soon as you give the word."

"I'll be back for you in an hour or so," said the old Captain before draining his tankard of ale."That ought to be sufficient time for you to make your good-byes."

Emerson smiled as Captain Quinn made his way down the beach. He returned his gaze to the sea of revelry. Malus, his noble squire, with the stub of a Sagrada Lucia clenched between his teeth and an open bottle of wine in each hand, danced the crazy dance with the queen and her maids.

“Are you going to dance with us Sir Emerson?” Maid Marian called over breaking through his reverie with a wave. Emerson nodded, tomorrow I go home, but tonight I dance. He threw back the rest of his wine, took a deep drag of his own Sagrada Lucia, then dove into the crowd...

Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home

Saturday, October 29th, 6:00 AM

The pink and orange glow of the rising sun cast 5 long shadows along the beach. Queen Princess, Maid Marian and Captain Maynard Quinn, stood huddled together as Emerson and Malus, having reached the end of the quest, were about to say their goodbyes.

“The Queen has received reports that the survivors of the Henri Giffard XVI are on one of the outer islands of the realm.” said Sir Malus. We are mounting a rescue mission before they begin to cannibalize one another.”

“Martin, it has meant a lot to me, more than you probably know, having you with me these past several weeks. I know you will make a fine queen’s champion, but I’m going to miss you.” Emerson took a step forward.

“You’re not going to hug me are you?” Malus took a half-step back.

“Come here son.” said Emerson spreading his arms.

Queen Princess and Maid Marian smiled and clapped as Captain Quinn spat on the sand and said,

“Well if that ain’t the damned sorriest display of awkwardness I’ve ever seen.”

Friday, November 4, 10:30 AM

“We will need to see a bill of sale for all three boxes of Sagrada Lucia’s.” said the rather officious looking customs official, glancing over his pince-nez.

Almost a week into their northern journey, the Leviathan’s Bane had surfaced to take on supplies and was stopped at a routine customs inspection. Captain Quinn would normally have passed through without incident, however the Sagrada Lucia’s had sent officials running. One box alone was enough to raise suspicions of illegality, three boxes were unheard of.

“But they were a gift.” explained Emerson again, “surely there must be a way we can negotiate an understanding.”

The painfully scrupulous customs officer chose to ignore Emerson’s subtle offer of a bribe. “There are procedures, but they will take a week to put into place. We must contact by wire the original owner of the cigars before we can let you depart.”

“But I must be in New Babbage by next Friday.”

“Then leave the cigars and you are free to depart.”

Saturday, November 5th, 7:00 PM

“Keep the cigars... lose the bet, lose the cigars... win the bet.” said Emerson.

“But what do you really lose if you don’t make it to New Babbage by next Friday?” Captain Quinn asked. He and Emerson were sitting in the storeroom of the Leviathan’s Bane awaiting the return of the customs official. “So you pay for your Chivas like you always did. It’s not like you’re actually losing anything at all. You still pulled off a remarkable feat and you have three boxes of the rarest and most expensive cigars ever rolled. But if you give them up just to get back within the time constraints of your wager... you may technically win your bet, but you’ve really lost because the whole point was to get these cigars.”

“Your right, I don’t have anything to ‘lose’ if I lose. But somebody else does.” Emerson thought about Arnold as his eyes absently wandered over the storeroom shelves lined with mason jars containing all manner of preserves. “What’s that?” he asked pointing to a large jar. “It looks a bit like pickled air-kraken.”

“Aye laddie,” replied Captain Quinn, “you have a good eye. It is indeed the pickled air-kraken, made from my dear sainted granny’s own family recipe.”

Friday, November 11, 11:55 PM

“Emerson!”

Through his dream he heard a friendly but concerned voice calling him back. “Emerson, wake-up!”
Am I still in the rubber dingy? His face and chest hurt. He had fallen not just once, but twice against the pier. Captain Quinn had loaned him the Leviathan’s Bane escape dingy in order that he might row the last two miles into port and claim the seven means of transportation as required in the terms of the wager. However, in his haste to disembark (after placing the carefully wrapped painting and the half-gallon jar of pickled air-kraken tentacle tips onto the pier) he had slipped, cracking his nose and glasses against the iron ladder leading up from the water.

Dazed and confused, he tried again. Clearly not one to learn from his past mistakes, the dingy shot out from under his feet throwing him again with sudden force into the iron ladder, this time leaving him with a nasty bloody lip as he slipped beneath the water’s surface… I think I’m drowning, he thought as he sank. What irony... to have come all this way, only to die falling out of a rubber dingy, practically on my own doorstep. Yet, somehow he managed to find the ladder. With great effort, he climbed to the pier where he collapsed next to the painting and the pickles…

“Emerson!” Sky called, “Emerson, wake-up!”

Saturday, November 12, 12:20 AM

“So let me get this straight,” said Sky, “You fought off highway bandits, defeated a troll, outran the town of Bump, shot down a pirate ship…”

“Slew a sea monster,” reminded Emerson.

“Overthrew a corrupt drug-financed dictatorship?” questioned Scottie.

“Yes.” stated Emerson matter of factly, “and outwitted an ancient and horrid monster that had us paralyzed in a magical enchantment.” He looked over at Sky, “I also rode a horse.”

“Now you are just making things up.” she said with a wink.

Emerson started to laugh, then winced in pain.

“You should know,” said Scottie, “there’s been a guy hanging around town asking a lot of questions about you lately.”

“Sun-glasses-at-night type, nice hair, sour breath?” asked Emerson.

“That would be him.” said Sky.

Emerson nodded, but didn’t offer any explanation.

“Listen, Wheatstone is a long way off and it’s late.” said Scottie. “Why don’t you crash at Cuff’s tonight. I’m sure we can find a blanket and pillow somewhere.”

“That would be…” Emerson paused as he was hit with a shot of emotion. He nodded with a sincere smile, “...that would be really nice and really appreciated, thanks.”

Scottie and Sky helped Emerson to his feet. Sky took the portrait, still double-wrapped in Captain Quinn’s whale intestines, while Scottie, with a slight look of disgust, picked up the mason jar.

“It is my birthday today.” said Emerson.

“Really? Happy Birthday!" said Sky. “Do you like strawberries... I’ll have Scottie bake you a Birthday pie.”

“Pie?” repeated Emerson. “I’m kind of a cake guy actually... caramel, with a butterscotch drizzle instead of icing... one candle is fine.”

“That does sound good.” said Scottie, “I’ll show you where the kitchen is and you can get right on that.” All three laughed as they made their way down the street.

“Welcome home Emerson.”

(( Thanks Sky Melnik, Scottie Melnik, and Martin Malus for all the fun with this one. Thanks also for everyone who took the time to read this adventure. I read every single comment, usually more than once, and appreciated each one))

Chapter 9: The Island

The Island

The terror of the catacombs is the terror of your childhood fear-of-the-dark nurtured to a level of horrific maturity; a visceral fear emanating from the primal instinct lurking deep within the marrow us all. It is so very silent down here in the caves… but for the occasional drip, drip, drip… and the pulse of your own heart pumping madly with that delicious infusion of adrenaline. You barely want to breathe for fear of not hearing the monster that is most surely awaiting in ambush around the very next turn.

With this sense of trepidation our four travellers cling to one another in intimacy and angst as they make their way with great care through the deathly maze. Their eyes saucer-wide… their world no larger than the flickering glow cast by a single torch. Within every shadow lurks something malicious. What was that? Did you hear something? No.

Emerson, Malus and their two companions, the princess (whose parents, with unintentional cruelty, had named ‘Princess’) and her maid named Marian, had been wandering the haunted tunnels beneath the cartel’s compound since escaping the tower through a secret passage several hours earlier. Above them the siege raged on… but it may as well have been a thousand leagues distant… for deep within the very depths of the earth silence and stillness reigned supreme.

Malus was leading the small party when he abruptly halted in his tracks, “I hear something moving about up ahead.” his whisper sounding as loud as a shout.

“Go kill it.” encouraged Emerson, “I’ll wait here and protect the young ladies.”

“It is okay, Sir Emerson.” said Princess Princess, “I have a knife.”

“What a relief.” replied Emerson.

“No,” Princess Princess clarified. “I meant Marian and I will be fine. You are free to go up ahead and assist Mr. Malus in slaying whatever fell demon awaits.”

***

Once upon a time the creature may have been more deserving of our sympathy...and perhaps to those of a more charitable nature it still is. Never very bright, the creature had once been a man, a shy farm boy, who dreamed of the vastness and mystery of the empire beyond his small island home.

