For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3)

by Ichabod Temperance

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, looky there, sitting on the side of the road is a horseless carriage! This steam-powered beauty is an ‘Elkins/Charles’. The fashionable thing to do is to call them ‘Charlies’. I believe she has been abandoned, apparently due to mechanical failure, on the tidal wave of pandemonium that always precedes the Martian terror.”

  “If the carriage is inoperative, then of what good is it to us, eh hem?”

  “I think the mechanically disinclined owners were far too hasty in their abandonment of this vehicle, Ma’am. Fortunately for us, I am particularly mechanically inclined. Oh, I see, the problem is in the steering mechanism. Why, the linkage has just come loose from a lost cotter pin. I guess it’s lucky for us that I tend to carry a bit of wire in my pocket for just this sort of instance.”

  “You are as Providence herself, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Thanks, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. I’ll go ahead and get the furnace lit before I make the repairs so that the pressure can be building.”

  “Splendid, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Ain’t this a pretty cart, Ma’am? It ain’t got but three wheels!”

  “I see, Mr. Temperance. The bench that straddles the two forward wheels is where I presume we shall sit, eh hem?”

  “Yes Ma’am. Bolt will sit on the left, to be the brakeman. You will be on my right, and shall be the most tender, tinder tender there ever could be. I will steer and control the speed from the center position. This is the place that two levers come up to control the single, chromium-plated, wire-spoked wheel that projects from the rear of the red chariot. A pushing and pulling motion is what is required to instigate a turn.”

  “I see. I note that the furnace is mounted amidships, and that this allows the passengers an unobstructed, if unprotected, panoramic view.”

  “I never thought I’d get to pilot something like this, Miss Plumtartt! What do you think we oughtta call her, a steam-trike? Her elegance and functionality are actually very sporty. The three rims are adorned by black, rubber, balloon ‘tyres’. The steering tyre projecting rearward has a rakish flair, to my eyes. The boiler and furnace have been buffed to a blinding gleam. The water reservoir is painted in a festive red that matches your dress! So are her wheels’ protectors. These molded parts of thin steel are like skirts, and act to fend gravel and other rubbish from being thrown upon the occupants of the vehicle and also for the safety of those around the trike. These attractive accouterments help to form the vehicle’s ‘body’, if you will. Perhaps we should refer to the skirts that fend off the gravel as ‘deflector shields’.

  “Make it so, Mr. Temperance.”

  “I’m gonna take careful note of the amount and grade of coal in the bin for I wish to return this pretty carriage back to its rightful owner in the condition in which I found it, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “Of course, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Here is a nice big bonnet to fit over your bounty of lovely auburn hair, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “I say, that’s just the ticket, eh hem? And what’s this? Three sets of goggles, yes?”

  I firmly grasp the two control levers that turn our rearward wheel to and fro.

  Pushing a foot pedal with my lower left appendage, a series of linked rods act to slide a drive gear away from its shaft of propulsion. A manual lever is used to shift a wide, circular disc, edged in diagonal slots, into such a position that it will engage with the corresponding slots of the rod extending from the steam propelled engine. The foot pedal ‘clutches’ the gear, holding it from the steam driven, spinning shaft. I think I shall refer to this pedal as the ‘holder’.

  I slowly release the ‘holder’, sliding a free-turning, sheathed bearing to engage the spinning shaft of our engine. With the gears thus put into service, we begin our steam-driven odyssey.

  “Gee, I think all three of us look just terrific in our goggles!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Roof!”

  “Golly gee whillikers, this little trolley will get on down the road lickety-split, Ma’am!”

  “I say, quite so, Mr. Temperance, we make tremendous time, eh hem?”

  “Yes Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt. I predict that we shall quickly overtake the monstrous duo.”

  “Hello, what’s this? Mr. Temperance, we have come upon a group of troubled travelers. Their gaudily painted gypsy styled wagon is stuck and the means of propulsion is having a sit-down strike.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. That tall, strongly built, bearded gentleman is pleading for a change of heart.”

