The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “Want to live with the cats,” whispered the one in my lap. The strands of her hair blonder than Lalena’s. Pale duck fuzz grown out to shoulder length. I wanted to pet and pat that head. Still shaking, didn’t quite dare. I went on.

  “Now one day a girl argued with her very wise father, her very kind mother. She ran out the house, up the mountain path and didn’t stop till she reached the door of the castle.”

  “Why did they argue?” asked the eldest. Tink, plink upon the blade. She wore white nightdress, same as her sisters. Her dark eyes considered me, so very solemn. Did the creature never smile?

  I shook head in sorrow. “She refused to clean her room.”

  From out a pile of toys came eerie laughter.

  “You hush, Katrina,” scolded the youngest from my lap. The middle child picked up a shoe, tossed it towards the toys. More laughter.

  “Ignore the mad thing,” advised the eldest. Tapped the sword blade to play a warning chime. So these children knew the Porcelain Doll, felt comfortable throwing shoes. What had been their life so far in family strange as Lalena’s? With a spadassin father? No telling.

  “The girl knocked on the castle door,” I continued. “It creaked open. What did she see?” I waited.

  “Shoes,” giggled the elder child.

  “Cows,” giggled the middle child.

  “Cows in shoes.”

  “Boys.”

  “Pigs.”

  “Pig boys!” At that, more eerie laughter from the toy pile.

  “No, no. Cats,” corrected the youngest, solemn for proper ceremony. “It was cats.”

  “A hundred cats,” I agreed. “Big cats, little cats, fat cats, thin cats. All staring up at the girl with big wide eyes.”

  The child curled in my lap made her eyes go wide. I dared reach finger, touch an ear, the tip softly pointed as new leaf. She giggled, the eyes drifted closed.

  “The cats led her inside the castle, walking before and behind, purring and tripping her. They led to the kitchen, and there a hundred cats sat and meowed before a hundred empty bowls. The girl searched cabinets and scullery, found shelves of food. She set to work making fish soup.”

  “Don’t like fish soup,” mumbled the youngest.

  Of course you don’t, I thought. Because I didn’t either. You like running fast in green fields. The smell of rain on hot pavement. The night wind’s song. You are half of me, half of my Lalena. Or not? Perhaps all such trinkets of family taste and hair and shape of ear are meaningless heirlooms, destined for the attic of the house you shall order for your own.

  “Well, the cats liked it,” I affirmed. “And after she’d fed every last kitten and every old tom, they led her to a great chamber with a hundred little beds. She tucked each one under a blanket and told them to sleep.”

  “She didn’t tell them a story?” asked the middle girl, head upon my knee. She sounded genuinely sad for the poor things. God’s truth, were it me I’d toss a cat out for the night. More so, a hundred of the beasts.

  “She stood on a chair,” I decided. “And told a long story about a, a prince who had to ring a magic bell.” First thing that came to mind.

  “Why did he have to ring a bell?” asked the middle child.

  “To help another prince find a secret door.”

  “Why did he want to find the secret door?” asked the elder.

  “Ah, so he could reach the king to get a magic spell that would help him fight the rat pirates.”

  From the pile of shadowed toys came a ‘pfff’. The eldest girl put face in hands. Clear expression of shame. The middle child sighed. The youngest one gave a gentle snore. Asleep. So were my legs. A creak of floor sounded in the hall outside.

  “In bed,” commanded the eldest. She put sword to floor, threw herself under blankets. The middle child flew back to hers, disappearing fast as rabbit in briar. The child on my lap continued to snore. I struggled to stand, legs turned stone. Staggered to the third bed, placed the youngest within. Pulled coverlet over. She sighed, curled to a circle. “Live with the kitties,” she whispered.

  I scooped the key from the sugar bowl, retrieved my sword. Meeting the eyes of the eldest girl. Dark windows to a solemn soul. My mother’s eyes for sure. And of a sudden I knew what Lalena felt for all her mad, quarreling family. An invisible string ran across the sea from my long dead mother, through my living heart and to Lalena. And that line tangled with this child and her sisters, and on into all the tribes of cousins, binding hearts across fields and mountains and centuries till at last it must weave into the world itself. So tangled a skein that all who felt the threads of the grand tapestry must acknowledge each passing wind as ‘sister’, greet every evening star for brother.