One afternoon as he combed the beach for relics washed ashore from the ships caught upon the shallow jagged reefs surrounding the island, his ill luck would bind him forever to a curse. He came upon a wooden charm, fashioned by an enchantress on the very day she was to drown in a wreck upon the reef. Though despicable to the core, the talisman sang to the boy with such a sweet song of promise that he wasted no time in wishing to live forever and a day with the power to control the physical movements of other living beings.. a wish which the dark-arts-fashioned charm most cruelly granted. For the boy had not wished to stay young... nor had he wished not to age... he had simply wished to live and to control a very minor magical skill.

Thus the boy lived... year after year… making young ladies dance and young men crawl. Yet it was not long before his body became twisted and gnarled with the weight of old-age. With each passing year, with each forgotten decade, he moved just that much further from sanity. Soon nothing remained of the boy, he’d become a breathing bitterness... a cruel husk housing a vile soul. No longer able to abide the taunting light of the sun, he burnt the talisman (but not the curse) in a fit of rage, and descended to the dank depths of the catacombs, forgotten but for tales shared round the campfire.

It had been years since the last of his playmates had died... but today, Fortune had brought him a family... standing frozen in his spell as he smiled in welcome.

“One chance I give...” the creature grinned, always enjoying the torment and terror experienced by new playmates as they realized they were trapped. And always the promise of freedom... the promise of life... but only if they played by the rules. The rules were sacrosanct... inviolable. The game was riddles.

“Ask me a riddle I cannot answer and you are free to pass. But should you be unable to answer one of mine...” the creature flashed festering, cankerous gums as it grinned, “you are to remain here with me in the depths of these catacombs until you fall down and die.”

The creature began the contest. “What is broken every time it is spoken?”

Emerson felt a sense of relief at how easy the first one proved to be. “Silence.” he replied before offering his first challenge: “A boat with four men capsizes and all four fall in the water… yet not a single man gets wet.” Emerson paused to let the creature process the set-up before asking, “How is that possible?”

“Clever man“ the monster hissed, “but not as clever as I. The answer is... the four men are all married.” The creature scratched his chin before asking: “What is always coming, but never arrives?”

“Tomorrow.” replied Emerson decisively, then rapidly shooting back: “There are two errors in this statement: If I lose this riddle contest I will go free. Identify the two errors?”

“Well, first if you lose, you will not go free, that is one. The other…” The creature scratched his head, “wait… I get it, Mr. Clever-man, the second error is that there are no other errors.”

“But, if that is the second error then there are two errors and the second error is no longer an error.”

“What?” The creature started to sound confused as it’s tired old mind tried to grapple with the conundrum.

Malus started to laugh. “He got you!”

“No wait… if it is not an error then there is only one error which means it is an error…

“Which means it isn’t… so what is your answer?”

“My answer is...” The creature wrapped it’s long frog-like fingers around its head as if trying to hold it together. He was sorely tempted to have Emerson dance over the edge of a precipice. But the creature was a creature of rules... and the rules had been established. He could not break the rules, especially his own. “Oh bother! I don’t care what the answer is. Loathe am I to suffer a moment more of your torment. Be gone. Go, before I change my mind... be gone I say and let me be!”

***

The battle was not going well for the Sagrada Lucia cartel. The King, having regrouped his forces, rallied support from the nearby islands. Many of the outer islands were only a few short years away from their own century harvests and were becoming increasingly worried about the cartel’s ambitions. The steady sound gunfire could be heard from the gallery yet the building itself was quiet and deserted.

“May I borrow your knife Princess?” Emerson asked distractedly as he examined the door.
Princess Princess watched as Emerson quickly and apparently without effort, popped open the lock before returning her knife.

***

With three boxes of Sagrada Lucia’s tucked under his arm, Emerson was about to join Malus at the far end of the hall when he caught sight of a portrait on the wall that stopped him in his tracks.

“That is my great, great, great aunt, the Virgin Queen, who ruled this land when the century crops were first envisioned and sown. It was a fabled time, before the fall.”

“She was a virgin?” Emerson studied the rather curvaceous image of the young queen.

“Yes, she never sullied her rule.”

“Who is that man in the portrait with her?”

“That has always been a mystery… the exact identity of the gallant young investor has never been known, though for a time it was rumoured he kept close council with the queen.” Princess Princess smiled, “Legend tells of a romantic deed. One afternoon, as the two inspected the recently ploughed fields ready to be sown by the sacred seed, they came across a great heaping pile of oxen dung. He most chivalrously threw down his cape that the young queen might not dirty her shoes.” The princess smiled at the recollection of a favourite story.

“That is very noble.” Emerson mused, shifting his study from the queen to the curiously familiar looking figure standing beside her.

“But what a selfless man he must have been.” Princess Princess continued. “To fund this poor island’s planting endeavours knowing he would never live long enough to enjoy the fruits of his investment.”

“Remarkable.” said Emerson as he pulled one of the drapes free from the window. He had just finished wrapping the painting when Malus returned with the portrait of General Poe. “Are we collecting art now?” asked Malus, noting the second painting.

“Something like that.” said Emerson, come on let’s get out of here.”

***

Princess Princess and Maid Marian led the way to a small stable containing just two stalls. “We will have to ride double.” She informed them, “the main stable is too close to the fighting and likely all the horses are being used in combat.”

“Malus will ride Samson with me,” said the Princess. “Sir Emerson, you will ride Brutus with Marian.”

“Yeah… the thing is.” began Emerson, “it has been my experience that horses don’t seem to trust me… and it is completely unjustified.”

Marian laughed as she, without any apparent effort, mounted Brutus. “Come Sir Emerson, do you mind if I ride?” Brutus whinnied as Emerson approached.

“See” Emerson gestured, “What did I tell you.”

Marian laughed, “Emerson you will be fine.”

“Malus,” called Emerson, seeing no other option, “help me up onto that thing will you.”

Ten minutes later, our group of four, astride the two horses, started off down the secondary road that would lead them to the far side of the island.

***

They had been riding for close to eleven hours by the time they reached the beach where Sir Emerson and Squire Malus were to rendez-vous with Captain Maynard Quinn and his amazing sub-aquatic vessel. However, the King’s army, having taken the more direct main road had made better time. A thousand soldiers in rank and file filled the beach, surprising the four riders as they emerged from the heavily wooded trail.

The King’s champion, Sir Martin Medeski, the Duke of Woodshire, approached the small company.
“Your father’s army was victorious.” he said standing before Princess and Malus. “The kingdom is secure and the outer islands are rallying to our banner.” He paused to clear his throat. “It is with deep regret and profound sadness that I must tell you… your father, though he led with bravery and distinction was killed in battle, shot in the throat by a cowardly sniper.” He paused again , casting a glance at Malus. “Sir, I ask you to remove your hands from the person of Her Majesty.”

“Sir, the gentleman’s hands are fine where they are...” Princess, began to reply before she’d had the chance to fully process the significance of the Duke’s words… my daddy is dead, she thought, and I was so ambivalent at the end. Her eyes brimmed with tears though she regained her composure before a single drop fell.

The Duke of Woodshire turned to face the Queen’s army. “The King is dead!” he shouted, “Gods save the Queen!”

“GODS SAVE THE QUEEN!” a thousand men shouted as they took to the knee.

Chapter 8: The Princess

The Princess

Somehow, he knew he was dreaming… but that didn’t mitigate the terror. Around him friends lay dying and he could do nothing to ease their pain. He knew he should fight even though the battle seemed lost. He knew he should be brave… but he started to cry. Whether he was on a beach or in a steamboat… he couldn’t be sure. If he was halfway around the world… why could he see the Piermont rising high above him? Was he fighting men… or was he fighting monsters? Everywhere... the crushing sound of destruction... screams... my friends! The sand on his back felt like water... cold... refreshing... the great tentacles no longer seemed so terrifying... it was almost peaceful...

***

“WAKE-UP!” Malus’s voice called, pulling him from the approaching darkness.

“I’m awake...” said Emerson struggling with the weight of consciousness, “feel free to stop slapping me anytime.” he looked around. It appeared they were in a small cell. “What happened? Where are we?” he asked.

“The battle was lost... the king’s men were scattered... though I have since heard from the guards that the rebel army has regrouped. We were captured by the governor's men and brought here... about a day's journey from the beach where Captain Quinn left us. It has been 30 hours since you lost consciousness.

Emerson looked to a barred window about halfway up the wall. “Did you try that?” he nodded.

“Of course I did.” Malus sounded insulted that Emerson would even ask. “The bars are secure and well set. We need to consider other options. From looking through the window, however, I was able to determine, based on the changing angles of the shadows throughout the day, we are on the second level of a tower, approximately 7 meters above the ground. I have calculated the tower to be 30 meters in height. I believe the King's daughter, of who Captain Quinn spoke, to be held in the uppermost cells of this tower.