  “However, the emotionally charged pleas fall on the deaf, soft ears of his intransigent friend, eh hem?”

  “Horatio, you have had your rest and your morning meals. It is time for you to earn your keep! I command, as your lord and master, rise you brute! Perform your burdensome task, my beast!”

  Horatio views the muscular giant with a patient look before replying, “Ee-yaunhw.”

  “No sir! You’ll not talk yourself out of this. I insist!”

  A terrible wrath is barely contained in this human tempest. The bearded man has the bearing of a large oak tree, but in mortal formulation.

  “You shall conduct yourself as a proper mule.”

  Horatio surveys the human with a contemptuous eye.

  “There are two young ladies over by that tree waiting for the wagon to be freed, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “Roof, roof, roof!”

  “My word, Bolt is extremely happy to meet this group! He wags his tail as hard as I have ever seen him. I take this as a good portent, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Howdy, folks, may we be of assistance?”

  “Alas, forsooth, unless thou dost have the most extraordinary expertise in the handling of stubborn beasts such as this lazy creature, then help me not thou canst. Thou wouldst not believe the anguish this curs’d beast doth make me suffer.” The bearded giant indicates his uncooperative animal. “Nay kind sir. I knowest not, er, that is, I knowest naughtte, yes, that’s better, naughtte, what thou could do to aid this weary traveler.” ~huh---sigh~

  “I thinketh, er, I mean, I think I can help you yank that cart out of the ditch, mister. My name’s Ichabod. Ichabod Temperance, that is. What’s yours?”

  “Some call me,” as he arches his brows, raises his chin, and turns his head. The substantial cranium rotates slowly to the side to catch the light a bit better before answering, “Paul.”

  I direct the steam-trike into place before the wagon. With a length of stout rope and a few fancy knot tricks, the heavy three-wheeler is easily able to pull the wagon to freedom.

  We are joined by one of the girls from the tree.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” smiles the dark haired girl. She holds her bag of knitting under one arm and extends the other to shake hands. She is just a little thing, but quite vivacious. She reminds me of a carbonated sarsaparilla over shaved ice, all bubbly and sparkly. “Our little troupe shall forever be in debt to the helpful Mr. Ichabod Temperance.”

  “Shucks, t’weren’t nuthin,’ Ma’am. This is my girlfr... that is, my friend, Miss Persephone Plumtartt.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Persephone. My name is Valuria Englehart. I offer you thanks and greetings from our little touring troupe, the WickeThimble Traveling Players. I maintain the props and costumes, creating new ones when possible. This is our talented cast. The world’s greatest thespian player, Sir Paul Whitmore, and my singer extraordinaire, Miss Clarabelle Nightingale.”

  Sir Paul gives a deep and courtly bow.

  As if launched from an infernal device, and like a fountain of orangey-red flower petals bursting upward, Miss Nightingale springs from her seated position. After a few spirited bounces, and with her head, chin, elbows, and other parts held high, she leaps into the air, spreading her arms as wings to starboard and port, and fully extending her toes directly fore and aft. Following a gravity defying pause she delicately returns to Earth. Miss Nightingale seemingly concludes her performance after a series of pirouettes, toe taps, and
flurries in her nimble approach, but it is the vocalized trills she adds at the end that nearly floor Miss Plumtartt and me. These aural accompaniments are as if from another world, as there is a heavenly quality to them. Even Bolt’s jaw drops in amazement at the uncanny singing abilities of the beautiful girl.

  With a deep curtsy she ends her dazzling display to arise with the most happy and beaming face one could ever hope to imagine.

  “Good morning, Miss Plumtartt and Mr. Temperance! It is ever so nice to make your charming acquaintance. However, as I have a sudden and wonderful sensation of what fine people you are, I shall go ahead and address you as Ichabod and Persephone. I hope that is to your agreement?”

  “Yes, Ma’am!”

  “Of course, my dear. Quite right. Good show! My word! Indubitably! I say! Rather! Hear, hear!”

  “Roof!”

  “Oops, sorry, little buddy. This is Bolt, y’all.”

