“Try not to tear the synthetic too much either,” a Motorist said.
“Good idea,” his partner replied. “If we get a nice coin-sized hole, we could probably just pull and stretch it off of the frame.”
“You bastards!” Gren yelled.
“I swear to God...” I threatened.
“Don't hurt her!”
They ignored us.
“Hey,” one said to another. “Do you still have that little bag of screws and bolts? I don't wanna lose the ones we take off.”
“What's it matter? We don't have to screw it back together.”
“I'll kill you!” I shouted. “I swear to God Himself if you do not stop talking to her that way I will take your worthless lives!”
They stopped. The one with the crossbow looked me over, complexed. More curious than angry, he lowered his weapon slightly and approached me.
“Mister...Pocket, right?” he said to me.
“That's right.”
“I have to ask. What's the damage here?”
“What?”
“Honestly, all of this rage. Is it really worth getting worked up for? Over a tin machine?”
I spat in his face. That brought the crossbow hard against my chest. Eddie took a swing at him, but another Motorist caught his arm in a piece of chain.
“Listen, Pocket...” the man in my face oozed, “I think you've been having a little too much fun playing make believe. You need to start seeing things for what they are. The sooner you do, the easier it will be to keep arrows out of your chest.”
“Why are you doing this?” I grumbled through the anger.
“Because we were hired.”
I spat in his face again. He hit me across the jaw with the butt of the crossbow and I hit the ground.
“You do not spit,” he said just above a whisper. “You do not spit in the work of the King.”
What?
“You...Alexander hired you?” I said, rubbing my face.
“Don't listen to him,” Gren barked. “The Motorists are a pack of liars. Nothing but a band of chop-shop gang-bangers.”
“And who better to hire for such a project?” the thug jeered.
“I thought you were mechanics, not murderers.”
“Damn, you people are thick!” He stuck a grubby finger in Gren's face. “Get it through your head, Spader! That girl, if you insist on using the word, is a machine!”
All of the color drained from Gren's face as his eyes moved from the Motorist to the Doll.
“No...” he whispered. “She's a...”
“That's right.”
“Please,” I said at last. “Don't take her apart. Don't do that to her.”
“We have our assignment, kiddo. Take her down. Piece by piece.”
“Why?”
“'Cause that's the job. Now, get up.”
I made it up to my feet. He stepped back, kept the crossbow at eye level. A few rifle-carrying Motorists had finally managed to reload their weapons and huddled up, their sights trained on us.
“Now,” the man with the crossbow said to us. “If you have anything else to say on your behalf, now's the time, gents.”
And that's when a maniac strapped to a lit Chinese firecracker and a pair of roller skates exploded onto the scene.
“FOR VICTORY!” shouted Doctor P, colliding into the crossbow man. The weapon went off, firing a speeding arrow straight into the sky that then plummeted back down to earth.
“Run for cover!” shouted a rifleman. They all dropped their guns and hit the ground. The arrow zipped down and bounced off Doctor P's monogrammed war helmet.
“VICTORY!” repeated the doctor, flying about the scene, unable to stop rolling about. Sparks sprayed out from behind him.
We ran to the Doll. The men holding her at bay tried to run as we charged, but Eddie wouldn't have that. And while he twisted a few pretzels, we took her away.
“Thank you!” she said, running as fast as she could.
“Don't thank us yet!” Gren said, huffing.
Eddie's crashed motorbike suddenly came into view, speeding in grand circles around us.
“Hey!” Eddie said. “That's mine!”
Doctor D waved cheerfully to us as he brought the bike to a stop.
“All aboard!” he announced, stepping off.
“We're out of here,” Eddie said, getting on.
I hopped into the sidecar then offered the Doll my hand. She smiled shyly and stepped inside. It was a tight fit, so she folded and sat on my lap.
“Go on!” Kitt said. “We can catch up!”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Gren called out, picking up one of the Motorist's overturned bikes.
“How well can you drive?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” he said, sitting down. “I'm amazing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kitt said, hopping on behind Gren. “Get going, Amazing.”
