“You are absolutely right about the coat,” Green informed my wife. “A sad piece of war trophy unsuited to a gentleman’s attire.”
“Indeed,” intoned my valet. “I have twice left it for the rag pickers barrow. Master Rayne was forced to run down the street in rescue.”
“Did he really?” wondered Lalena. “Did there follow fire, explosion, screams?”
“He argued till they agreed to sell it back,” recalled Phineas. “At terrible cost.”
“It’s locked in my closet,” I informed all. “Remind me to wear it tonight.” Thoughts of closet led to consideration of house and home. At which domestic vision I stopped in horror.
“What?” asked Lalena, searching sky and graves for enemy forces, faces.
I tasted my words with caution, before uttering each.
“Ah, there is, that is, we have an extra Mrs. Gray at the house,” I told my wife.
At which news she but smiled, sweetly, red of lip, white of tooth. “Not for long, my love.”
Chapter 25
The Gathering on Echoing Common
From The Londonish Journal, April 12th
Chartist Lunacy Seizes Streets of the City
With sight and sound to Astound and Amaze even the most vociferous Proponents of Sane Currency and Moral Order, yesterday we beheld the final gathering for the 3rd and (Heaven so grant) last attempt to surrender the Rule of this Kingdom to those Wise Providence intended to serve, not command.
Morning light revealed Booths, Stands, Tents and Pavilions erected not for Political Rally but Grand Fair upon a scale not seen since days of ancient kings; at dear cost no doubt to the foreign powers instigating our current Unrest of Labour. Carts and carriages, horses and foot traffic poured into Echoing Common, seemingly to leave all the City empty.
And by what were they greeted? Political pamphleteers? Sermonizers upon Revolution, Peasant-Priests declaring the sanctity of Flame and Guillotine? Day-long harangues against a King’s right to rule, a Servant’s duty to Labor? Nothing so expected. Nothing so sane.
Behold: Jugglers of flame, knife and ball balancing upon wheels, else racing to and fro across ropes strung above the heads of an astounded populace. Charmers of snake, tamers of lion, trained stallions bearing mountebanks and tumblers, gymnasts and acrobats twisting and contorting in admirable pantomime of Political Discourse. Minstrels and organ-grinders, choirs and carolers of every quality mixed with the throng, till the air seemed filled with Caliban’s thousand twangling instruments. But such Convent Garden cliché were the least of the wonders moving the crowds.
Solemn elephants strode free through the crowd, eyeing mankind as amused and bemused as said mankind eyed them. No truer metaphor shall be seen of the dangers of a labor force wandering free of chains, lacking the guiding hand of their natural masters. Whilst above the crowd loomed great Montgolfier Balloons of curious design; silken bubbles large as churches fixed by the thinnest of rope to the spinning Earth; decorated to shame peacocks, diminish rainbows. From these high perches master musicians played violin and viola, flute and lute, while costumed in mad guise of beasts: wolf and ox, lion and stag.
A great calliope of glass pipes chimed yet more music to the astonished crowd; for each pipe filled not with bellows of air but bright flame, as though souls of Hell should gather to choir in sweet song. Rows of strange Cannon were fired at the sky, as the crowd gasped and cheered, covering heads at the thunder. The blasts released fireworks of strange brilliance that hovered in the day-sky beside the musical balloons, so that the throng might enjoy wonders above them, as well as beside.
Yet within the tents far stranger sight and sound awaited. Light from eye-eviscerating arc-lamps of demonic intensity, revealing our future of scientific salvation or electrical damnation. Mechanical dancers twirled and spun, else marched in slow undersea motion evocative of dream. Clock-work men displayed the arts of fencing and weaving, blacksmithing and brick-laying, setting every factory owner’s soul alight with the longing to command an automaton work-force. What need to suffer Charter nonsense, when one holds the wind-up key?
The tent of Lightning Spiders drew vast throngs till conflagration sent all fleeing. While no injuries were reported, it is feared that many of the creatures may have escaped their handlers and are now at large within the city.
Yet, behind the façade of wonder, lurked sly Political Intent. A great curving wall was raised, so wrought that one who stood in the center of its arc could be heard across all the Commons. Every plague-rat of Labor Instigation, every Irish Lounger and Jacobin Madman was given opportunity to slip poison into the unguarded ear of citizenry enspelled by the wonders surrounding them. It scarce need be reported that the Arch-Instigator Himself, one Rayne Gray of the failed colony of Newer Jersey, over-long harangued the crowd and sky, man and dog.
“Behold the common heirs of uncommon humanity,” declared Gray. “The brick-layer to your left is a prince of ancient lineage. The shop-girl to your right, a queen of holy blood. You must address these as ‘majesty’, were you of lesser clay. But no, you yourself share the blood-fire of victorious mankind. The fire of survival, the nobility of struggle. To you is granted the right to address these laurel-crowned princes as brother, as sister.”
Fierce debate broke forth whether Gray had turned Monarchist, when from the river-side rose alarums that an army of supporters of Moral Rule marched upon the Commons to end this gathering against the Crown of Heaven and Sound Banking Law.