  Everyone smiles at and greets the little dog. He wags his tail uncontrollably as he greets everyone in turn. I do not believe I have ever seen our little dog so happy to meet anyone before. I rely on his good judgment about people’s character, and I like it that he is so accepting of these traveling performers.

  “Have you folks seen any giant mechanical three legged monsters come through here in the last twelve hours?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Valuria answers. “They frightened Horatio, causing him to crash our wagon into the ditch.”

  “Curse you, foul cart up-setter!” Sir Paul calls after the hit and walk bandits. He raises a clenched fist on high and shakes it violently. “A thousand deaths are too good for thine evil driving skills. I glower upon thine unwonted foulness.”

  “What were those horrors?” Clarabelle asks. “Where did they come from?”

  “To answer the first question is to answer the second. We are proceeding on the assumption that these are what Miss Plumtartt and I refer to as Martonians.”

  “‘Martians’ please, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Marteeyans.”

  “Oh dear. No, you see, the ‘Tee’ is pronounced ‘sh’.

  “Why?”

  “Just trust me, it is.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. These ‘Martians’ come across the voidal aethers of empty space from the planet Mars.”

  “That is fantastic! Can such a thing even be possible? Why have they done this thing, just to behave so beastly towards us?”

  Miss Nightingale’s open face, eyes, and mouth make a perfect ‘O’.

  I was afraid she’d ask that.

  I really do not want to answer, but I am an honest and truthful person by nature, and fibbing does not come easily to me. I still feel bad about not being completely truthful with Sheriff Woodley. Unable to come up a nice spin on the story, I settle for being straight with her.

  “It is our thought that they are predators of a sort, here to conquer our fair World. Moreover, though I am loath to speak in such a vulgar way, and especially in the company of ladies, the evidence of our own eyewitness testimony confirms one unthinkable hypothesis. These inter-planetary fiends are here to feast on us as a food source.”

  “Yes, I say, that ominous assessment sits like a lead truffle, eh hem?”

  “Here is what we know so far. The general consensus is that these visitors were launched from their home world in mid-April. What were at the time thought to be volcanic eruptions on the planet Mars were actually cannon-launched inter-planetary invasion capsules. Fired in sequential twenty-four hour patterns over nine days, these projectiles began arriving on June second. The first three landed in Australia. The next three landed in North America, namely, Alabama, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. The last we heard, a large object had struck in Poland. We are assuming that two more invasion modules have struck Europe since our last ability to assess news of the outside world was utilized.”

  “What hast our Governed Arms done to defy these Invaders?” Sir Paul faithfully plies.

  “All attempts thus far have failed to stay the beasts. The one we’ve been shadowing has taken everything our Federal forces have been able to throw at it and sent them all scampering off with their tail tucked. The one here in Alabama was able to duplicate not only itself, but was able to build a second walking tripod war machine. These are armed with ray-emitting devices that instantly heat any metal to the melting point. This was very discouraging to our nation’s military that so heavily depends upon steel in her weaponry. Moreover, one of ’em took a few shots at me with a high-falootin’ energy-ray pistol. These Martonians, I mean, Marteeyans, no, that is, Martians, possess weapon technologies far beyond our own warring creations.”

  “What is the plan, now?” asks Valuria.

  After a moment I reply, “To the best of my knowledge, there is no plan. When the Federals failed to defeat the alien craft, it has been pretty much up to the good folks of the community to defy these invaders.”

  Crickets chirp in the early summer air.

  “I say, by my estimation, our world’s governments have proven themselves to be out of their depth on this one, eh, hem?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

  “Then as I see it, when governments of the world fail their citizens, it is up to the citizens of the world to save their governments.”

  “What would you have us do, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mr. Temperance, I say, sir, the world and I are quite counting on you.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Forsooth, good Sir Knight, but I cannot say that I am overly impressed by your warring presence. No offense intended. Far from it, I am warmed by your kind manners, but alas, these times call for brave and daring deeds. You are a nice young man, but alas, no more imposing than a glass of milk.”