  Mad thought, I know. The elder girl whispered ‘closet’. I rushed within, pulling the door near shut just as the other door opened. Candle light entered the room. I tensed. Perhaps here came an Espada hunting across time. I readied sword, undecided whether to attack first, or wait. Best avoid battle in a room full of children.

  Someone walked about, bare of foot. Friend, foe or chambermaid? Through the crack I spied a figure in sleeping gown and shawl, checking each bed, finding three very good kitties fast asleep. I knew her then. Lalena sighed, began picking clothes up from the floor.

  I might have stepped out, greeted my wife. But how? With sudden shout? Quiet laugh? Embrace and explanation? What would we say to one another? God’s sake, I’d have to ask the names of our children. I’d considered our love complete for a mere ‘I do’, and a half year sharing the same bed. We’d suffered separation, rejoiced in reuniting. Ha, we’d even held a genuine quarrel.

  Of a sudden I knew what a brief way we’d journeyed. I stood on the shore of a sea too deep, too wild for my coward soul to swim. I backed further into the closet. And farther. At some point I could no longer feel clothes about me, only stone walls. With regret, with relief, I stood again in the hall of doors and time.

  Chapter 16

  Crossed Paths in the Hall of Time

  As soldier, I fancied myself made for war. A weed of presumption that sprouts in the brain-crinkles of those who stood here, where no cannonball landed, rather than there, where a dozen now lie dead. In truth, no creatures are natural to war; not even soldiers.

  But I was made for streets and alleys, taverns and squares, houses and markets. That is where I walk with surest foot. When I breathe most easy. For all that my boot is tramping cobbles slick with horse shit. For all that I inhale stench of stale beer, factory smoke, tannery vapors and gutter rot. Usually. There comes the occasional firm footing on brick, even marble. Comes the warm inhale of garden flowers, pipe tobacco and bakery winds.

  Made for cities; yet the memories closest to my making are of woods across the sea. Leaf smells, tree shadows, the scurry of animals in underbrush. Dew-silvered cobwebs, morning mist on ponds, cold joy of splashing creeks and rivers. And my strongest recollections are stage plays set to forests and fields. Marches under blue sky across green hills. Night skirmishes in woods where the wind in branches roars like a river. Camp fires watching battalions of sparks charge the stars. A day when the sky grew dark with storm, and I sheltered in a copse of cannon-shattered trees, watching a rabbit poke out its head to wonder whether war and thunder would ever cease.

  * * *

  I relit my faithful candle, faced blank wall. Whatever portal I’d passed, it offered no return. Pity. I wanted to know the story’s end. And all the tale of the three girls. I put palm to the cold stone, near to tears as proper spadassin shall be.

  Then sighed, continued down the hall. Considering the magic key in pocket. What use was it? I had only used it at the door in the tavern. Hadn’t needed one in the melee of Espadas and abominations. Yet the porcelain doll implied I required it.

  I searched for another door. Naught but smooth wall to left, to right. No choices here. I went on, deciding how I’d have ended the bed-time story. Papa Gato would have returned from long adventures, finding his beloved cat-
kin well-tended. Then he’d reward the girl in some fantastical way. The good, brave, nameless girl.

  What did Lalena and I name our daughters? Flower names, I decided. Roses and Violets, Columbines and Lillies. But were the creatures certain to be? Perhaps they were only dreams of what might have been, might yet be. I recalled the warm truth of the youngest in my lap. I believed in her, past all dreaming.

  I wandered on. Still no doors. Perhaps I’d used all my magic chances. The candle burned lower. I considered snuffing it. What need for light when the hall ran infinitely straight? But suppose I missed a door in the dark? Besides, the glow made something to talk to.

  Had Lalena known I hid in the closet? I asked the candle. She’d taken over-much time entering the room. Perhaps she heard my voice, stood trembling at the door. Knowing her love from years past waited within. Could she hesitate to face me?

  You hid from her, the candle accused. Why?

