The Thorn Harbour Road Rally [Or, Macalley Takes the Wheel]

by Robert Dahlen

  Contents

  Title Page

  About This Book

  The Thorn Harbour Road Rally

  More by Robert Dahlen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Thorn Harbour

  Road Rally

  (Or, Macalley Takes the Wheel)

  A story from Peavley Manor

  by Robert Dahlen

  It’s Race Day in the town of Darbyfield, and after an accident, heiress Alice Peavley and her gnome valet Macalley jump into the race behind the wheel of a friend’s motorcar. They’ll have to go up against five other racers and confront dangerous roads, dirty tricks, and a hungry bear. It’ll take all of Macalley’s brainpower, and all of Alice’s wits and determination, for them to win the Thorn Harbour Road Rally!

  © 2017 Robert Dahlen. All rights reserved.

  ***

  The photograph that appeared in the Emerald Dell Courier the Wednesday following the race may not have shown me at my worst, but Macalley’s remark that I seemed “a trifle disheveled” was another of his marvelous understatements. My hair is a fright after having been confined in a borrowed helmet, my face is covered in dirt and dust except for a goggles-shaped patch around my eyes, I am standing lopsided due to missing my left boot, and the parts of my lovely white sundress that aren’t smothered in straw are covered in stains from a variety of fruits. In spite of all that, I am smiling.

  To explain why, I need to go back to the beginning, and the founding of the Thorn Harbour Road Rally. It started with Rodley Talbot, who was one of the top motorcar enthusiasts in the Emerald Dell. Inspired by the legendary chariot races once held by dwarven inventors and other madmen, Talbot had come up with an idea that was just insane enough to be brilliant and persuaded several sponsors, and then the leaders of both Thorn Harbour and my home town of Darbyfield, to go along.

  His idea was to stage a motorcar race. The route was to start in Darbyfield’s town square and run along the main road to the center of Thorn Harbour. It would leave the city by a different route, a more scenic and rugged path that wound through the Windward Forest before rejoining the main road back into Darbyfield, finishing where it started in the town square.

  Six drivers had put up the money, 50 crowns apiece, to enter their motorcars in the Thorn Harbour Road Rally. One of them was Talbot, who then turned over the operations of the race to an independent committee. They decided to keep the identities of the other entrants kept secret until the start of the race in order to build suspense. The winner would get 200 crowns, a small but still gaudy trophy and, most importantly, a magnum of elfish champagne.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from such a spectacle, but it sounded intriguing and I had no other plans for that Sunday, so I decided to attend the race. I asked my dear friend Priscilla Wentworth to join me and watch the proceedings. Priscilla was no fan of motorcars, having had her share of close calls with them, but there was a public coach from Thorn Harbour that she could take to Darbyfield for the race. I had persuaded her to come with the best of all possible bribes, namely the promise of a fine bottle of wine and a meal prepared by Macalley. We would watch the start of the race, have our lunch, and be well-fed and just a touch tipsy in time for the conclusion.

  Macalley and I arrived an hour or so before the start of the race. As Macalley had put so much effort into fixing our lunch, I had driven the motorcar from the manor into town. It was a lovely May morning, with barely a cloud in the sky, and I was wearing a delightful cloche hat, white in color with a black band that matched my driving gloves.

  Priscilla was waiting for us when we pulled up and greeted me warmly. She had kind words for Macalley as well, though those were spoken with one eye on the picnic basket he carried. “So where are we watching this race?” she asked.

  “I reserved seats for us in the grandstand, across from the starting line,” I said. “It looks like the crowd is thinner than we expected.”

  “I suspect that many of them will be arriving later to watch the conclusion of the race, madame,” Macalley said.

  “By then, the most important part of the day will be done,” Priscilla said.

  I smiled. “The sandwiches?”

  “And the wine.” We both laughed as we walked through the crowd, followed by Macalley.

  At this point, I suppose I should explain about Macalley. When I inherited my dear uncle Clarence’s manor after his passing, I discovered that it came with a valet to handle its care and maintenance, a slender gnome of a quiet and sometimes sardonic nature. I had my reservations about Macalley at first, but they faded as I grew to know and appreciate his magnificent brain and his skills in many other things.

  One of those was baking. Macalley’s croissants were the envy of my friends, and more than once the cakes he had prepared for charity functions stole the show. It was possible he could concoct a loaf of bread from spiderwebs and thistle; the ones he baked using the proper ingredients made a tasty sandwich even tastier. For our lunch, he had prepared one of his specialty sandwiches, a blend of chicken and tuna which I knew from experience included celery, relish and mayonnaise. The mere aroma of that sandwich had been known to single handedly destroy diets. He had also brought a salad, a selection of fine chocolate for dessert and a bottle of seltzer water for himself.

  As we walked towards the grandstand, I heard a familiar voice say, “Alice!” I turned and saw Augustus Thurston approaching us. He was the publisher of Darbyfield’s weekly newspaper, The Emerald Dell Courier, and seemingly knew everyone in and around town.

  We exchanged pleasantries. “Are you excited for the race?” I asked him.