  “Funny thing about a glass of milk, Sir Paul, you can’t see inside it. There might be a scorpion in there, unseen and ready to surprise you. I may not look like much, but I’ll pull my end of the load, don’t you worry.”

  Sir Paul gives me a quick re-evaluation.

  ~snort~“Perhaps, young man, we shall see. Valuria, do you think we can take a brief sabbatical from our pressing schedule to save planet Earth?”

  “It might not be a bad idea, Sir Paul, since most of our best engagements are there.”

  An invisible wave passes over the strongly built man. A shudder almost imperceptibly jolts through his frame. Somehow, he convinces our imagination to believe that the immediate surroundings have gone dark, and a circular spot of light has fallen across him, suffusing him in a bluish white light.

  “Cursèd Invader!” Sir Paul shouts. Drawing himself up to his full and remarkable height, he defiantly shakes a fist at Mankind’s hated foe. “We shall never bow to your tyranny! Resist! Resist! You cannot stay our noble species.”

  This is delivered in a strong and defiant manner, but then, a crashing wave of despondency smashes against his noble features. His head bows. His bones appear to evaporate from his spent frame as he collapses to his knees. Shockingly, only a puddle of man survives where greatness stood a moment ago.

  “Hopeless is our poor planet’s fate. Despair is our only option. Woe and misfortune are all that remains for our beaten race.”

  He is the very picture of a defeated man.

  Suddenly, he snaps up. He is kneeling and looking up into the Sun.

  “Nay, my brothers and sisters, ‘tis not, I mean, ‘tis naughtte for me to cast aside the only species I have ever known. Nay, though I walk through the valley of mechanical mayhem from Mars, I shall naughtte be afraid, for I have vowed to purge this planet of unclean contamination. Invader, beware!”

  The poor fellow seems so distraught that I go to assist him.

  “Nay, good sir knight,” he says stretching his arm out at me in a gesture to stay my course. He hides his face, bending his head to be covered by his other forearm. “I am beyond your meager condolences. ‘Tis the fate of our very planet’s sovereignty at stak
e, man. This is serious!”

  Leaping to his feet, he grabs me with one arm around both my shoulders. Double my weight and standing a foot taller than me, this thickly built thespian crushes me to him, as he looks out to an imaginary audience.

  “Fear naughtte, dear Ichabod, for you have gained a powerful ally. Earth’s mightiest defender has taken up the challenge of our enemy. Mars faces the fury of Sir Paul Whitmore.”

  The three ladies raise their eyebrows and nod appreciatively.

  “I am inclined to think that it will be the efforts of individuals such as we that shall save our imperiled planet!” Miss Plumtartt injects. “Furthermore, I sense a desire within all present to assist in any way possible.”

  “Oh, yes, I should really like to do all that I could in any way I can.” Valuria nods and smiles enthusiastically.

  “I’ve not had much experience in slaying many opponents in battle,” Clarabelle Nightingale confesses. “The truth is, I carefully carry insects safely outside rather than squash them, and cannot bait my own fishing line with squirmy worms. Instead, I settle for less alluring wads of fresh bread, but I shall surely attempt to pull my ‘end of the load’ as Ichabod describes his contribution to the fight. I volunteer for the battle to rid our World from this plague of interplanetary bloodthirsty villains!”

  “Me too, Miss Nightingale, Ma’am!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Oh, well, we, the WickeThimble players are officially on the bill!”

  “Roof!”

  “Verily, and with Bolt chiming in we are of a single mind. All but one treacherous hold-out. Curse you, Horatio! Come now, we have a world to save!”

  “Maybe I can help, Sir Paul. I’ll tie this here carrot to the end of a long stick and dangle the tempting vegetable in front of him. Come on, Horatio, don’t you want the yummy carrot? Gee, he really is stubborn, ain’t he? Well, if don’t want it, I’ll eat it.”

  “Lead by example, that’s the way! Verily, no donkey is going to make an ass out of me!”

  Horatio casts a baleful glance at Paul’s delivery.

  “Everyone’s a critic!”

  “Bolt, do you think you could convince Horatio to be more cooperative?”