The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “Wine’s two silvers,” she declared, tapping palm.

  I shook head. “I paid three this morning, for meal never eaten.”

  She put hands behind to her slim hips. “Thou art a very stubborn sort of man,” she observed.

  I considered this slight creature. As full of life as a dragonfly, as full of joy as a child first beholding a dragonfly. For all that she now moved hands behind to grasp hidden knife. I did not hate her, nor pity. I came nearer to loving. She reminded of so many of her kin I’d come to cherish. Doe, and Vixen, and even the Lamp Maiden. So when Em lashed blade towards my gut, I did not break her neck. I blocked the knife, broke the arm in a kindly place above the elbow.

  She cried out, tumbling back. Edgar cursed, leapt with saber drawn. If Em had dropped the knife I’d have scrabbled for it. Probably losing my head for the dice-throw. But she kept the blade, glaring up from the sawdust. Remarkable creatures, your Espadas. I kicked the knife from her grasp, grasped Major Dark’s chair, raised it to block Edgar’s first strike.

  And if I declare I beheld the Major in the chair, and heard his ghostly laugh, you will think I have a fanciful mind, and read overmuch of Blake and Coleridge. But in testimony to my vision, the old soldier kicked Edgar full in the face. It did not deter him a whit nor bit; for ghosts are little to the family, and their blows but shadow. Still it distracted so that I could strike hard with the heavy chair, real as real. Edgar staggered back.

  I leapt forwards with the Glocken’s walking cane. Short and light, absurd toy to front a war saber. And yet, the very tool that I learned to fence with under the Major’s instruction. It came easier than thought to parry Edgar’s next slash, riposting into his throat so he gasped, choking. He dropped blade, struggling to breathe. I kicked him to his knees, enjoying myself.

  I’d left Emily on the floor, arm broken, knife kicked across the room. Anyone but an Espada could be ignored for a quarter-second. So I turned, unsurprised to meet her grin. She stood behind me swinging the iron cat from the bar counter. Hit me across the forehead. I staggered, then punched her as though we were two dockworkers boxing for farthings in an alley. She tumbled back. I stood dazed, blood running into my eyes. At length I wiped it away to see her on the floor whispering to the iron cat. She gave it satisfied pat on the head. Em had hoped to brain me, but settled for having distracted.

  I spun back to Edgar, but not in time. A sudden change of life occurred within me. As though a secret door within myself never noticed before, now opened. Agony rushed in as life rushed out. For all he still choked, Edgar had regained the saber, lunged upwards through my ribs. I struck him across the face with the cane. He fell again, pulling away blade red as my wife’s lips. Then dropped the saber, put hands to throat, eyes wide, face purpling. I kicked him, left him lying.

  I bent down, retrieved the saber. Then moved to the counter, using it to remain standing. Weighed the room. Em down, Ed down. I pressed palm to my side. Agony with each breath in, each breath out. Blood pouring free as wedding wine. I considered the filled cup still on the counter. Drink deep, whispered Cousin Coils. Wherefore not? That was a death wound I’d taken. I’ve given enough in my time to know my own. Last toast, then. I picked up the wine, downed it just as the clock began to strike. Of course it did.

  Em and Ed struggled to stand. So also the Glocken. Mechanical creatures teetering to life. I determined to cut their throats, break their springs before they regained footing. But of a sudden I felt weary, cold and heavy as the iron cat. I watched my foes slowly rise. At length we all stood listening to the chime of the hours. Watching as a door opened in the clock’s base.

  Out marched a figure in black cloak and scythe. Beside him tottered a manikin in cock-feathered hat, holding wine cup, with which he toasted the hours. Till the toy cup emptied, the last bell sounded. Then the two stamped their mechanical steps into a dark door and vanished.

  Hell with that, I decided. Time’s a mocker worse than wine. I resolved to pull the machine down from the mantle. Smash it with the iron cat. But my feet had come unwound, the spring within my manikin chest was done. I dropped cup and sword, slipped to the floor. Lay staring up at the rafters where long, long ago I’d read of war and heaven, death and love. As below, so above.

