The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “Hair,” he grinned. “Red hair. Is it not beautiful?”

  “It is red enough, if anyone loves red hair. But what has this to do with killed tailed men?”

  “I am surprised that you have not guessed it,” he mocked. “We shall make ourselves so handsome that when the Uginas see us they will drop dead from admiration.”

  I said no more. When he took some spare clothing and rubber-covered pack-sheets from the canoe, however, and began to shape them over withes bent and tied into the shape of a large head, I caught his idea. Back came the memory of my idle remark in the Red Jungle about that demon of the In­dians—the Caypor. Now I saw why Pedro had brought along the red bark and why he made red hair. At once I went to work helping him.

  Over the frameworks of springy branches we built up trunks, shoulders, and heads, weaving bush-cord through holes in the cloth and rubber and tying them into the right shape. Around the great heads we bound that red hair which we had just made. On the dark rubber we made awful faces, using bits of fungus, daubs of clay and streaks of red dye, and cutting slits for mouths, into which we fastened bits of wood like jagged yellow teeth. When we lifted the things and set them on our shoulders we became the most horrible monsters I have ever seen, except in nightmares.

  We seemed misshapen giants whose arms grew from our waists, whose hair had been dyed in blood, and whose huge red-smeared mouths were stretching open ready to tear men into mangled corpses. Even a civilized man would have started with fear at first sight of us. And we believed that such low-brained creatures as the tailed Uginas would take us for real and deadly fiends.

  Making sure that the frameworks fitted well over our shoulders and that the holes cut for our eyes would not slip aside and leave us blinded, we took them off again and emptied our canoe. After hiding our equipment where nothing could disturb it while we were away, we ate and smoked.

  “Our arms are stained red from that dye,” I said.

  “They will be more red before we return,” Pedro answered. And he spoke truth.

  No rain was falling, but the light was poor. This suited us well. Carrying with us only those weird false bodies, full cartridge-belts, and our weapons, we slipped the canoe down the creek to the river, crossed over, and stole along up the northern bank until we reached that little inlet where we had shot the first Ugina. A short scouting trip proved that this time no enemy lurked there. So we bound on our terrible masks, looked again at our rifles to make sure they were full, and took the trail toward the lair of the tailed men.

  We soon found that, though our towering masks were not heavy, they were awkward and uncomfortable. Before long we were dripping with sweat, and we had to walk in a stooping posture and step carefully to keep our false heads from butting against low branches.

  But we knew that unless the Uginas lived in different fashion from all other tribes their village would be in a cleared space, and there we could stand erect. We knew, too, that they probably would be dozing now, for it was midday and the muggy air was sweltering hot. Our plan of attack was very simple—to walk in among them and start shooting.

  At the place where we had hidden yesterday and fought the four men led by the monkey, we found signs that other men had been there since we left. The bush was beaten aside and broken, and fresh footmarks showed in spots where the soil was soft. Though we stayed in the path, we knew the bodies which we had thrown aside had been found and taken away.

  “We had best go slowly,” I advised, “or we may fall into a trap. They must be hunting us, now that they have found those bodies.”

  But he snorted.

  “You forget that we are demons,” he objected. “Who ever heard of a demon slinking along cautiously? We must go in with a roar. If a few lurk in ambush, they will run when they see us. And I do not believe they are waiting for us—they have no reason to expect us to return, and it is so hot now that they are probably sleeping in their dens.”

  He was not wrong. We saw no man until we opened our fight. Abruptly the jungle ended and we emerged into a clear­ing. Trees grew there, but they were few and large and scattered, and the smaller growth had been hacked or burned away. We saw no houses of any kind. Surprised by this, we halted.

  Then out rang a scream, so near us that we jumped. From the base of a huge tree close at hand sprang a naked figure which ran shrieking down the open space. We threw up our rifles, but did not shoot; for the long hair flying out behind that form showed it was a woman. Later I remembered that she was not a tailed creature. Now we glanced at the place whence she had jumped, and saw that it was a tangle of sticks with a door-like hole in it.