Emerson nodded, “Clearly we need to devise a means of escape. Perhaps we can pretend I died…” Emerson paused reconsidering... “or I can pretend to be caught in a fit of seizures... you call out to the guard and when he comes in I jump up, you hit him and we run.” suggested Emerson.

Malus shook his head, “There are usually two of them, both well-armed... and one of them always remains outside. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Emerson scanned the rather dank little cell. The door looked to be solid oak... he knew Malus would already have tested the strength and assumed it to be secure. There where chains and fetters affixed to the masonry... that, at least, held some promise for a weapon. There was a hole in the floor near one wall in which prisoners could relieve themselves. Fortunately it was too small to crawl through. Perhaps we could drown someone in it, he thought. “How deep is that?” He indicated the hole.

“I don’t know.” replied Malus, “Why don’t you stick your hand in there and see?”

For a brief moment the two men laughed despite themselves... but it was a short-lived moment of levity for just then they were interrupted by the sound of the key turning the locked. The door swung inwards and one of the two guards called into the cell: “Gentlemen, come with us. The governor wishes to speak with you.”

***

At first glance one might take Governor Burgess, and his council of three, for clowns... lounging like lizards at a horror show sipping molokos infused with exotic veshsches , dressed in white jump suits and black bowler hats. Yet, you would be sorry, O my brothers and my sisters, to take such villainous company for clowns, for to do so would have been a grave error. The governor and his droogs ruled with a cruel and ruthless level of ultraviolence. They mocked all who would dare question their authority with a language of almost poetic beauty that hypnotized one's soul like spider venom to the brain.

Emerson and Malus were led through the halls of the local gallery, where governor Burgess preferred to hold council... surrounded by the art of a dead empire. The gallery itself was captivating. The architecture and style bespoke an imagined future conceived by those a generation gone-by; their life's work once called visionary and profound now labeled retro-future and nostalgic.

The over-all effect was deeply unsettling... just as the governor intended.

"I viddy thou art not of this land, O my brothers." said the governor, "so I ask what business bids thee grace our shores."

"The business of acquisition." replied Emerson. "It is the dorogoy drencrom we seek.” Malus’s eyes widened, his mind skirting the margins of comprehension, as he listened to Emerson, yet again, slip into the dialect of a local culture with the flawless cadence of a native speaker. “Neither deng nor cutter being an impediment to our enjoyment of the bolshy… snoutie.” He added with a smirk all the while maintaining eye-contact with the governor.

Governor Burgess grinned, "Ah, I knew thee to be bolshy gentlemen of refined tastes and sammy indulgences. The historic harvest has indeed commenced. Let me assure you, O my brothers, the results are spectacular. I have faith thou shalt agree the Sagrada Lucia’s are quite literally worth their weight in gold.” the governor inclined his head.

“Of that I have no doubt.” said Emerson handing a piece of paper to one of the governor’s guardsmen. “And if thou wouldst but have one of your fellows wire the appropriate contact I have writ on that page ye shall viddy for thyself evidence for the sincerity of my beliefs.”

“Gentlemen, it seems we shall be enjoying one another’s good cheer for no less than the near days to come.” the governor replied. “Please, on the morrow we may discuss the finer details of our transaction. The freedom of the compound is thine... save for the tower of my most regal guest. Venture not near the tower lest ye mean to discover the full wrath of my disfavour.”

***

“What is going to happen when they wire the contact information you provided?” asked Malus once he and Emerson were secured in their apartment, a decided improvement over the cell in which they started the day.

“They will reach Mr. Arnold who most likely will be either honest or evasive.”

“Either way ends in our rather unpleasant execution, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does Mr. Malus.” Emerson responded. After a brief pause he added rather casually, “Did you happen to notice the portrait of General Poe our friend Captain Quinn charged us to retrieve?”

“Of course, it was the third portrait on the left as we entered the governor’s chamber.” Now it was Malus’s turn to pause... “Did you happen to notice the box of those cigars you seem to covet?” he asked with just a hint of a sneer.

“Actually there were two boxes.” replied Emerson somewhat smugly, “under the table on the right.”

“Actually there were three,” said Malus upping the smugness quotient, “the precise equidistance of the two boxes from the wall indicated a box on its side acting as a brace behind the other two.”

Emerson smiled, “Perhaps you also noticed the ivy running up the north side of the tower… to the very window where one might find the undying gratitude of a father, who just happens to be a king.”

***

Bathed in glowing tones of lamplight, the Princess and her five maids, all about eighteen years of age and apparently dressed for bed, sat in a circle around an old hookah, patched together with ribbon and copper wire. A purple haze emanated from the six leaky hoses.

“We are here to rescue you.” said Malus gallantly, stepping from the window, bits of ivy clinging to his cape.

“You are…” responded the Princess, “rescue me from what?”

“From bondage.” said Malus. “Come, with us and we will return you to the care of your father.”

The princess and her maids suddenly broke out into peals of laughter. “Oh honey, you’re kind of cute, sit down here beside me and tell me again how you are going to rescue me.”

Malus seemed momentarily flustered, however Emerson, having climbed into the room behind Malus, wasted no time in sitting down beside one of the maids. “Hello,” he said, “my name is Emerson Lighthouse and I couldn’t help but notice you are smoking a little of the hoja del diablo dulce, and if I am not mistaken…” he took a deep breath, “it smells as though it may only be a year from fully mature...” he took another deep breath, “no…no… just eight months shy, am I right?”

“My, Mr. Emerson,” said the maid whose name was Marion, “I must say you have quite a nose for the sweet leaf. True, it is ever so slightly under ripe, but few would notice the marginal cloying effect that has on such a complex bouquet... especially when filtered through a second rate hookah such as this.”

“I’ll overlook the imperfections,” smiled Emerson reaching for her hose, “and it is ‘Sir’ Emerson.”

***

Several hours later, the eyes of the princess and her maids began to glaze over as Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus debated the finer distinctions differentiating the concepts of the infinite versus the eternal. Emerson was about to impress himself with a particularly mind-boggling point of a truly profound nature when suddenly an alarm sounded from the base of the tower.

The shouts and bustle of sudden activity below were unmistakable. All ears in the princess’s chamber strained to determine the nature of the alarm when an unexpected pounding on the door caused all to jump and several to utter a startled scream.

“The rebels attack, Your Royal Highness! Unlock the door that we might protect you!” shouted the guardsmen.

Chapter 7: The Amazing Sub-Aquatic Vessel

The Amazing Sub-Aquatic Vessel

There was nothing inherently evil about the creature. Evil implies some violation of an accepted moral code and the creature had absolutely no concept of morality what-so-ever. The creature simply was, as it had always been, a survivor. It had never known its mother. Its brothers and sisters were long dead. It was, in fact, the last of its kind… a creature hearkening back to an age that has become the fodder for fantasy. No thought beyond the present. No thought other than the hunt for food. It was the perfect existential killing machine. A serpent of immense proportions… a creature that never slept… a creature that knew nothing but survival and the insatiable search for prey.

Its ancient reptilian instincts alerted it now to the fear… it could smell it! The fear of death! It was a scent the creature had learned to recognize across the ages… animals of the land… clumsy… at the mercy of the sea and all that inhabit its depths. Ever closer to the scent… ever closer to the fear. From the depths, towards the surface, its great jaws part… the deathly cold grin of the Beast.

***

Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus clung desperately to a charred piece of debris cast off by the Henri Giffard XVI. Around them in all directions was the rising and the falling of the sea, sparkling under the intense equatorial sunlight. They were parched from the sun and the salt, almost too thirsty to speak. Damn you Coleridge and your taunting lines of poetry, was all Emerson could think as he rose and fell with the swelling ocean currents.

“Something is swimming beneath us.” Malus warned as he pulled a loose piece of wood from the flotsam upon which they clung to use as a weapon. “I can see it… like a shadow.” He held the piece of wood tightly, waving it above the surface of the water peering at the vague shadow circling far below them.

Suddenly, about 10 metres in front of them, the creature breached the surface, rising up to a most fearsome height. Its dark, jet-black serpentine form curved as it continued to rise, looking down on the two men with its small dark reptilian eyes… its mouth dripping sea water and a foul mucus-like saliva. Long white teeth gleamed in the sunlight like a thousand venomous daggers… the very embodiment of every child’s worst nightmare.

“You’re gonna need a bigger club.” said Emerson barely above a whisper.

“There must be some reason why it does not attack?” said Malus, assessing the immense height of the creature through triangulation.