  At length Em, Ed, and the Glocken gathered around me, looking down. Three fascinating faces. What a pity we were at war. I considered what I knew of their futures. The Glocken devoured by green-fired abominations. Ed lying same as I; blinking at the knife in his eye. Emily howling in the arms of the unpitying Sanglair. No victors here. Perhaps they knew it so, for they stared down grim as if they’d heard their own funeral knell in the clock chime. I closed eyes, weary of the fools that make life shorter, lesser in joy. Yes, I among them.

  “The bargain stands fulfilled,” wheezed Edgar. “Pesky fellow’s dead at your feet.”

  “See now the brave hero who sat at ease with fierce and sanguine Sanglair?” whispered Emily. “Behold the one who set towers trembling and lairds cursing with his dancing shadow. Bravely did he live, and dance, and die. ’Twas near an Espada himself, worthy of all praise and eggs and bacon.” She pondered her words. “Anna Elena shan’t be pleased we’ve slain her pet.”

  I wanted to argue I was no pet, but Lalena’s lord and love. And she my divinity of invisible brow, golden hair, girl-wise laugh. But last strings were cut between my fading mind and puppet body.

  . “Aye, she’ll set the Sanglair upon us,” said Edgar. “The Mac Tier as well, perhaps. The Harlequin were less matter.” He quoted from this morning’s poetry lesson. “Encompassed with a thousand dangers. Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors, we’re called to receive a sentence worse than Abiram's.”

  “Are we not to bring the Tempering to our cousins?”

  “We are exiles, love. Best the earth swallow us up awhiles.”

  “I shall lead you both through a door far into the future,” wheezed the Glocken. “Where all this blood is dust, where all this death forgot. To the great fair of Time, where things begin anew.”

  Where you find your end, I wanted to warn. But found no tongue left to serve my wants. Still, I wondered if the Glocken knew their end. For sure he did. But he was a Laird of the clans. He had no intention of releasing these mad creatures upon his kindred. Not once they’d finished with me.

  The tavern door opened, voices delivering scripted lines. Stamping feet shook the floor. At last rough hands grasped me, dragged me. To bring me safe to the surgeon? No. I recalled Jean dragged away years passed. The three killers this morning. My turn now to exit the tavern door as cold burden.

  A settled rocking told me when I lay in the trash cart rumbling to the deadhouse. Hands removing my fine shirt. They’d have to clean it of the blood, patch the cut to the side. Farewell breeches, farewell boots. Farewell magic card serving as Utopian coin.

  Cold from beyond the stars now filled my emptied veins. Drawing a peaceful, icy end to fear and pain, yet never quite reaching end. At times my eyes slipped open, giving glimpses of dark buildings, night streets. Above me the moon followed along, as guard and kindly guide. Within the cart, my naked body lay tumbled and tangled in a pile of fellow dead. Our arms and legs bent this way and that, dolls stuffed into a trunk. I studied a man across from me with a dissolute face, smiling to say he found death a fine adventure. An old woman whose fixed eyes stared at the moon. A child curled in eternal sleep. Her form huddling to recall warmth forever lost. I worried she might be one of the nameless girls from the bed chamber. Else Flower, or the Porcelain Doll. And yet if it were not them, it was some other child. Some other being of wisdom and innocence cast into child form, then left to the trash cart.

  And why sorrow for any creature here? The dead cart was cold, but it traveled in peace. Why not be glad for its passengers, safe at last from life’s fires? The smiling man twitched eyes, considered me. Behold a worn face burned by all the world’s opium, brightened by all the poetry that ever prophesied sudden laughter and inevitable te
ars. Of a sudden I knew him ‘Course I knew him.

  “Master Clive.”

  My old tutor smiled. I would have laughed, but the breath required were overmuch. Still I recited.

  “If thou beest he; But O how fallen!

  How changed from him,

  Who in the happy Realms of Light

  Clothed with transcendent brightness

  Didst outshine myriads though bright”

  Came his whispery reply. “Mershon, most favored of students.” High praise that, I’d have you note.