  Annoying question. I weighed snuffing the prying light. Childish. Instead I considered. Why? Because I’d felt… shy. Absurd but true. Worse than standing naked. Lalena and my future self knew ten years of marriage and children together. To stumble before her ignorant of that life made me feel a boy. A new recruit thinking to sit with the scarred veterans in the mess tent.

  The flame laughed. Behold the play of light and shadow, it declared. See in it what you will. Exactly what one would expect from a candle. I wandered on, seeing sparks where the eye created phantom light. Imagination drawing faces and monsters, angels and tigers. At length fantasy summoned forth a shape, footsteps echoing mine.

  Ahead walked a man. The candle light glinting upon armor. No, upon the man himself, he being bronze. The clockwork killer, striding steady down the hall. Not towards me but away. I considered turning about. But I disliked the idea of the thing behind me, a shadow of mechanical doom. Perhaps best to attack? Seemed unwise. I sighed, settled for being its shadow.

  Beyond us a door opened, hinges creaking, light flooding out. A man stepped into the hall, lamp raised. The mechanical killer marched forwards to greet the newcomer. Should I shout warning? Pointless. The thing already clanked and whirred for a cart of tin clocks. Blades clashed, the two greeting one another with a bout of fencing. The lamp swung, whirling shadows about.

  I drew closer. Dangerous, but I had professional interest. Might come time when I fought it myself. Hellfire, perhaps in the future no more honest men earned daily bread as spadassins. These clockwork toys might conquer my craft as jacquard looms replaced flesh-and-blood weavers.

  I came up behind, observing. Seeking if the mechanism showed thought to its actions. I saw none in its parries. But why should it fear for its metal guts? For all that the man it fenced was Chatterton Espada. He dropped the lamp, the better to fence. The automaton steadily forced him towards the dark. I followed behind, observing.

  “It might help,” panted Chatterton, “If you held the lamp close to him.”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. “But then I would be close to him.”

  “True, that.” He slashed saber across the mechanical face. Was the head its Achilles’ heel? Chat was no fighter to waste moves. The blows rang, the creature shuddered, stepped forwards. Chat retreated.

  “Or if you could cover its head,” he observed, “I believe that would disable it.”

  I snuffed my candle, took off my coat, sighing at the chill. Stepped to the back of the thing, threw my jacket over it its head, leaped back. It did not cease to fight. Rather, it began turning in circles, waving blade. When the steel rang against the wall it charged, colliding, rebounding. It raised saber and launched itself against the stones.

  I retrieved the lamp, leaped past to land beside Chatterton. The clockwork thing paid us no mind. It continued to attack the wall.

  “Is it so idiot as that?” I asked. A bit disappointed. I’d fled the thing twice now.

  “Ah, they’ve no more mind than a cart rolling down a hill.” He shook head. “Granted, a cart rushing down a hill can kill a man quick.”

  “You have a coat,” I observed. “Why didn’t you throw it over the thing?”

  “These stones are chill,” replied Chat. “I didn’t want to lose it.”

  We walked on, clangs of the mechanism diminishing. I spied no doors, even the one through which Chatterton had stepped. Annoying. My first sight of this hall had shown an almost infinite line of choices. No choice now but advance or retreat.

  “I’m seeking a door to last week,” I shared. “I’m going to see the king.” What an interesting thing to say. How dull my lines sounded before I met my wife. I repeated in appreciation. “Yes, a door to last week. Then I’m bound for the world a hundred years hence. I’ll find what breakfast they serve in Utopia. And you?”

  Chatterton sighed. “I seek my cousins Edgar and Emily, to make peace. And Kariel, to let her know I didn’t kill the dear things on a bloody night. But as they seem bent on finishing me, it may not be true by the time I find her.”

  Likely enough. The doors of Time’s Hall held dangers worse than clockwork killers. Behind them waited betrayals, misunderstandings, temptations. Messages delivered too late, and prophecies to set the unwary on the path to destruction. Chat and I walked together, gnawing upon our separate thoughts. No sound but our stone-echoing steps. Cousin Chat made excellent company if one felt in a mood to brood. One never supposed he thirsted for conversation.

  At last ahead, another light. A man walked towards us, lamp high, sword low. Behold a cheerful face of awful scars. Edgar. “As I was saying,” sighed Chatterton.