We took off. A few Motorists tried to run after us, throwing hammers and wrenches, but we were too fast. I looked back to see the Marin boys waving us goodbye. An angry Motorist began to creep up behind them, but Doctor P threw something from his coat that created a quick puff of orange smoke. They were instantly gone.
“You two, hang on,” Eddie said, squeezing the throttle.
“Look,” the Doll said. “Kitt-Kitt's wrench.”
It was in the bottom of the sidecar, along with Dolly's wax cylinder. Huh. Those Marin boys are certainly thorough.
We drove through a tight alley. Gren and Kitt appeared behind us, arguing over directions and driving techniques.
And then I felt the Doll squeeze my hand.
“Thank you for coming back,” she said.
I half-smiled and nodded. Then I heard Kitt yelp.
“Behind us!” he shouted.
Oh, no. I looked backward and sure enough, the man whose face I had spit into was barreling down upon us in the alley. He was swinging a chain with one hand and closing in quickly on Kitt and Gren.
“Drive faster!” Kitt shouted.
“I can't!” Gren said back.
“Then get away from him!”
“I can't! The road's too narrow!”
The Motorist pushed his bike up to Gren's and bumped against its back tire.
“He's trying to trip us!” Kitt said.
“I can't get away!” Gren said.
Dolly frowned at me and squeezed my hand harder. “Fix it!” she said.
Fix it?!? How was I supposed to...wait.
“Okay!” I said. “I've got it!”
I grabbed Kitt's wrench and leaned as far back as I could out of the back of the sidecar. To help, the Doll took my other arm and held it tight, keeping me from falling.
“Gren!” I shouted.
“What?” he said.
“Put your head down!”
“I can't put my head down! I'm driving!”
“Just for a second!”
“You're crazy!”
“Just trust me! If you do, I'll buy you a round of butter later!”
“I hate you, Pocket!” he said, then promptly dropped his head. I had a clear view of Kitt.
“Hi Kitt,” I said. “How's things?”
“Hi Pocket,” he said. “About to die.”
“Here! Catch this!”
I chucked the wrench at Kitt. He caught it between his fingers and grinned widely.
“Pocket!” Gren said, bringing his head back up. “Did you just throw a wrench at my head?”
“I threw it past your head,” I said.
“Get back in here,” Dolly said, pulling at my arm. I slid back in, her folded body still upon my lap.
“Thanks, miss,” I said with a smile.
The Motorist bumped his bike against Gren's again, causing him to swerve.
“Gren-Gren!” Dolly said. “Kitt-Kitt!”
Gren steadied the bike and tried to speed up. Kitt, however, had plans of his own. Bending backward, he took a quick swipe and stuck his wrench i
n the front spokes of the motorbike behind him. The Motorist spun into the air and collided with the alley wall. So did his bike, barely missing Gren's back tire. The thug landed on the ground under his vehicle, cursing at us as we sped away.
“Woo!” Kitt shouted, dropping the wrench on his lap and slapping Gren on the back. “Did you see that?”
“Of course I didn't!” Gren barked. “I'm driving!”
“Don't be fussy!”
“I'll show you fussy!”
We zipped through the alleys and the streets to the very edge of the city. Eddie found a path into the neighboring forests outside of New London and we continued into the wilderness.
After about an hour of riding amongst the trees, I let out a sigh of relief.
We were finally out of the city.
However, the thought soon occurred that I had no idea where we were going.
“Eddie,” I said. “Where are you taking us?”
“You need a solid hiding place, right?” he said. “Somewhere to get lost at for a while?”
“Yes,” the Doll nodded.
He laughed once more. “Well, I'm taking you to the most lost place to be found in this world.”
Dolly and I exchanged glances.
“And what exactly does that mean?” I asked.
“It means, Pocket, that we're heading to the Gaslight Tea House.”
Chapter Nine
The Gaslight Tea House
It all began with the fog.
“What did?”
“The story, Alan.”
“What story? A new story?”
“No, I mean my time at the tea house.”
“Ah.”
It all began with the fog. I was sitting on moist grass, holding a sandwich between my hands, as the haze rolled across the clearing.
“So what?”
“What do you mean, so what?”