  Out through that hole scrambled two other figures. One was a big coaita, which looked at us and then fled up into the tree. The other was a squat, scared-looking beast-man who rose to his knees and threw a spear at us. Pedro’s rifle barked, and the Ugina flopped on his face.

  Then we saw the others. From the butts of those big trees they came popping out like ants. The woman was still running, still screaming, and as they saw us they too began to jabber and yell. In our deepest tones we roared an answer. Then, our guns spitting death, we advanced on them.

  For a moment it seemed that they would run for the jungle. I hoped they would stand and fight, for I would dislike to shoot even such beasts as these in the back. But I need not have troubled about that. They ran only to get weapons. If they had known we were merely men they probably would have swarmed on us. As it was, they bunched around their trees and shot arrows and threw small spears, fighting as a beast fights—because he is too much scared to do anything else.

  We stopped before we came too close, bellowing as fiendishly as we could and moving from side to side while we reloaded our guns. Arrows fell around us, some striking fire-charred stumps and bouncing off, some slithering through the grass, some chunk­ing down into pools of water. Many of these might have hit us if we had stood still, but by our irregular movements to the side we evaded most of them. Besides, the Uginas were shooting and throwing with the hurried aim of fear, and their spears fell short and their arrows flew high. No doubt those who took any aim at all shot for those terrifying false heads of ours. At any rate, the few missiles which hit us went into the hollow framework of our masks, leaving our own heads and bodies untouched.

  Shooting swiftly but carefully, we poured another maga­zineful of lead into a knot of snarling savages around the butt of the nearest tree. Some yelped as they fell. Others dropped silent­ly. One or two squirmed on the ground, then lay still. The note of terror in the yells of those still standing became sharper. And when, our guns once more emptied, we began advancing toward them as we reloaded, panic swept them into howling flight.

  A couple of dropping arrows had caught in my shirt and stuck there, scraping my skin but doing no harm. From our false heads and shoulders several other arrows protruded. And the Uginas, seeing this and finding that we showed no signs of hurt, must have believed it was impossible to kill or even wound us. Yelling hoarsely, they turned and ran for the bush.

  But it was only the first tree that was deserted. From the other butts more Uginas ran out and joined those seeking cover, but these seemed to be mostly women and children—or, perhaps, monkeys. The men stayed, bunching together and sending a few more arrows at us. One of these, falling slant-wise, pierced my left foot.

  I was glad then that those arrows had no barbs, for it was easy to pull out that one and throw it aside. I tried to do this carelessly, as if it did not hurt. But I must have shown some sign of pain—perhaps I had jumped when the shaft struck me—for the shouts grew louder and arrows came more thickly again. We paid no attention to these, moving on as if we scorned them until we came into the shelter of the big abandoned tree.

  There, partly covered by the huge trunk, we shot steadily into the knots of savages around the other trees. We divided these between us, Pedro taking those to the left while I attacked those to the right. And now we did not concentrate on one spot alone, but shifted our fire from butt
to butt, striking men down here and there so rapidly that it must have seemed we were killing the whole tribe at once. Yet the Uginas fought on, though their fight seemed to be weakening and their noise died down.

  If they had known enough to keep quiet we might have died suddenly. Nothing had threatened our backs, and our enemies were in front, so that we never glanced behind. But now new cries began to come from the line of trees, and we saw the beast-men looking beyond us. Wheeling, we found several stealthy forms crawling up on us among the stumps.

  They were on hands and knees, partly hidden by stumps and grass, but we could see their heads well enough. Into two of those heads I sent bullets. Then my hammer snapped down without an explosion. Dropping the empty gun, I yanked my machete and jumped at the rest of them.

  But they did not wait. Their only weapons were short spears, and as we bore down on them they rose, threw their weapons, screeched, and ran for their lives. One just ahead of me fell over a stump, and another tripped over his outflung arms. I got both of them with slashing blows across the back of the neck. Pedro, too, caught one of the fleeing creatures and killed him, and later I found that he had shot another as he charged at them. Only two were left, and they went bounding away, howling fearfully.