  A thought occurred. “Have you fought him outside my dining room window yet?”

  He shook head, not a bit surprised by the question. “Not that I recall.”

  “Ah.” How strange, that I knew a bit of another man’s future. I was become the Prophet Rayne. “Well. See if you two can keep from trampling my roses, would you?”

  Chatterton nodded, as proper house guest shall do. “You’ll be letting me handle my cousin,” he then informed me. Hand up to indicate I need advance no further. I halted, put the lamp to floor.

  “I could kill him for you,” I offered. “’Would keep your girl from vexing.”

  Chatterton shook head. “An Espada affair, Master Gray.”

  Exactly the answer I expected, proud ass though it made him.

  “Well, may I kill him after he kills you?”

  Chatterton sighed. “Aye, if you must. No doubt the Glocken has set him upon your destruction anyways, as price for traveling this damned hallway.” He walked forwards to stand in his cousin’s light.

  “Throw your coat over his head,” I suggested. He ignored this clever advice. The two stopped to consider one another. While I considered both. Edgar stood less tall than Chatterton. Both showed the same starved, stretched build. They were steel blades, tempered to fine steel. And if you wonder, I am modeled more on a club. A Morningstar, let us say. With silver inlay to the handle. Nothing unrefined as your common truncheon.

  Chatterton spoke first. “It gladdens me to see you yet on live, Edgar Espada.”

  “As I rejoice to see your face again, cousin,” returned Edgar, setting down the lamp. Greeting made, the two stood silent. Seeking signs of weakness? No, that would be too sensible. They paused out of affection, each curious to know something of the life of the other. Before commencing slaughter, of course.

  Edgar shook head. “Have you truly been dwelling in the tents of the mad Sanglair?”

  Chatterton scratched chin, considering the reality of his life. “Aye. Grew lonely in the valley, with naught but full graves and empty houses.”

  Again they stood silent, harkening to the wind of lives passed, voices silenced, graves gone to flower. Edgar sighed, scribbling words on the floor with saber point.

  “Yes, but to sit to table with those red-tartan night-haunts,” he said. “Not to speak ill of family, but man, they give shivers when they smile upon a soul.”

  “Ah, one grows use to shivers,”
replied Chat. Easy words for him, he still had his coat. “And you, cousin? You have been with the Clockmakers. Are they not mad artificers who build their own offspring?”

  “So the gossip goes,” smiled Edgar. “I would never discuss such niceties with my hosts. ‘Twould be discourteous. And embarrassing, like enough.” The two shook heads at the things a sound mind must tolerate in family.

  Chatterton: “And what bargain did you make with old uncle Glocken?”

  At that, Edgar raised head and voice. “Emily and I would be done with the Tempering,” he declared. He hesitated, took breath. “Married, we are. Three weeks now, if you can believe.”

  And at last Chatterton looked surprised. “Married? You? And, and Emily?”

  “Does aught displease in the news?” asked Edgar, putting edge to voice. Then more lightly, “Ah, cuz, you’d have been invited but we kept the service simple. Not even held in this century.”

  Chatterton waved that aside. “The news makes excellent hearing. Death match is forbidden twixt man and wife. Vows said, there’ll come no game of facing one against the other when you’ve finished with my person.”

  “Such wasn’t the cause of our marrying,” Edgar growled. “I’ll cut any that says it so.”

  Chatterton nodded. “And I’d stand beside you against the fool who said it.”

  Edgar paused wrath, nodded to accept the truth of it. Went back to scribbling thoughts with saber point. “Em and I would never spare either the other,” he brooded. “We’d hold back knife strike no more than love. But she is, she is…”

  Chatterton raised hand. “Peace, cousin. Think not so ill of me, or any of the family. You were two souls destined to be united. And now are twined? I rejoice to hear it. But where is bonny bride Emily?”

  “Behind you with a knife, like enough,” laughed Edgar. Chatterton laughed as well. I did not. I already stood back to wall, watching both ways best I could.

  “Marriage,” brooded Chatterton. “’Tis a new life. I know that much, and not a mote more. But if you begin anew, cousin, then let’s turn swords to plows and declare contest done.” He lowered voice to all but whisper. “Man, all else is folly.”