“Britain's notoriously foggy.”
“Not like this fog. It felt...different...otherworldly, almost. As if the pieces of the world that it encased existed solely because it was there. Breathing in the misty air of that fog, my friend, made one wonder if the dirt where he sat would vanish into complete nothingness once the fog dissipated. It was much like living inside of a dream.”
“I think you're saying that so your story is more interesting.”
“When did you stop being a dreamer, Alan?”
“Oh, I wasn't complaining. By all means, pour on the mysticism. Sounds much better than sitting around eating in clammy weather.”
“So I may continue, then?”
“Dream away, bard.”
It all began with the fog. I was sitting on moist grass, holding a sandwich between my hands, as the haze rolled across the clearing. No one said anything at first because we were far too focused on the meal. You see, out of the madness of the city, away from the prices on our heads, the hotheaded Magnates, and those boorish Motorists, the sense of danger finally started to fade. And as danger faded, hunger set in. We were soon aware that we were starving, being too busy with the various attempts on our lives to eat anything since getting up. Well, except for Eddie, who had eaten before joining up with our unfortunate band of travelers, and the Doll, who enjoyed one mouthful of pie courtesy of the Marvelous Marins.
The fog rolled on as I chewed my sandwich and watched as it moved away from me. The fog, not the sandwich. You would've had to shoot me dead to get that out of my grip. The fog stretched out to the horizon, covering everything in the misty white. We were soon dining in a parked cloud.
“How about that?” Kitt said, breathing in the weather.
“Is it dangerous for you?” I asked the Doll. She was clearly puzzled. “The moisture,” I continued. “Couldn't it, I don't know, get inside of you and damage your gears?”
She laughed and took a pronounced bite of her sandwich. “You worry far too much.” She swallowed and took another bite. “Thank you for the sandwiches, Mister Eddie.”
“Hey, my pleasure,” he said, rubbing his back against a tree. “Sorry they're not fresher.”
Once the subject of food had been raised during our trek through the forests, Eddie remembered that he had been storing a bit in a bag behind the seat of his motorbike’s sidecar. The sandwiches, a bit...eh...compressed due to this method of storage, were offered to us, and we found a safe clearing to rest and have lunch.
“You have a knack for showing up and saving the day, don't you, Eddie?” I said.
He snorted at the remark. “I don't know about all of that,” he said. “I'm just usually around at the right time.”
“A victim of fate?” I asked.
“Of luck,” Kitt suggested.
“Circumstance,” the Doll argued.
Eddie shook his head at all of this and finished the rest of his sandwich.
Gren, on the other hand, had been unusually silent. He sat crosslegged and stonefaced, staring into the grass.
“You all right?” I said to him.
“Fine,” he quickly said with a nod.
“You sure?”
“I'm fine. Just quiet.”
“That's why I was concerned.”
“I am capable of not talking from time to time,” he grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, throwing a stale bread crust in his direction. I quickly realized what I had done, retrieved the crust, wiped the dirt specks from it, and swallowed it.
“Very nice,” he said, slightly disgusted.
“I have too much respect for food to render it as garbage,” I replied, brushing my hands clean. “So what's wrong, Gren?”
I could see the walls of defense falling from his eyes, which he then moved from me to Dolly.
“You...” he said to her. “You're actually...a machine?”
She got instantly angry and crossed her arms. “I do not like that word, Gren-Gren.”
“But...your insides, are you really all…eh…”
“Yep!” Kitt jumped in. “Gears and cogs. She's like a big, walking clock!” The Doll aimed her angry face at him. “Except a girl,” Kitt added as an apology.
“Unbelievable,” Gren whispered.
“Yeah!” Eddie agreed, far more optimistically. “That's pretty wild, you know?”
“So,” Gren said to the Doll, “how then are we to properly...interact...with you?”
“Gren, she's not a pressure boiler,” I said. “Interact however the hell you want.”
“I do not need special treatment,” Dolly said. “As a matter of fact, I hate it.”
“Good for you!” Eddie said, holding up an imaginary glass of imaginary wine. “Here's to being un-special!”