  We turned back, sweeping the line of trees with our eyes to see whether other Uginas meant to rush us. But none did. Instead, more were sneaking for the bush.

  “My cartridges are running low,” said Pedro, as we re­loaded. “Let us advance on them before we use up all our bullets.”

  With our deepest yells we left our tree and advanced at a trot. The beast-men could stand no longer. A few sprang out from each butt and fled. The rest wavered an instant and followed. Halting, we shot fast and straight, downing several more of them. Then the clearing was empty.

  “Now that they have quit, they will keep on running until they think themselves safe,” said Pedro. “To help them on their way I will scream a little.”

  And scream he did, horrible wailing screams that sounded as if some wounded man were being torn apart and devoured by those yellow teeth in our false faces. They made me cold, even though I knew who made them and why. And the fear-ridden fugitives must have fled deep into the bush on hearing them, for we saw none of them again.

  Roaring and screaming by turns, we passed along the line of big trees, seeking any living thing that might remain. We found only two. In the doorway of one of the miserable hovels built between the root-buttresses we spied a wounded savage. As we stepped toward him he gave one snarl of terror, lifted a spear, and plunged it into his own heart. In another hut we found a sick coaita monkey which squatted and watched us without moving. Nothing else was under those trees except bodies.

  Some of the dead men, we noticed, had no tails. But, tailed or tailless, all had the same brute faces. We paid little attention to them, except to make sure they were dead and could not kill us from behind. When we reached the end of the open space we stopped yelling and stood looking at each other.

  Pedro’s mask was pierced in several places, and one arrow jutted out only a few inches from his eyes.

  “Are you hit?” I asked.

  “No. This arrow scraped my head and may have torn my scalp, but it is nothing. Your foot wound is much worse than that. Let us finish our work and go.”

  Out from a pocket he drew a small package carefully wrapped in rubber, and from this he produced matches. We pulled a few dry sticks from inside the stinking hut nearest us and set fire to them. Soon we had all the shelters around that tree going up in smoke. Then we passed back as we had come, firing the filthy hovels until each tree was ringed with flame.

  After leaving the tree where we had made most of our fight, we stopped a moment to look down at the bodies of those whom we had shot while they were creeping up on us from behind. They lay face down, and they were tailless and had long hair.

  “Nossa Senhora!” exclaimed Pedro. “They are women!”

  I shoved one over with my foot. It was true. The other two whom we had shot were women also. Their faces were as vile and their bodies as scraggy as those of the men, but women they were. Wondering whether the others also had been fe­males, we went on and looked at the three whom we had killed with our machetes. We found them to be men.

  “That explains it,” nodded Pedro. “I wondered how they dared to come so near us. The women were the leaders. Perhaps we had killed their mates. The men had sense enough to fear us, but a woman crazed with fury loses all fear and all sense. I am glad we did not fall alive into their hands.”

  Remembering the scarred body of Luis Pitta and looking into the faces of those she-devils, I grunted agreement.

  We left them there and went our way. At the edge of the bush, where the faint trail began, we turned and looked back. The dismal clearing, with its blackened stumps and its few gaunt trees, now was blue with low-crawling clouds of smoke through which glared the belts of flame eating up the habitations of the bichos do mata. Around those fires, we knew, lay the bullet-torn corpses of many tailed creatures who never again would torture a prisoner. The jungle around us was empty and silent, and the only sound was the sullen crackle of the fires. We had come as demons to fight demons, and we left behind us a death-strewn hell. Our work was done.

  Back along the vague path we passed to the river. There we cut off our monstrous disguises, pitched them into the canoe, and breathed deep of the damp air.

  “Luis, old comrade, we have done our best for you,” Pedro said soberly. “So far as two men could destroy these fiends we have destroyed them; and into the others we have put fear that will abide. Now sleep in peace, Luis meo.”

  And we got into the canoe and paddled away toward the creek where our supplies were hidden.

  THE IMPOSSIBLE MISTER LAPIN INVESTIGATES: THE AFFAIR OF THE TERRIBLE BOAR, by Peter Wordworth

  THE IMPOSSIBLE MISTER LAPIN

  In which our hero tells his remarkable story, thus far.