Great fear fell upon all that this last rally would turn riot, Hand of Order against Hand of Chaos, with city garrisons left no choice but riding down all alike. But then the Chartists leaders did gather the strangest army that ever eye beheld. A carnival force of men and women dressed as animals, costumed so artfully that one saw the red tongues of wolves, the white teeth of tigers. Among these walked highlander pipers showing no true tartan but cloth blood-dyed. Men and children disguised as clock-work puppet-people poured from the pavilions, joining the march in steps that all but ticked, tocked. The silken ropes of the balloons were uprooted and pulled along the march, providing a looming and musical accompaniment from the sky. Much of the city’s work-a-day riffraff of shop-clerk and ditch-digger mixed with this fantastical troop, until the very walls between Reality and Dream seemed overthrown.
At the head of this bizarre army rode an actor upon a great clicking, clanking bronze Dragon. The rider sat clad in costume mockery of Ancient Suit-Armor, dented and stained as the worst arguments of Labor Emancipation. Upon his shoulder he bore an absurd butcher’s axe; at his back clung a Doxy of fair hair and pale complexion, inciting the march with unseemly views of bare calves and neck.
Meanwhile the counter-force of Citizenry inflamed with Concern for the Welfare of their Children filled the bridge, waving proud flag and stout club. Only to halt amazed, upon sighting the Clockwork Dragon, the dreadful bloody-bladed figure upon it, the fantastical beings that followed above and behind.
At the moment when the two armies readied to clash, over the sides of the bridge leaped a third army; black-clad mummers and yellow-kilted highlanders in harlequin masks. These absurd creatures took the bridge as pirates might seize a surprised ship-deck. Dancing among the crowd of Concerned Citizens, tossing flowers, capering and japing, speaking in voices of strange conviction and absurd humor that left sane minds dumbfounded. Whilst the great Balloons floated above the armies, wafting down music to chill the most patriotic heart. Then up from the flowing river itself came matching voices, as though mermaids splashed amid the bridge foundations, singing siren song to sooth every savage breast.
The clubs fell from fingers, flags dropped to ground. Faces of anger turned to those of children beholding Pied-Piper dreams. The two forces merged, political challenge and reply forgot. As one pilgrim troop they marched down the High Street, the Mechanical Dragon leading the parade, puffing snorts of flame, waving dramatic wings. Political Discourse lay overturned, and Word and Law were forgot, whilst the city gathered
to watch the Forces of Dream parade as a Victorious Army, for all that none knew wherein lay the victory.
Citizens, we must bite the bitter Fruit of Truth, tasting worm and ash. There can remain no doubt: the ‘New Charter’ in all its dangers shall pass the Houses of Aldermen and Magisterium; then be signed by the Throne as Law unto our Kingdom. For after yesterday’s events, Proponent of Sound Currency and Social Order have wandered dreaming from the battle-field of Sane Argument and Long Precedent. No battle of words remain. Our City has fallen to an Army of Wonders.
* * *
We lay in bed, side to side, considering time past, time to come. I gazed upon a splash of dawn across the ceiling. I determined to keep eye fixed upon it till I observed the slow motion of earth and stars in its subtle shift. And if it never moved? Then Time was one more dream-fraud, disproved upon awakening. Happy truth to discover, in the arms of my love. Let the rule of clocks cease. Let us lie here forever, wound together. Alas for scientific inquiry, Lalena poked my ribs, disrupting the experiment. Rude thing.
“Now that you are wealthy, you must buy me gifts,” she proclaimed. “I want bright jewels in velvet boxes, and chocolates on plates of gold. Silk dresses weighted with pearls. Man, fetch me perfumes from Africa. Rush to my plate delicate ices from mountain tops. Shoes, my love, shoes. Hmm, but I will purchase those last myself. You’ve not the eye for it.”
I shook head in regret. “Now that I am wealthy, I grow wise to the value of each penny. I just spent half my fortune for a day’s carnival. Woman, we must cut expenses henceforth. Best you take up some occupation to earn the day’s bread, while I rest my weary self in bed, contemplating politics. Can you sew? Tend chickens? Entertain gentlemen?”
She frowned. “What mean you by ‘entertain’?”
“What shall I mean?” I scoffed. “Can you make a man stare at you, dream of tracing a finger down your cheek thus? Then pay coin to place hand right there, caress this, then that, while pressing this to here just so?”
“Ach,” she growled, and grabbed. “What does this say of what I can do to a man?”
There came a knock. Of course there did. We’d enjoyed more privacy in Black’s tomb. To be expected. A tomb’s a fine and private place. Not so, my damned bedroom.
“What?” I shouted.
Phineas’s voice, mixing light apology with deep concern. “Teufel has come upon the puzzle box found in your Garden, Master Rayne. He declares he shall open it. He’s rushing about the house shouting so. He’s quite excited. We fear he may burst.”
“Let him,” I growled. Then reconsidered. Could the man burst? No, surely that was mere metaphor. And yet… All the family were metaphor, made flesh. Tigers and wolves, night-haunts and sea-wave folk, children wise as mountains, ethereal as wind or flame. Bursting would be no challenge for such. They lived on the cusp of explosion.