“Perhaps it is not aggressive…” suggested Emerson hopefully, “like the cows from the Dairy Cooperative. Perhaps our fear is an overreaction to a simple case of curiosity.”

“I’m not so sure...” said Malus still sensing a missing variable.

“Let’s try intimidating it with warning shouts and splashes,” said Emerson, “like this.” he demonstrated, slapping the water with his hands and screaming. The creature remained motionless as Emerson, continued to splash water in the general direction of the beast accompanied with shouts of

“Get! Get!” and “Vile beast, be gone!”

“Come on Mr. Malus, this clearly requires a concerted effort.” Malus, however, was still not convinced… something about the angle at which the creature held itself was not right.

The monster reared its head and hissed. Malus suddenly turned a full 180 degrees to see a great agitation arising from the water behind them. He tapped Emerson on the shoulder.

“Not me Malus… the water, slap the water!” shouted Emerson, redoubling his efforts at intimidation.

“I’m not sure we are splashing in the right direction…” but before Malus could alert Emerson further, the creature quite suddenly turned and retreated back to the depths from which it had come.

“We did it Malus!” shouted Emerson as the combination of adrenalin and relief exploded forth in bursts of jubilation. “Just wait until they all hear back in New Babbage how I defeated a sea-dragon with nothing more than my bare hands and keen wits.” He was still basking in the delight of self-congratulatory celebration, unaware of the spectacular vessel rising from the depths behind them, until the net quite suddenly descended, scooping them both from the sea.

***

Captain Maynard Quinn had been tracking the creature for the better part of 40 years, a life-long quest which had led to both the inception and creation of perhaps the most amazing vessel to ever sail the southern seas… or sail beneath the southern seas to be more precise. The product of both pure genius and relentless obsession, his vessel, The Leviathan’s Bane, was truly worthy of being counted among the seven wonders of the modern world. Unique in its design, a powerful sub-aquatic war machine with the sole objective of hunting and destroying the great serpent.

“The creature has haunted me,” Captain Quinn confessed, “instilling within me the madness of an all-consuming vengeance... ever since that moonlit night when it took my young bride, Lenore... took her the very evening of the day we wed.” He paused to wipe a tear from his eye. “This morning I had it my sights, by Gods I did. But it learns, aye it does; and it recognizes my craft. That is why it fled when I surfaced just behind you boys. It has no love for this craft, just fear and respect. It has a powerful instinct to survive, aye to be sure. But mark my words, before I take my last breath I shall destroy that fell demon and rid the world of its vile contempt for all that is decent and pure.”

There was no denying that the vessel was spectacular (and Emerson couldn’t help but wonder what his friend Nathaniel Lorefield might think of a ship such as this) however he had long since determined there to be something just a bit off about their host. Yet, in consideration of their debt to the captain’s good timing, Emerson decided that the prudent course was to pay homage to the man’s life-long endeavour.

“I salute you sir, and wish you success in your most worthy efforts.” He paused taking a sip of the wine Captain Quinn had been so gracious to share. Malus, he noted, was already taking the liberty of pouring a second glass. “Captain Quinn, you seem familiar with, not just the seas, but the lands of this hemisphere as well. I was wondering if you know of an island by the name of La Isla de la Hoja del Diablo Dulce?”

The old captain’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, I know the island of which you speak... less than a day from here at half-power it is. But you don’t look like the mercenary sort.”

“Excuse me?” Emerson asked, somewhat confused by the captain’s last remark.

“It is the war you seek, is it not? The great revolution that’s been a hundred years in coming.”

“What cause brings the island to revolution?” asked Malus.

“The cause of most revolutions,” replied the captain, “equality for a people too long impoverished by greed and corruption. The wealthy landowners, have held power for more than a century, basking in the riches of off-shore speculators. Their crop is one hundred years in coming to harvest. And it requires constant care. The people have been practically enslaved. Have you heard of the Sagrada Lucias, the product of the vile weed with purple smoke?”

“I may have.” replied Malus glancing over at Emerson with a suspicious glare. “Go on sir,” encouraged Malus, “you have me intrigued.”

This is the month of harvest, after generations of injustice. Yet, with luck, it is also the month of freedom from a tyrannical system of bondage. The people have chosen a leader, a noble king to lead them in their cause. But his daughter has been kidnapped and is being held as security, by the unscrupulous Sagrada Lucia cartel. So I ask you, gentlemen, are you mercenaries hastening to Liberty’s call?”

“I like to think of us more as diplomats.” replied Emerson uneasily.

Malus drained his glass. “I will fight for their cause.” he said, reaching again for the bottle. “But I fear with the downing of our airship I have lost my arms.”

“Not to worry lad,” replied Captain Quinn with a grin, “I have an armoury aboard at your disposal.”

***

“Gentleman, I can get you close to shore,” instructed Captain Quinn, “but you’ll have to swim the final 100 metres I’m afraid. The whale intestine bags in which I’ve sealed your arms should keep your powder dry. And I must say lad,” the old captain smiled at Malus, “you picked a fine sword indeed.”

“Thank you.” said Malus, returning the old man’s smile as his hand moved to the hilt of his new sword.

“I will wait here one week gentlemen,” the captain informed them, “should the battle be won... or should you decide war is not to your tastes. One week, and then I depart. I just ask you for one favour in return for the use of my vessel…” the captain paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to ask.

“Go on, sir” said Emerson, “we are at your service.”

“Should you breach the compound of the cartel,” The captain continued, “you will find a small gallery displaying portraits of an historical nature. There is one portrait hanging that is of particular interest to me. A general by the name of Poe… the grandfather of my beloved.” the old man paused as he recalled a happy time. “The likeness of so worthy a gentleman does not belong in that compound... they are not worthy to hold as property the image of a man of such honour. And the new king…should he prevail… will not miss the single portrait of a bygone general…”

“Say no more,” Emerson smiled, “now you are speaking my language. Have faith, Captain Quinn, I shall retrieve your portrait and return within the week.”

“And win the war, of course,” said Captain Quinn with a smile, “for the good of the people.”

“Of course.” Emerson hastened to add.

***

The beach was the very definition of destruction. Bombs burst in a rain of confusion and panic. The stench of pandemonium assaulted the common sense. The scenery smouldered in washed out tones as screams were punctuated by the sound of gunfire. Emerson and Malus stayed low as they ran up the beach from the bloody shoreline taking shelter beside a crying soldier cowering beneath a ridge.

“Never get off the boat.” the soldier, a boy of no more than fourteen cried in nearly incomprehensibly sobs, “Never get off the boat!”

“Where’s your commanding officer son?” Emerson asked as he tried to shake some sense into the boy who had started to mumble something about mangoes. “Son!” Emerson slapped the boy, “Where is your commanding officer?”

“Isn’t it you?” asked the boy.

Just then an incredible explosion rocked the ground around them and everything went dark.

Chapter 6: The Airship

The Airship

Sunday, October 16th, 8:20 pm

In the great dining hall of the Henri Giffard XVI, Emerson held the little spoon above the flame. He watched as the wax melted and started to bubble along the edges of the bowl. “I remember when I was a child, around six years old,” he said to Malus, “my aunt used to make candles. She would melt wax in a pot before pouring it into clay molds. One day, when I was watching her in her kitchen, she had to run and answer the door. She left the melted wax in the pot on the table in front of me. I put my hand into the pot. The wax was still very hot… but it had cooled enough that I could keep my hand there for a second before pulling it out.”

Emerson poured the sealing wax along the back flap of the envelope and pressed it in place with his stamp. “It looked as if I were wearing a tight, shiny white glove. After I had waved my hand about for a bit to cool it down I was able to slip it from the wax… like a snake peeling its skin. I had a perfect wax cast of my little hand.” Emerson blew on the seal then double checked to make sure Junie’s address was correct before placing it beside the letter to Ceejay. “It seemed magic to me… that I could have such a perfect copy of my hand… with fingerprints and all.”

“I’m assuming you have a point.” Malus took a sip of his wine, a beverage Emerson had noticed, that Malus was enjoying just a bit more with each day they spent aboard the luxurious cruiser. They were awaiting the arrival of the main course which promised to be a mouth-watering prime rib with fire-roasted mixed vegetables and Yorkshire puddings.

“No point, Martin,” Emerson smiled, “just life.”

“Ah yes, the infinite wisdom of Emerson Lighthouse: it is boundless and without a point.” Malus chuckled at his own little joke. “But tell me, how can you remember that little story when you claim to have amnesia?”

“Emerson continued to smile as he met Malus’s quizzical look, choosing to answer the direct question with an indirect answer. “On November 11th I will have a year of memories as Emerson Lighthouse, and on November 12th I will have a year of memories of New Babbage. But every so often something else, something from another life, sneaks through. Who is to say, why out of all the things we forget, certain memories remain… or randomly surface… but they do.”