“To mediocrity!” I said, raising one back. We laughed and toasted each other and finished our meals as the fog settled. Then we returned to the bikes and continued on our way.
“You know,” the Doll said quietly to me as we drove through the woods. “I don't really want to be all that typical. Not overwhelmingly so.”
“I don't think you have to worry about that, Dolly.”
“Or you either.”
“That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid I'm as classically, backwardly human as they come.”
“And that's exactly why.”
It was late afternoon before we finally reached our destination. The setting sun made a burning orange that sat beautifully diffused behind the screen of fog. Eddie steered us down a roughly-hacked path that snaked between a patch of grey-white trees. The path eventually emptied out into an open yard and we were there.
The Gaslight Tea House.
From the outside it wasn't so unusual, apart from, of course, standing in the absolute middle of nowhere. It was a two-story house, rather beaten, with a slightly crooked roof. I remember thinking at the time that the house appeared to be wearing the roof like a hat, a little tilted for style. In the front yard stood a wooden sign shaped like a large teabag. Words were painted in large letters and dried lines of paint ran down the sign from each character. It read:
THE GASLIGHT TEA HOUSE
OPEN TWELVE DAYS A WEEK AND TWICE ON SUNDAYS
LADY ALEXIA, PROPRIETOR AND SITTING WOMAN OF VISIONS
Kitt and Gren drove up behind us and parked their bike. Kitt jogged up to the sign, curious as ever, and read it aloud.
“Huh,” he said. “How can you operate twelve days a week?”
“The Cat finds a way,” Eddie said with a smile.
“Cat?” Kitt asked.
Eddie grinned. He then took out a pocket knife and carved two little cat ears over the word ALEXIA. “Cat,” he said, pointing with the blade.
He headed up to the front door and gestured for us to follow.
“It's been a while since I've been here,” Gren said to me as we walked.
“That's right,” I responded. “I keep forgetting you and Eddie go back.”
“I wouldn't say 'go back,' Pocket.”
“What would you say?”
Gren scratched his neck. “We're both bastard children crawling around this country, and from time to time we bump heads.” It was a good line. I was starting to get annoyed at these people for taking my poetic territory away from me. But no matter.
Eddie banged his fist against the front door. It was wooden and painted purple. It also contained a large, magnified glass set into a gold-looking ring that was screwed into the center. Eddie knocked again and a giant eye was magnified on the other side the glass.
“We've been spotted,” Eddie joked.
The door swept open and a waft of sweet-smelling vapor rolled out of the place like fire from a dragon's maw. Standing in the doorway was a thin woman and in her gloved hands was a pomegranate.
“Welcome!” she announced. She then promptly dug her slender fingers, gloves and all, into the flesh of the fruit and split it in two. She held out the two halves to our group, her fingertips now a bright pink. “A gift for your safe arrival!”
“She's does this a lot,” Eddie whispered to me.
Lady Alexia.
Proprietor and sitting woman of visions.
Lady of the tea house.
And the most charming maniac I have ever met.
“Come in! Come in!” she had demanded once we held her offered fruit. We were shuffled into the doorway and into the main room. Once inside, Alexia walked a small circle around our group, tugged her fingers at the edges of her dress, and gave a cordial curtsy. The dress was a sharp royal blue with whitish trim that appeared to be slightly browned by staining, most likely from her involvement with tea. She wore a thin but tall lady's top hat upon her dark hair. The unusual thing about her apparel though was that it was riddled with timepieces. Built into her dress, above the middle, was a ticking clock face. Similar, much smaller clock faces, cannibalized watches, I'd wager, were worn at the tops of the high boots she wore. The hat was built in layers from the brim up with very petite, miniature drawers, like one would find in a cabinet, only smaller. Perhaps the drawers one would find in a dollhouse cabinet. I later learned that she kept in this unusual hat a grand variety of bagged teas, one flavor per drawer, with a secret drawer to hold what she only referred to as “The Special Tea.” I was fairly certain that I wanted nothing to do with that mixture. And on the very top of the hat there sat a fastened hydrometer, which she claimed helped her monitor moisture and control flavor. The lady appeared to be quite serious in her brewing.
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