Poor windup Fulgor. Our ride upon his hot-metal back ended with the clattering dragon’s bronze heart clanging, whistling to high scream. Lalena and I leaped free while gears shot into the air. The crowd cheered, supposing this the planned conclusion. Perhaps Teufel would quake internally, then roar through my house like a Chinese rocket shooting flames from mouth and ass. I determined to prevent this. Later.
I returned to Lalena, kissed her brow, her ear, her mad hair. But now her eyes turned to the ceiling, watching the patch of sunlight. I glanced at it. The damned spot of light had shifted, proving Time’s dread rule.
“I am rather curious to know what is in the box,” she told the ceiling.
“No, no you are not,” I insisted. I kissed this and that, stroking the one and the other, placing here next to there. I sought to kindle desire’s holy fire, driving forth demonic female curiosity. Still she stared absent at Time’s proof. At last poked me again.
“Out of here now, man. I’m going to dress.”
* * *
We gathered in the study. I had not known so many guests roamed my house. Penn and Teufel, Mattie Horse and Billy River. Laird Howl of clan Mac Tier, and brave Master Bellow. And Sionnach still dared the premises? Still alive? She gave our entry a proud look, for all her blackened eye.
I hesitated, drawing Lalena back lest she leap and rend. But my polite and civilized wife only sniffed, growled low.
“She is the lady of her clan. If there is to be peace with the Harlequin, let us keep her close by, eye upon her.”
I observed Bright keeping his own gaze on Sionnach, placing clerical hand to her shoulder. Standing twixt these proud creatures. Easy to spy the bond between Bright and Sionnach. Excellent. Let all our enemies become lovers, and so leave us to do the same.
Young Professor Zeit-Teufel paced forth and back. His clock-tower hat tilting this way and that as the man spun left, zagged right, swiveled south, marched north. Penn watched in awe, holding the bronze puzzle box in his thin arms. It glowed with ominous secret. Yes, and it stank of sinister intent. My twitching thumb and sinking stomach foretold: the box would open, leaving us newly enspelled in mad mystery.
Of course. Smoke would pour out, forming a dreadful Djinn. Or a swarm of magic bees. Else the glitter of jewels, so bright with entrancing wonder we fell to fighting for each sparkle, till the room became one more corpse-splattered tomb. Why not an ancient scroll lying within, sly script to family theatre entrapping all the clans in feud? Unless the box itself yawned wide and wider, becoming a cave mouth, swallowing us whole, then shutting closed for another thousand years…
Teufel rubbed hands, described his analysis.
“One bronze puzzle box, Roman design,” he declaimed. “Inscribed with Suns and Moons, various constellations upon the sides.” Took breath. “Suns, moons, stars are symbols of time,” he whispered, and waited for us to be astonished at the news. The audience expressed due astonishment. He nodded pleased, continued. “If you look closely you see these signs are inscribed upon circles that can be pushed to place in the correct position.”
I put arms about my wife, pled into her ear. “Let us sneak away. We’ll walk the city streets, gossip with bakers and bankers. Drink coffee, idle away the day. Let us flee mystery before it devours us. Let us seek dull pleasures with no smell of adventure, no slightest shine of moon’s mad glow.” I searched for mundane acts to entice. “We’ll shop for shoes.”
Lalena put arms about me. “Ach, fear not, man. ‘Tis some old box of buttons.”
No doubt the very words of Pandora. I sighed, checked rapier and access to exits.
With a flourish, Teufel reached, adjusting sun, moon and stars to please theory and soul. A faint ‘click, click’ came as he arranged the world’s symbols. Then stepped back, fearing what would come. We all stood away, leaving Penn alone, holding the box. He look alarmed, as he should.
Naught happened. Teufel frowned, reached, adjusted a star, reset the sun. The box sat sullen. A few sighs of disappointment passed around the room; some laughs. Teufel gave it a rap with a knuckle, displeased. It returned an unimpressed thump.
“Bother it,” said the man. “I was so sure. Well, it is only a matter of time.”
Phineas cleared throat, announced to the room that coffee and light brunch awaited all upon the sun porch. What a wonderful thing to hear from one’s valet, in one’s mansion, beside one’s bride fresh-rescued from tomb. If only one heard it alone. Time for these beloved guests to exit stage, leaving Lalena and I to embrace as curtain closed. I took her hand to lead her forth when there sounded a soft and dreadful ‘click’ of destiny. We turned.
Penn held the box, eyes wide. The bronze top now folded open. All the crowd gathered close to peer within…
About the author:
Raymond St. Elmo wandered into a degree in Spanish Literature, which gave no job, just a love of Magic Realism. Moving on to a degree in programming gave him a job and an interest in virtual reality and artificial intelligence, which lead him back into the world of magic realism. Author of several books (all first-person literary fictions, possibly comic). He lives in Texas.
/> Quest of the Five Clans shall continue in these exciting sequels:
The Clockwork Tartan
The Scaled Tartan
The Harlequin Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 22