“Martin!” Captain Smith’s exuberantly spirited eighteen year old daughter Rose quite abruptly interrupted the uncharacteristically personal conversation the two men were having. “Might I join the handsome young squire and his most gallant knight for dinner this evening?” She asked with a wink.

Emerson stood as Malus held the seat for the young socialite with whom he (much to the disapproval of her father, Captain Smith) had been spending much time with of late.

“Martin,” Rose said leaning in and placing her hand on the young squire’s leg, “what do you think of the flautist?” She asked looking over at the musician who had been regaling the ship’s passengers with variations on same melodramatic theme since the trip began. Emerson was about to respond, on Malus’s behalf, that the ubiquitous music inexplicably made him want to cry. But before he had the chance the sound of a tremendous crash shattered their nerves. A grappling hook had smashed through the window behind them and the ship quite suddenly lurched to the side. Pandemonium erupted as shouts of fear came from all quarters. Emerson noted the sound of breaking glass throughout the port side of the ship as an alarm claxon started to sound.

“Pirates!” a man near one of the windows screamed. “We are under attack from air pirates.” Most of the passengers just sat in a state of confused inaction as the crew suddenly tried to recall what they could of their training drills. “To arms!” someone called-out. “All able-bodied passengers to arms!”

***

Any romantic notions Emerson may have held regarding pirates was quite sadly dashed once the swords were drawn and the battle begun. Despite some valiant effort put forth by the defenders of the ship (perhaps none more so than Malus, Emerson noted with pride) the pirates were too numerous and too well coordinated to be held at bay. Within the hour, the crew and passengers relented, laying down their arms. They were next separated into two groups, one held near the bow, the other near the stern. The pirates, not completely without mercy, set to task preparing the two life-craft to carry the passengers and crew to their fate as marooned survivors of a pirate attack.

“With a deep sense of regret, I will relinquish command to you.” said Captain Smith to the captain of the pirates. “But only because nothing is more important to me than the survival of this ship.”

Emerson noticed a hint of sadness flash across Rose Smith’s face. “Yet I vow to you now, mister,” he practically spat the word ‘mister’, “with these good men and women as my witnesses, that I shall one day see this ship recovered safely. And on that day you and your crew will hang by the neck until your very life breath is choked from your wretched lungs.” With those final words, the life-craft were released and began to drift, upon the mercy of the strong southern winds.

Monday, October 17th, 2:05 am

Each of the two life-craft from the Henri Giffard XVI was designed to carry a load of approximately 45 passengers. The one carrying Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus now snuggly held 49… but not without protest. Unable to carry the extra weight she started a long slow decent to the dark ocean below.

“Sir,” shouted Mr. Moody to the captain, “this vessel is not designed to float. Should we hit the water the basket will be torn apart by the waves and we will surely drown.”

“Everything not essential to our immediate survival must be thrown over.” shouted Captain Smith as the crew and passengers began looking for anything that might be jettisoned.

In the midst of grabbing and tossing items, Emerson paused as something caught his eye. “Hey, I’ve never seen a gun like this before.” he said studying a thick-barrelled pistol he had found in the bag he was about to toss over the side.

“It is called a Very pistol, Mr. Lighthouse,” said Captain Smith glancing over. “It was designed by one Edward Very a decade or so ago to shoot flares as a signal of distress. Take care with that sir, it has but a single shot and we will most surely be in need of it.”

Few were more inept at firing a weapon than Emerson Lighthouse, yet somehow in the process of testing the weight of the gun by aiming over the starboard rail, he effectively demonstrated the firing potential of the Very Pistol with an accidental discharge. The blue-green ball of flame was most impressive as it flew on an arc through the air ending in a rather dramatic impact with the hydrogen bladder lifting the Henri Giffard XVI, about 120 metres above and to the starboard side of the smaller craft.

The resulting explosion was spectacular! Several aboard the life-craft gasped in shock and dismay. The fire-ball quickly engulfed the pirate vessel towing the flaming wreckage. Together the two tethered craft began a death spiral towards the ocean far below.

“My ship! My precious ship.” Captain Smith cried out in spontaneous anguish, his face an orange glow as he watched with incomprehensible horror the flaming remains of his life’s love drop from sight.

“Oh the humanity!” someone cried from the stern as Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus stared on in awkward silence.

***

“We are still losing altitude... about a foot a second, by my estimation.” Mr. Moody warned from his station near the dials. “We need to lose somewhere between three and four hundred pounds… or we will impact with the ocean in approximately one minute.”

“The weight of two grown men.” The captain mused considering his actions.

“Last on first off is what I say.” advised Mr. McGegor.

The sombre light cast by the full moon reflected the fear in everyone’s eyes in shades of silver and blue. Captain Smith drew a gun from inside his jacket. “Gentlemen,” he shouted above the howling winds as he took aim in the general direction of Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus, “I offer you a choice. You can jump, or I will shoot you both where you stand. Either way you are going over.”

“Daddy no!” Rose screamed.

The captain held up his hand to silence her. He looked positively demonic as he stared down the two men, who in his eyes had become scapegoats for this most unfortunate disaster.

“Isn’t there something in the rule-books about captains and their ships we might call upon in moments such as this?” suggested Emerson.

“I’ll give you to the count of three to make your decision…” said Captain Smith, ignoring Emerson’s point of objection. “One…”

“Well, Mr. Malus…” said Emerson, feeling the gravity of the situation, “… if you jump, I jump.”
“…two…”

Before Captain Smith called out ‘three’, the knight and his squire stepped up and over the rail, leaving the crew and passengers, formerly of the RMS Henri Giffard XVI, to the mercy of the winds and chance.

Intermission # 2: Four Brief Letters Home

Sunday, October 9

Dear Mrs. Namori-Swift,

Through recent correspondence with my major-domo, Mr. Arnold, I learned of your recent marriage to Mr. Akidami Swift. I apologize for the fact that I was unable to attend the festivities. I would most certainly have joined in celebration had I not been otherwise engaged in an adventure of a most remarkable nature with my squire, Mr. Malus. We recently had a narrow escape from the town of Bump after I engaged in sword-play with a 12-foot tall troll, outwitted and out ran 30 heavily-armed men, and tamed two raging mutant elephants.

As I write this correspondence I sit high above the clouds in an airship of truly breathtaking splendour. This is without doubt the epitome of luxury and modernity. Why just last night I stood upon the bow of this magnificent vessel with my arms spread and imagined I was flying.

Along with this brief congratulatory note, I am sending a small parcel with a most extraordinary gadget as a gift to honour your union. It may in fact be the most unique wedding gift ever exchanged. It is a clockwork bread toaster that toasts two slices of bread simultaneously. Simply add coals from your furnace to the three chambers, wind the key then press down on the lever. When your toast is ready it pops up automatically. I know what you are thinking… how can such a device be possible?

But it does more, Mrs. Namori-Swift, it also has a little music box that regales your tired morning ears with Reveille. These are truly remarkable times in which we live. Now we just need to invent some means of slicing a consistent width of bread.

Yours Truly,

Emerson Lighthouse

Monday, October 10th

Dear Mr. Mornington,

Through recent correspondence with my major-domo, Mr. Arnold, I learned of the current zombie plague raging across the city. Well done sir.

Having said that, it is not my purpose to congratulate or tease (well, perhaps to tease just a little) but to update you on my progress. After vanquishing a giant-troll with a sword thrust through the heart, battling my way through one hundred of Bump’s most nefarious criminal element, and capturing two re-animated wooly mammoths, I am currently enjoying some well-earned respite aboard the most luxurious airliner ever to sail the skies. I have learned a lot about hydrogen in chatting with the crew and engineers of the Henri Giffard XVI, these past few days. With what more safe and efficient substance could one hope to fill one’s gas bladders?

Captain Smith, has guaranteed me a place on the return voyage. I look forward to strolling the streets of New Babbage once again, perhaps as early as November 4th, a full week ahead of schedule.

Sincerely and in great anticipation of our next glass of Chivas,

Emerson Lighthouse

Tuesday, October 11th

Dear Lady MacBain,

My major-domo, Mr. Arnold, forwarded me the letter you left on my desk. He further mentioned that you had the opportunity to enjoy the apple pie I left on the counter in the kitchen. I am delighted you found it to your tastes. However, if you really want a treat, you should stop by some afternoon after my return to New Babbage and sample my pumpkin spice pie. I’ve always felt that the secret to a good pumpkin spice pie is all in the blend of spices one chooses. My exquisite blend happens to be a family secret. Let me just say: it aids in digestion, reduces nervous anxiety, and generally improves one’s humourous disposition. What’s a little tingling in the fingertips when one is enjoying such a gastronomic delight, I always say.