  The waggoneer turned the cart into a dark cross-street stretching to infinite black. The horse’s hooves clopped, clopped, steady as tick, tock. I watched as we approached a light. Behold the Lamp Maiden seated upon the dragon’s throne. She dangled string. The kitten leaped to seize it. As the cart rumbled near she scooped the creature up, stood respectful. When we passed she curtsied. Not to us the dead, but to the cart driver. This surprised me. I could tell nothing from the back of the man, but folk of import do not tend the dead cart. Still, who to say but any stranger about his daily toil may be a prince, an angel, a figure of power? Was that not the holy secret of William Blake? We are all dread powers, archons, principalities. Even in the dead cart, we proceed as holy relics. We rumbled on into the dark, reverenced by the moon. I returned attention to Master Clive.

  “You were the most excellent of teachers,” I whispered. “You filled my boy head with more fires than Milton, Dante and all laureates twixt Homer and Blake.

  “Concerning poets,” observed the scholar. “A phrase comes to mind.”

  Excellent. We oft warred with quotes. I considered this game my first fencing lesson. I recited in opening salvo.

  “Black it stood as Night,

  Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,

  And shook a dreadful Dart;

  What seemed his head

  The likeness of a Kingly Crown had on.”

  “Bah,” riposted Clive. “What did Milton know of Death, while he yet lived? And what is death but a dream?” Then, “What if you slept and what if in your dream you went to heaven. And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower, and what if when you awoke you had that flower in your hand? Ah, what then?”

  “Not fair, Master,” I chided. “You alter Coleridge’s words.”

  He considered me long. Had we been alive, he’d have had me now stand upon the cart-horse’s head, reciting Villon. There is no better place for Villon than the head of the horse pulling the dead cart. Alas, we were limp clay dolls rumbling sleepy through the night. At length he recited.

  “And this distilled liquor drink thou off;

  Then through thy veins shall run

  A cold and drowsy humor, for no pulse,

  No warmth or breath shall hint of life.

  Each part, deprived of supple rule,

  Shall stiff and cold appear like death.”

  Dying is an emptying. Memory fading, I could make nothing of the quote.

  “Coriolanus,” whispered someone in the tumble of bodies about us. I felt that answer wrong, yet close.

  “Romeo and Juliet,” offered the old woman. Her milky eyes continued to follow the moon, but she smiled for the gift of a hint.

  Of course she was right. I searched for clever reply. Some line from Mercutio? But when you do not see the other’s point, difficult to make riposte. I pondered till the wagon halted. The waggoneer jumped down, strode towards the back of the cart. I gazed upon a man of middling age, middling height. Soot covered face, and amber eyes of rage. He grinned upon us the holy dead, not in enmity nor in cruelty, not in pity nor disgust. In his face shone a rueful humor to match the moon’s.

  “My turn,” he growled, voice a rumbling thunder. “All that we see is owing to your metaphysics… But now we have seen my eternal lot, shall I shew you yours?”

  William Blake. I should have found a thousand replies upon my tongue. But my head lay freed of thought as heart of blood. Surely I was now empty of all that burdened life. Thoughts and breaths, pains and fears. Yet I would have kept Blake if I could, past all the rest of life. No chance now. Lord Fulgurous lifted the cold remainders of my person from the dead cart, easy as the Lamp Maiden’s kitten. Then flung me into the dark of my eternal lot.

  Chapter 31

  And now my Murder is Complete

  I awoke not understanding I’d slept. Eyes opened, the world remained black canvas painted with phantom colors. My mind stirred, a frozen river yielding to spring. Melting and trickling towards thoughts. At length I began to recall words. ‘What’, and ‘where’ and ‘who’. I found I was a body wrapped loose in stiff cloth. I pushed at it with numb fingers. The shrouding material crackled like wetted cloth frozen in the night. I began kicking, feet wooden as puppet limbs. Naught of this cold body wished to obey. At length my awakening mind joined words that explained existence. I must be in my tent in France. No doubt it had rained, and I now lay sheeted in ice. And some japester had tangled a string tight about one of my toes.