  “Very much so.”

  “You must be looking forward to writing about it.”

  “And taking part in it.”

  “Your pardon?” I must have looked shocked. I glanced at Macalley; he had raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I knew that meant he was quite surprised.

  Augustus smiled and rubbed his hands. “I thought it would be a more exciting story if it were told from a participant’s point of view. And also, I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

  “How so?”

  “It may be easier to show you than to explain. Come along. I’ll introduce you to the racers.”

  ***

  Augustus led Macalley, Priscilla and myself into a roped-off area, nodding at the guard as we passed. There was quite a sight there—six motorcars, more than I’d ever seen in one place at one time. Motorcars had not been that common to begin with in Darbyfield before the Great Relocation, and I knew of one that had been wrecked some months back, though I had no part in doing so. Many of those that had survived were still in garages or barns, their owners waiting to convert the fuel sources of their engines from petrol to the magic energy we know as dwimm, such as had been done to my motorcar.

  I was in for quite the surprise when I saw who was working on the motorcar nearest to us, a four-seater similar to my own but painted in a lovely shade of blue. It was Clarinda Topping, who was in charge of Darbyfield’s town library. “Clarinda?” I said.

  She looked up from the engine of her motorcar and smiled. “Alice!” she said. “What a surprise to see you here!”

  “I dare say I’m more surprised to see you,” I said.

  “Are you implying that librarians can’t have exciting hobbies?” Clarinda winked at me. “I’ve always been a fan of motorcars, and I’ve been working on this one in my spare time for years. You should see it go!”

  “It’s fast, then?”

  “Rabbits only wish they had its speed.”

  “I told
her about this race,” Augustus said, “and she immediately registered.”

  “Should I win, I’ll donate everything to the library fund.”

  “Except for the champagne?” I said.

  “Of course!” Clarinda said with a touch of mock reproach. “Don’t be foolish.”

  I chuckled in agreement. “I know who I shall be cheering for, then!” The rehabilitation of the Darbyfield Library had been one of the causes I had tried my best to support. I do believe that no city or town should be without a public library, for they do so much good for so many people. “But where do you enter into this, Augustus?”

  “I’ll be traveling with her,” he said, “to fulfill the rule that there have to be at least two people in each motorcar.”

  “And to get what will hopefully be a terrific story,” Clarinda added.

  “So who are the other racers?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you around,” Augustus said. “It’ll keep me out of Clarinda’s way while she does the final tuning up.”

  ***

  There were two men working on the motorcar next to Clarinda’s, a stylish black vehicle with gold accents and large, narrow wheels with puffy tires. One of them, a slender fellow with shaggy sideburns, was tightening some bolts in the exposed engine. The other, who was gray-haired and quite hefty, was polishing the motorcar’s railing when he glanced up and saw us. “Hullo, Augustus!” he said with a chortle. “Trying to steal our secrets again?”

  “Only if they involve that meat pie you got us for lunch yesterday.” Augustus grinned. “Alice, this is Rodley Talbot, and the fellow trying to convince his motor to run better than Clarinda’s is Gordon Clement.”

  “Alice...Peavley?” Talbot wiped his hands on his rag.

  “The one and the same,” I said as I extended a hand. “My friend, Priscilla Wentworth, and my valet, Macalley.”

  “Pleased to meet you! Say hullo, Clement!” The fellow with the sideburns waved his wrench at us and resumed his work on the engine.

  “Lovely motorcar!”

  “Thank you!” Talbot said. “I shall have to get a look at yours some day. Macalley’s taking good care of it?”

  “The very best. Even though he lets me drive it sometimes.”

  “It’s not as fast as this beauty!” Talbot patted the hood. “But just between you and me, Clarinda’s motorcar may be even faster.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Augustus said.

  “It won’t be just speed that’ll win this race, Thurston. Skill, stamina, knowing the roads—you’ll need all of those to win today!”

  “I hope you enjoy the sight of Clarinda’s rear bumper!” The two men laughed and waved at one another as we parted.

  The next motorcar we saw, a bright red, was of an odd design. It had three narrow rows of seats, each set higher than the one in front of it. For a moment, I wondered what the purpose of that arrangement might be; then, I saw the motorcar’s crew were all dwarfs, five in total, each checking a different part of the vehicle.

  One of them glanced up from the exhaust and saw Augustus. “Ho, Thurston!” he shouted. “Did Topping chase you away again?”

  “She sent me to spy on you,” Augustus said.

  “You wouldn’t be the only one. Who’s that with you?”

  “Alice Peavley. Alice, this is Zeck Strahlkogel.”

  “Peavley,” he said slowly. “Any relation to Clarence?” He peeked past me. “Must be. There’s old Macalley now.”

  “Strahlkogel.” Macalley nodded the faintest of nods. The ancient rivalry between dwarves and gnomes had by now faded to part-time name calling and the occasional tavern-clearing drunken brawl, but I was not all that surprised that things between the dwarf and my valet were not overly warm and affectionate.

  “Clarence was my uncle,” I said to Strahlkogel.