As to your concerns regarding my safety, have no fear. After having saved an orphan girl from the clutches of a family of hideous giant trolls, rounding up a heard of stampeding elephants (twisted by the very hand of sorcery into the most vile and grotesque creatures you can imagine), and punishing the darker elements of Bumpian society, I am feeling pretty well near invincible. Dare I say it… I feel almost as if I were the King of the World.

Kind Regards,

Sir Emerson Lighthouse

Wednesday, October 12th

Dear Mr. Arnold,

I must be brief as the purser aboard this wonderful ship upon which Squire Malus and I now soar is delaying the air-post in order that I might sneak in this one last correspondence.

As you know, Mr. Arnold, honesty has always been the very foundation upon which I build the moral structure in which I reside. I must confess to you now that the night I departed New Babbage, I entered into a wager with Victor Mornington; and I have been troubled, Mr. Arnold, in one tiny aspect of that wager. In the unlikely event that I had lost, I would have been required to add one small task to your major-domo duties. Perhaps it was hubris, yet so confident was I in victory that I felt safe in offering your scullery services to Mr. Mornington as part of our terms of wager. No need to run to a dictionary, Mr. Arnold, it would have meant a year of scrubbing dishes and mopping the floors of the Muirsheen Durkin. But not to worry, victory is all but assured. You may be breathing a sigh of relief just about now… but I never had any doubts.

Yours most appreciatively,

Sir Emerson Lighthouse

PS: Would you be so good as to deliver the enclosed correspondences for me. Thanks, EL

PPS: As you know I am a little disorganized when it comes to paperwork. I forgot to document before I left that in the extremely unlikely event that misfortune should find me, thus preventing my return, I name you, Mr. Arnold, my sole heir and beneficiary. EL

PPPS: Mr. Murdoch and Mr. Moody, the ship’s first and sixth officer of this fantastic airship respectively, have offered to show me both the steam-engine room and the hydrogen bladders. I am very excited. They’ve told me I can’t bring the hookah… but I may sneak in a little leaf rolled in newsprint. What could it harm? EL

Intermission 1 - Airship Tragedy

Thanks to Jedburgh Dagger for the formatting

Chapter 5 - The Showgirls

The Showgirls

At just over 300 nautical miles per day, the Henri Giffard XVI was the fastest luxury dirigible in the fleet. It was just before 8:00 pm on October 5th. Her captain was in the process of reviewing the final preparations for launch, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned! Passengers rarely boarded in Port Bump, and it was his recommendation that this stop be excluded from all future voyages. After all, for years now it had been company policy that passengers remain on board while the ship took on supplies. Skipping this brief layover would allow him to reach his destination, just south of the equator, a half day sooner.

He was about to issue the order to shut the hatches and release the grappling lines when he spotted something of interest. Moving over to the glass and swivelling it to view the south he quite clearly saw two women running at a break-neck pace for the tower.

“Mr. McGregor,” he called over to the chief purser, all the while continuing to watch the approach of the two distant runners, “are we expecting any showgirls to be joining the complement from this stop?”

“No sir,” replied the purser who had joined at the captain’s side to watch the rapid approach of the two colourfully-dressed women. After a brief moment the purser noticed something more. “Look,” he called, pointing to a line of dust rising from the ground a short distance behind the women, “it appears they are being pursued by those savages from this Gods-forsaken Port.”

The captain shifted the angle of the glass. “Indeed you are correct Mr. McGregor.” The captain saw what appeared to be a mob of about a dozen angry men, two elephants, and a troll running about 300 metres behind the two women. The mob appeared to be gradually gaining on their quarry. “Keep the hatches unlocked until my word, Mr. McGregor.” instructed the captain without taking his eye from the glass. “I do hope they make it.”

***

Malus stared at the fire-grilled sausage wrapped in a fresh cornbread bun with a level of food-lust hitherto unheard of. He was about to sink his teeth into all that spiced-meaty goodness when he heard a tiny voice pipe-up: “Feed me.”

Malus looked down, his mouth still open, the sausage mere centimetres from meeting its final destiny. But then, before he could bring himself to consummate this epicurean union, he was staid by the sight of the most pitiful little waif he had ever seen in his life. She couldn’t have been more than four, with big blue eyes shining forth from a flawless little face, framed in wispy strands of mousy-brown hair. She was dressed in rags, her tiny, delicate fingers just poking out from under the large loose sleeves of her sweater.

“Feed me.” the child said again. “I is so hungry mister. I ain’t ate in nearly two days.” A single tear fell from the child’s eye, carving a path through the soot that darkened her cheeks.

“Don’t you listen to her mister.” warned the toothless old lady behind the sausage stand. “She ain’t what she seems. That child is the very spawn of evil, you mark my words.”

“My good lady,” Malus said with great indignation on behalf of the child, “As anyone can plainly see this child is neglected and half starved. Have you no compassion? Where is your pity?” Ignoring the calling whistle from the train behind him, Malus turned to the tiny child.

“Don’t you feed her!” the lady called again in warning, starting to back away from the sausage-wagon as if she meant to turn and run.

“Here child,” said Malus, resigning himself to purchasing a second sausage (likely half as good and twice as much) from a concession stand at the airfield. “Take mine.” he said with a smile crouching down and handing the sausage and bun to the beautiful little urchin.

***

From his seat aboard the train, Emerson had watched the exchange, a smile spreading across his face as well as his heart. He turned to find the conductor at the far end of the car. “My good man,” he called out, “if you could wait but a moment more. My squire is just in the process of carrying out a deed of a most chivalrous nature. You most certainly…” the sentence hung forever incomplete. For at that moment, with a casual glance back to the sausage wagon, Emerson saw his squire Malus, sword in hand, in a life and death battle with what appeared to be a 7-foot troll. The conductor, having caught sight of the amazing altercation as well, began blowing repeatedly upon the whistle which hung about his neck.

“No wait!” called Emerson standing now in the aisle, “surely there are men aboard who might be willing to offer assistance.”

“Sir, sit down or get off the train, but make your decision fast.” The train lurched as the breaks were released. Slowly the train began to move forward along the tracks. Emerson grabbed the bags and jumped to the platform at a loss as to how he was going to be of any assistance what-so-ever. In a complete act of desperation he ran to the now abandoned sausage wagon and began to fling fire-grilled sausages at the creature who was menacing Malus with increasing intensity. As if to illustrate what it would do should it get its hands around Malus’s throat, it caught one of the sausages and squeezed, only to let out an astonished bellow of pain as hot sausage grease trickled down through the hairs of its bare arm. Emerson and Malus took the distraction as an opportunity to run for their lives down the muddy main street of Bump.

***

Fortunately for Emerson and Malus, while the troll may have been strong, it was not particularly fast. Within a few minutes they had successfully managed to elude the angry creature and were able to slow to a more leisurely pace.

“That was a little close for comfort.” said Malus, as he re-sheathed his sword.

“Indeed it was.” replied Emerson, trying to catch his breath, noting a curious blackened and burned-out lot to his right. “Fortunately it’s not yet 2:00, still plenty of time to make our way to the airfield in time to catch our flight.”

Stopping at the end of Main Street, they noticed a series of tents and temporary structures being set up by a traveling carnival. The roadies and carnival workers barely took note of our two heroes as they enjoyed a moment of respite beside a cage housing two tired looking elephants. “Have you ever seen muckier streets?” Emerson lamented the toll on his shoes.

Malus wasn’t really listening as he had noticed a bag of peanuts next to the elephant’s cage. It certainly wasn’t the sausage on a bun he had been anticipating earlier, but at least it was something, he thought, as he absently started cracking shells and popping the nuts into his mouth.

“I commend you Squire Malus on your selfless act of chivalry.” said Emerson, allowing his eyes to wander over the simple wooden structures lining the street. “How were you to know there was an enchantment upon that child?” Neither man seemed to sense the increasing level of agitation being displayed by the two elephants behind them. “In fact,” Emerson said with a smile, “I do believe I would like to buy you a steak and onion lunch for your deeds.” Just then both men suddenly jumped in startled response to the trumpeting call from one of the elephants. They both started to laugh.

“That was shockingly loud wasn’t it?” Malus said.

Emerson clapped Malus on the shoulder, “Come on,” he continued, “I noticed a place which may suit our needs just a few doors up, a rather inviting looking saloon called Snake Eyes.” Malus grinned at the prospects of finally getting his steak. He dropped the bag of peanuts to the ground about a metre and a half from the cage, much to the chagrin of the two angry elephants.