  The air grew close, making me pant. I’d soon smother under this sheet. Panic lent strength to tear the shrouding. I struggled out, a caterpillar fleeing his cocoon un-winged. The pain in my side was payable cost for each inhale, exhale. Though the air tasted acrid, with a metallic tang from a thousand apothecary shops. Where was I? France? The corpse pit? The haunted castle in the north? The city catacombs, perhaps. Memories tangled, lacking sense or sequence. I recalled Keeper’s tavern, and Chatterton’s wedding, and the happy smile that Emily gave to life, to death.

  Ah, yes. My death. I’d gone back in time and Edgar Espada had killed me. Then he’d gone forwards in time and I’d killed him. An amusing paradox that still writ me down for dead. This dark seemed an anti-climax of an afterlife. I listened for heavenly trumpets, slithery devils. The moaning of ghosts. Not that I believed in heaven, devils or ghosts. They are metaphors for the things one meets in life that are like to angels, devils and ghosts.

  My head ached. I put hand to it, found the cut from the iron cat. Tender, yet less than I recalled. The wound nearly closed. Absurd. The dead do not heal. Nor shiver naked in their tombs… Of a sudden I felt sure this must be my tomb.

  Of course. I lay now in the grand memorial to Rayne Gray, Seraph. Built by my lamenting in-laws. No, by all a sorrowful kingdom. Visited yearly by thousands of weeping converts to Labor Rights and a Just Scale of Taxation. It’d be a solemn place of dark stone, surrounded by gardens. Graced with statues of the Martyrs to Revolution and Reason.

  I desired to see those gardens, walk the sunlit paths. There would be fountains, and benches where couples sat contemplating Time, Death and Love. The sun would shine upon green grass where the future’s children ran free. I frowned at the thought. What would that sunlight show of me? A ghost thing of fog for the day’s wind to puff away. Else a green stick man to make the living shudder. No, no, never. Better to remain here, forgotten within my memorial.

  My wife was born in darkness, raised in deepest shadow. Taught to fear the sun. Until now I’d not understood why she never stepped a rebel foot into the dawn. Sitting in my tomb, I comprehended. Darkness is a great wise queen. Those who live in her kingdom belong to her. And though you long for light, you accept the sheltering dark. For her black wings hide what we fear others to see. What we fear to see ourselves.

  For a moment that seemed wise. Then I shook my head. Hell with such thoughts, I wanted out. I struggled to stand, tumbled to the floor. A strange surface not of proper stone. Warmer than the marble a Seraph deserved, smoother than wood. I thrashed about, grasped a metal table leg. Also unsuitable to my memorial. I’d have it all replaced with materials of taste. Carved alabaster, perhaps. I struggled to rise while light appeared above me, sudden as a host of angels.

  When the Lamp Maiden raised hands and summoned stars, we’d beheld a fairy glow of wonder. My awakening now summoned lights that must be distant cousins to her magic electricalities. These shone deprived of wonder, yet flickering with dread purpose
. I stared up at glassy tubes emitting a blue-white chill. Behold the captured light of a winter day, clouds covering the sun. These tubes hummed and twitched as though insects labored within. Perhaps they did.

  This cold glow shone on my surroundings, on myself. I stood not in heaven nor hell nor grand mausoleum. Behold a large chamber, windowless and unadorned. Filled row after row with tall tables upheld by metal legs. Upon each of these Spartan altars lay a wet-shining bag of human shape, same as the tattered shroud through which I’d wiggled. A strange place, yet the scene explained itself. I sniffed in test, nodded. Beneath the chemist-shop stench was my old friend from battle field and city alley: the smell of dead flesh.

  I stood a naked castaway in the far future of my dreams. Not upon Utopia’s wondrous streets, neither in the Atlantean towers nor the peaceful plazas of civilization’s progress. Not wandering its flowered parks, nor within the temples sanctified to the gods of Reason and Learning. Not in the grand libraries treasuring books as lesser ages hoarded gold and silver. I sighed at Time’s last jest. And then I laughed, for the suitability, for the inevitability.

  I’d come to Utopia’s deadhouse.

  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 end with this exciting conclusion:

  The Scaled Tartan