  Like many young men faced with unbearable circumstances, I found myself compelled to become a rabbit.

  Perhaps I should clarify. In the past, unbearable circumstances have driven many young men to take incredible risks, hoping for even the slightest chance to change their fortunes. In this respect, I am no different than any other young man. However, as far as I am aware, I am the only one to successfully Transfigure myself into a whimsical cross between a man and a rabbit.

  After an initial fit of staring, most individuals react to my unusual appearance with inquiries as to why a man would choose to become something other than a man. More adventurous souls ask why I would choose a rabbit, when there are so many more fearsome and impressive animals in the world. In answer to the first question, I must admit it was simply because I saw in Transfiguration the potential to be truly extraordinary. I suppose I could have enhanced my physique, augmented my intellect or sculpted my features, but such choices lacked the flair I found so essential to my experiment.

  No, if you intend to change the world, it is not enough to simply succeed. You must do so with panache!

  As for the second inquiry, that is rather more personal, and seldom shared outside a close circle of confidants. Ever since I was a young boy, I have always wanted to be a magician, able to conjure a rabbit from a fine silk top hat to the delight and amazement of my adoring audience. When I was ten years old, I was positively monstrous to my parents for six full months, until at last they relented and hired a tutor to introduce me to the conjurer’s art that summer. It must have mortified them to hire a charlatan for their only son, but I was entranced at the prospect of learning magic and eagerly counted the days to his arrival.

  When he finally appeared, it is a stroke of understatement to say that Master Eckhart was not what I had been expecting. Rather than the tall, glamorous entertainer I had envisioned entering behind a flourish of his opera cape, he was a stout, sour-faced bulldog of a man dressed in unfashionable clothes of dubious origin. His eyes were mismatched and perpetually crossed, as thou
gh watching each other distrustfully, while his hands always seemed covered in a thin coat of grease from the bacon sandwiches he continually demanded of our poor cook. Such was the hardness of his look that if he had been discovered on the property at any other time, I have no doubt my father would have had him shot for a bandit without so much as speaking to him.

  Despite appearances, it turned out Master Eckhart was able enough at his craft, and his brutish looks concealed a sharp mind with a keen eye for detail. He could produce pennies from nowhere, name your card with uncanny accuracy and conjure rabbits and doves as naturally as the creator Himself. Unfortunately, however, his great gifts did not extend to teaching. His preferred method of instruction was to sit across the table from me and eat a seemingly endless supply of sandwiches, pounding his fist and shouting corrections as I stumbled through a series of disastrous card tricks and painfully inept sleight of hand. By the end of each afternoon his voice would be hoarse and my shirt front entirely covered with bacon flecks, yet each morning the farce would begin anew, a grim march of ineptitude. I learned but two things from the entire time his services were retained: first, that I am utterly and forever hopeless at the conjurer’s art, no matter how much I might practice; and second, that I shall never eat another piece of bacon so long as I live.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, my love for the fantastic slumbered for many years after that disappointing season of tutelage. It was awakened quite by accident during my first year at university, when Professor Blackburne made an offhand remark about the work of the early Italian alchemists during a lecture on the chemical properties of gold. Of course he ridiculed the concept, but that didn’t matter. My mind was ablaze—the notion that a lost Art existed that could turn base materials into wondrous new forms entranced me. I decided on the spot that I would find a way to succeed where others had failed, revive this maligned discipline and restore it to its proper place of honor.

  Applying myself with a passion, I soon learned how one could accomplish astonishing things with a sufficient source of funds and dedication to achieving their task. In the guise of compiling a history of the early years of the chemical sciences, I began acquiring texts from all across the continent, many of them long since written off as little more than whimsy or conjecture. Every free moment I could wrest from my conventional studies I put to use in old libraries, rare book emporiums or in correspondence with those few experts who would return my letters on the subject. Piece by piece, I started to find a shape to the puzzle, and each time a new fact fell into place, I only felt more driven to realize the whole.