Moments later they stood outside the doors of the Snake Eyes saloon listening to the tinny sound of a frontier piano coming from within. A poster beside the door promised a burlesque show every hour. “This may be a bit risqué.” Emerson said with a wink, opening and then holding the door for Malus.

Once inside the dozen or so patrons all turned at once. Conversation ceased immediately. The piano player stopped mid-song, his hands hovering over the keys. The silence hung like an eternity before someone broke the spell. “Look boys…the entertainment has arrived.”

***

Despite the valiant efforts of the bar-room piano player to drown them out, the catcalls and the boos were both bawdy and relentless. “Come on.” encouraged Emerson, his arm around Malus’s shoulder as he tried to choreograph their moves. “Like this: lean to the left and kick to the right, then lean to the right and kick to the left... again, one, two, three, kick… one, two, three, kick. There you go.” The crowd quieted somewhat.

“A higher kick though.” Emerson instructed, “and don’t bend your knee. They want to see more petticoat.”

“I can’t seem to manage these heels.” Malus complained.

“Just keep you back straight and your weight over your hips son... and place your foot straight down or you’ll twist an ankle.”

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help us escape.” Malus hissed angrily, missing a kick in the process. The crowd started to boo once again and someone threw a bottle narrowly missing Malus’s head. It was now almost 6:00 pm. Emerson scanned the exits seeing no means of unblocked escape. Indeed, with the airship scheduled to depart in just over two hours, their situation appeared grim. This last desperate ploy to distract the crowd from their more nefarious appetites had seemed to run its course. Indeed many had started to approach the stage with a hungry look in their eyes.

Then, just when there seemed no hope of survival, a deafening crash came from the front of the bar as the two enraged carnival elephants, having easily broken through their flimsy cages were now running about in a full-out raging rampage.

“Run Malus, run!” Emerson shouted amidst the confusion even as he made a break for the door. Malus grabbed their two bags from the side of the stage and quickly waded into the mayhem.

Somehow, in the confusion, they managed to get past the stunned Bumpians finding themselves once more (and this time in heels) on Bumps mucky main drag. They didn’t have time to relish the victory however, for the troll they had eluded earlier had finally caught up to them. In a blind panic, Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus ran for their lives.

***

“Mr. McGregor!” the captain called, “our new guests have succeeded in reaching the tower’s lift. Seal the hatches the moment they have been secured onboard. Ready to launch, on my mark.”

Chapter 4 - The Cows

The Cows

The sun rose over the dew laden fields north of the Dairy Cooperative with the same sparkling enthusiasm it had since time immemorial. As it set to task the drying of the morning mists, it noted with rising interest the rapid approach of two strangers running from the south: a silver haired gentleman wearing inappropriate footwear for a cross country trek and a lanky, shaggy-maned teen carrying a bag in each hand.

“Perhaps we should have stuck to the road.” said Malus, as the two slowed to a more leisurely pace. “North across the farmlands is a rather vague instruction which could lead to substantial error. We may miss Bump entirely and not even realize it for several hours.”

Emerson scanned the horizon and saw nothing but rolling hills, interspersed with the occasional tree. He had to concede that Malus had a valid point. The problem was he had no idea where they were in relation to the road.

“Well, there’s the sun,” Emerson gestured, “so we know that way is east. I don’t see much choice but to push on towards the north and see what we find over the next hill.”

An hour later, the next hill showed little more promise than the last. “We should have stolen some food before we climbed out that window,” said Malus, “At least we could have gotten lost on a full stomach.”

“You seem to forget that stealing food is the reason we had to climb out that window in the first place.” Emerson retorted. He was about to suggest they start walking again when he spotted something. “Look,” he pointed, “do you see that?” About a dozen cows were just cresting the rise in front of them.

“Cows.” Malus remarked.

“How astute.” Emerson’s retort was perhaps a shade snippier than need be. “They must have come from somewhere.”

“Equally astute.” Malus’s hunger was making him grumpy.

“Why are they still coming towards us?” Emerson question was tinged with a subtle level of concern.
Malus would have replied with something of a mocking nature if he wasn’t also sensing a touch of trepidation. The cows were clearly making their way directly towards the knight and his young squire. Both men regarded the approaching bovines with an increasing level of distrust.

“What do you know of cows Malus?” Emerson asked.

“That they say ‘moo’ and it is somehow possible to get milk from them.” replied Malus.
The cows stopped at about 3 metres distance. Emerson and Malus, as if perfectly choreographed, took a step back. The cows, equally well choreographed, took a step forward.

“Malus,” Emerson began, “this may sound like a stupid question, and I give you full permission to ridicule, but…” Emerson hesitated as if trying to frame his question, “...do cows eat meat?”

Malus, of course had heard tales of Bump and began to wonder if the tastes of that town’s inhabitants extended to their cattle. “That may depend on whether these are Bump cows, or Dairy cows.”

The two men began to walk backwards keeping their eyes on the advancing line of cows until they could take the stress of bravery no more. Together, they turned-tail and ran in out of control panic. The cows maintained a steady pace behind them.

***

“Aww, look-it there Cleet.” Daisy pointed from the back of the little wooden ass-cart Ceetus was driving, across the fields. “Those cows be a restin’ under that pretty orange maple.” Cleetus noted a dozen or so cows sitting in the shade of an autumn-emblazoned maple, quietly chewing their cuds. But then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a couple of dark shapes clinging to the branches above.

***

“Be careful Miss Daisy,” Emerson warned as she approached the tree. “I think the cows are aggressive.”

Daisy stared up at Emerson for a moment before bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her giggle. “Sir Emerson, they be just cows, there ain’t nothin’ aggressive ‘bout ‘em, they is just curious is all.”

“Well,” Emerson replied with as much dignity as his position afforded, “I assure you, when the people read of these adventures in the years to come, the cows will be quite aggressive indeed.”

***

From its noon-time position high in the sky, the sun looked down upon the two individuals sitting in the back of the wooden cart. Beside them, two bored donkeys swished away flies with their tails. The cart was parked next to a coal-shed at the side of a set of train tracks.

“Where you be gittin’ your hookah leaf from Sir Emerson?” Cleetus asked, the nozzle of one of the hoses from Emerson’s hookah, clutched tight in his hand.

“My doctor.” replied Emerson with a cough. “A surgeon in New Babbage… though I haven’t seen him around lately since the women of the town burnt his practice to the ground.”

“Ye can’t trust yerself to no doctor, Sir Emerson.” said Cleetus. “I grows me my own hookah leaf out behind Pa’s barn.” Cleetus tossed Emerson a small leather satchel. “Here go. Ye gots yerself a week ‘n a half in an airship ahead a yer. Yer be needin’ this more ‘n me.”

Emerson smiled gratefully as he pocketed Cleetus’s hookah-leaf. “So when this train be a comin’?” asked Emerson, easily slipping back into the local dialect.

“Usually be comin’ anytime ‘bout now.” replied Cleetus.

“Are you sure there be no hard feelings?”

Cleetus smiled. “There be no hard feelin’s ‘atwixt the two a us, Sir Emerson.” he assured. “Nor Daisy fer that matter. She didn’t really want to marry Mr. Malus anyhow. Pardon me for sayin’, but he’s a bit of a dandy fer her tastes. All she ever wanted was to git away from the farm… and I can’t say as I blames her none. This ain’t no place fer her. Why ‘afore you ‘n Malus comed along her best prospects fer a husbind be our cousin Jimbo… not that he be that bad, bein’ a champeen hog coller ‘n all.” Cleetus paused. “We ain’t goin’ back home Sir Emerson. Me ‘n Daisy... we be headin’ us down to New Babbage-town ta seeks us our fortune.”

Emerson quickly grabbed a quill and paper from his bag. After several minutes of scribbling he sealed the paper in an envelope and handed it to Cleetus. “Here,” he said, “Take this to my Majordomo, Mr. Arnold, in the Wheatstone Waterways. It authorizes him to provide you with sufficient funds to see you through your first three months in New Babbage. Could you also swing by Brunel Hall? Ask for Victor Mornington. Let him know that with the airship tonight, Malus and I will have taken four of the seven means of transport he requires... he’ll know what I mean.” Emerson paused, “Be careful Cleetus, New Babbage can be rough on new comers… although I have a feeling you and Daisy will be just fine.”

***

No matter how many times Emerson had seen it he still had the same undiminished excitement at the approach of a steam-powered locomotive that he first felt as a child. What energy! What power! The very sound alone was beyond description! If you shut your eyes for just a moment you can imagine it… the hiss and the chug… the very vibration of power rippling through the earth itself… is there anything more magical than that? Even now, at the side of the rail, ten kilometres south of Bump, he could feel the promise of adventure at the approach of that train!

While the engineers re-stocked their reserves with coal, Emerson and Malus bid farewell to Daisy and Cleetus.

“Thank you, Sir Emerson,” Daisy said as she broke the embrace. “Cleetus done told me ‘bout all your help.” She said with a tear in her eye. “We’ll do you proud down there in New Babbage.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Emerson returned her smile. “Don’t mind Mr. Arnold. He’s a bit suspicious by nature.”

“Squire Malus,” Miss Daisy curtsied, “I expect you to write me of all your adventures as you uncover the secrets of the empire.”

“All aboard!” interrupted the conductor, thus saving our four new friends from becoming even more maudlin in their goodbyes.

“Safe driving Miss Daisy!” Called Malus with a wave from the steps of the train as it pulled away from the coal yard.

“Thank you Squire Malus!” she called out. “And remember… the airship port is 10 kilometres north of the town. Whatever else… don’t get off the train in Bump!”

***

Twenty minutes later, the train slowed to a stop at Bump. The conductor entered the car. “We’ll be here about 5 minutes gentlemen, please stay on the train and we’ll be on our way shortly.”

While Emerson read the local paper (which mentioned something of an influenza virus spreading rapidly down in New Babbage) Malus noticed a sausage wagon parked beside the tracks.

“I’ll be right back.” he said as he jumped from his seat and ran from the train.

Chapter 3 - The Farmer's Daughter

The Farmer's Daughter

The once mighty and magnificent steam-powered carriage hissed in mortal pain. It lay crushed and broken, unable to comprehend the reality of the approaching darkness that one day descends upon us all. Its very life-breath, the black carbon-heavy smoke and clouds of billowing steam, filled the tomb in which it now lay, spilling through the opening above as it reached for a darkening sky.

Upon the brass and polished steel, now little more than a shell, our two heroes lay like rag dolls dropped from a child’s sleepy fingers. Malus was the first to interrupt the sombre scene. “I see a light.” he said, “coming from above.”

“I am so sorry, Malus.” Emerson said. “It has been an honour having you serve me. I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal squire. Embrace it son, embrace the light.”

“You misunderstand Mr. Lighthouse.” Malus said dryly. “I believe someone is shining a lantern’s light into this pit.”

***

“Look at here Cleetus,” the two adventurers heard from above. “I do believe we done caught us some fancy townies from that stuck-up walled city down south. This bear trap we done dug yesterday works.”

“But they done busted it up good, Pa.” a second voice said with a note of disappointment. “where we gonna gits us our bear meat now?”

“Watch your manners Cleetus, I think I see me someone movin’ down there. I be thinkin’ we gots ourselfs some guests.” The first voice, identified as ‘Pa’, said. “Run and fetch me some rope and tell yer ma t’put the kettle on the stove.”

***

“Thank you for the tea ma’am.” said Emerson taking a long, deep, audible slurp. If Malus wasn’t mistaken, Emerson almost sounded as if he were starting to speak with the country drawl of the locals. “This is the best darn dandelion tea I’ve had since I don’t remember when.” Malus doubted Emerson Lighthouse had ever had dandelion tea in his life.

“You’re very welcome Sir Emerson.” the Lady Zebadiah beamed with pride. “It’s filled up with all the good vitermins. That’s so importin’ this time a year, what with the cold and flu season a comin’ upon us. You don’t want to git yerself sick with such an importin’ quest ahead a yer.”

“How very considerate of you.” said Emerson taking another sip before returning the cup to its saucer. “And what you said about the sicknesses and such, well, that may be true about the city, with its dirty air and crowded streets, but I reckon out here in this fresh air, one might live to be 100 or more, ‘specially with tea as fine as this.” Malus was about to roll his eyes in disgust when he caught a smile from young Miss Daisy across the room. Despite himself he smiled back. “Now, if you don’t mind Mr. Zebadiah,” Emerson continued, “mighten we discuss the terms of our deal.” Emerson was bargaining for transport to Bump. “You mentioned something of an ‘ass-cart’.”

“Two of my strongest asses.” he said. “I’ll have Cleetus drive ‘em fer yer. Won’t be takin’ more’n a coupla hours te git yerselfs ta Bump... if ‘n you cuts across the farms instead a takin’ the long way along the road.”

“Of course I’d be happy to offer whatever compensation you think fair.” Emerson said.

“Well, sir.” The farmer began, we be shearin’ some sheep in the morn an’ we needs us a roustabout.”

“Excuse me?” Emerson asked.

“A roustabout,” The farmer repeated. “When we be shearin’ round the nether regions of the sheep, we be in need of someone to pick the dirty bits off the wool and put the wool in one pile fer Ma ta knit sweaters an’ ta put the dirty bits inna the fertilisin’ pile fer me ‘n the sons ta throw over the tater field.”

“You understand, my good sir, that I am under a rather tight timeline.”

“Shouldn’ take more ‘n a few hours.” Zebadiah said. “That airship you be meanin’ ta catch leaves every evenin’ at 8:00; that should be plenty a time ta shear the sheep in the morn, then gits yerselfs over ta Bump.”

“Very good sir.” Emerson nodded. “Malus here happens to be an excellent ‘dirty-bits’ picker. He’d be happy to help.”

Farmer Zebadiah regarded Malus for a moment, as if he were appraising a head of cattle. “His hands look a little soft ta make a good day laborour, but the lanolin in the wool might be agreeable to him.” Farmer Zebadiah nodded assent before spitting in his hand and reaching across the table for a shake.

“You done got yerself a deal Sir Emerson.” He grinned.

“Wonderful,” Emerson beamed, “now, if you would be so gracious as to excuse us, we are both in need of some sleep.”

***

“Couldn’t you have managed to negotiate dinner into your bargaining?” Malus said once he and Emerson were secured in the hastily made up bunk-room (which typically housed the fourteen brothers who had been relegated to bunking down with the chickens out in the barn). “Considering it was my services you were bargaining with?”

“You worry too much Malus, I’m sure the farmhands get fed a wonderfully suitable breakfast to fortify their labour.” Emerson assured the less than convinced young man. “Now blow out that lantern and let’s get some well-deserved rest.”

***

As quiet as a thief in the night, Malus stole into the Kitchen, and carefully raised the lid on the ice-box. With his mouth already watering he reached in and removed a fresh cooked leg of lamb. He turned, prepared to make his way back to the bedroom when he suddenly found himself face to face with the young Miss Daisy.

“You might find my leg a bit more to your liking Mr. Malus.” said Daisy, stepping from the shadows to block the startled young squire’s escape.

“Miss Daisy, I hope you don’t mind,” Malus said nervously, as he rapidly shifted his focus between the leg he held in his hand to the conspicuously bare legs revealed by the very short nightgown worn by Miss Daisy. “I have quite an appetite.”

“I hope so, Mr. Malus.” said Farmer Zebadiah’s pride and joy. Malus gripped the leg of lamb a bit tighter. “Mr. Malus,” Daisy continued, “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to help a poor girl in distress. I seem to have something caught in my eye. Would you take a look for me.” She took a step closer, tipping her head up.

“I don’t, um... I don’t see anything in your eye Miss Daisy.” Malus said. His mouth (watering just a moment ago) suddenly seemed unnaturally dry.

Daisy took the leg of lamb from his hand and placed it on the table. “Perhaps I just need to stand a little closer Mr. Malus.” Daisy put a hand on the squire’s shoulder and stood on the tips of her toes, somehow losing her balance in the process and falling into Malus’ arms.

“Why thank you Mr. Malus, how very clumsy of me… and how very fortunate to have such a gentleman on hand to save me.” Daisy said, placing a hand on her chest to emphasize her sincerity.

“Now, be honest with me Mr. Malus,” she began, “do you think my gown reveals too much décolletage ?” Malus didn’t know what that word meant but thought the appropriate response was,

“Why no not at all, Miss Daisy, your décolletage looks fine.”

“Kiss me Mr. Malus.”

Malus was about to respond in the appropriate manner when he heard the unmistakable click of a pump action shot gun.

“What do we have a goin’ on in here now?” Came the stern, and decidedly less friendly voice of Farmer Zebadiah. Standing in the hallway behind him, Malus saw the farmer’s wife, his fourteen sons and... at the very back... jumping up and down in an effort to see what was going on, Emerson Lighthouse.

“Ma,” Farmer Zebadiah called without taking his eyes (or the shotgun) off Malus, “git the fancy china out of the cupboard. Cleetus, hook up the asses and git yerself up to Bump ta fetch the rev’rund. We is gonna have us a weddin’.”