  “Ah,” he said. “I heard about all that mess with his manor. How’s the motorcar?”

  “Still running smoothly.”

  “Excellent!” Strahlkogel smiled faintly. “If you ever need it serviced, let me know.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” I said politely, even though Macalley seemed to be able to keep my motorcar running without too much issue.

  Strahlkogel nodded. “Back to it!” he said as he turned back to the car. “Ringelspitz! Check those pistons!”

  I glanced around. “We're missing someone,” I said. “Where'd Priscilla go?”

  Macalley pointed across from where we stood. “She seems to have found a friend, madame.”

  Priscilla was standing next to a tall blond in a bright yellow dress with matching goggles, chatting merrily away. I hurried over to them. “Lulu!” I exclaimed.

  Lulu Grassley turned and smiled as we clasped hands. “Alice!” she said warmly. “You're here for the race?”

  “And the picnicking,” Priscilla said.

  “She only likes me for Macalley's sandwiches,” I said, and the three of us had a good laugh. “Is the Professor here?”

  “Of course! Professor?” Lulu said. “We have guests!”

  A top hat reared up from behind the motorcar, followed a moment later by its owner. Professor Rigby P. Holsapple was an inventor, and quite the temperamental eccentric, but he had a good heart and had had helped Macalley and me in the past. “Alice!” he boomed as he saw us. “Priscilla!” He doffed his hat and bowed.

  I smiled and waved. “Is Lulu keeping you out of trouble, Professor?”

  “I was going to ask your valet the same thing!” he said with a wink. As Macalley nodded slightly, Holsapple continued, “She's helping with the final touches of my latest creation! Behold...the Amazing Three-Wheeled Flivver!”

  He gestured towards his motorcar like a proud dairy farmer showing off a prize cow. It had, as might have been guessed, three wheels, one in front and two in the rear. The front wheel was guarded by a v-shaped bumper; “More aerodynamic!” Holsapple exclaimed as he tapped it. There were just two seats, one in front and a raised one in the rear that backed against some sort of hinged box; I noted that both seats seemed to have some sort of steering wheel.

  “Do I dare ask what’s in that box in the back?” Priscilla murmured.

  “It’s probably best not to,” I said.

  Lulu rolled her eyes. “It’s a precaution,” she said. “The Professor is concerned about cheaters.”

  “But who would cheat at a motorcar race?”

  “Who?” Holsapple stage-whispered. He pointed at the next motorcar over. It was painted in a shade of gold, with the exposed pipes and tubes done in a contrasting silver. It had plush, padded seats and a gold-plated steering wheel. I wondered who would have such extremely extravagant taste in motorcar design.

  My questions were answered when I saw that notable ninny, Eldric Bludergard, walking up to the motorcar. He was rich enough to have such a vehicle, and empty-headed enough not to see how overdone it was, but he wasn’t bright enough to cheat, or at least do so successfully. However, he was accompanied by his valet, Stibbins, and that man would cheerfully bilk his grandmother out of her last half shilling given a chance. I nodded, and then froze as I glance past Bludergard’s motorcar at the last racer.

  It was Lord Basil Oakton, the arrogant elfish noble who had been my rival on several recent occasions, most notably during the matter at the book fair. One could say that we did not get along with the same level of accuracy that could be achieved when saying that it gets darker outside when the sun sets. He and his servant, Hillsboro, were looking a trifle overdressed for a race in their green suits and silk cravats.

  They were polishing up their motorcar, which was quite an impressive sight. It was purple with black trim, coming to a point in front, with a large fin that resembled a bat’s wing running down the center. It appeared to be not just the fastest car I had ever seen, but also the meanest.

  I stared at it for just a second, but quickly turned away to avoid Oakton’s attention. His sneer could cause a clock to run backwards, and I’d already faced it mor
e than enough to last a lifetime. “Shall we head to the grandstand and find our seats?” I said softly to the others.

  ***

  Priscilla, Macalley and I took our seats in the temporary grandstand that had been put up in the town square. A wide white line had been chalked across the center of the square, which would serve as both the starting and finish line. About fifty yards beyond that a large wooden wall had been erected, with blocks of bundled hay stacked up in front of it; Macalley explained that it was a crash barrier, should one of the racers have trouble with their brakes at the end of the race.

  The grandstand had started to fill in as motorcar enthusiasts and curious spectators arrived. I studied the crowd, and I could feel the excitement slowly building as we waited for the race to start. A glance at Priscilla, however, revealed that her enthusiasm seemed to be focused on lunch, as her gaze kept landing on the picnic basket in Macalley’s lap.

  The appointed time arrived, and a gentleman with an impressive top hat and a megaphone strode up to the starting line. “Good morning!” he said. “Welcome one and all to the first Thorn Harbour Road Rally Race! I’m your host and announcer, Tony Clamour!” The crowd applauded politely.

  Clamour gestured to the front row, where two elderly men were seated. “Allow me to introduce the sponsors of this motorcar race! First, Masters Harold Byrne and Ignatius Cresh!” As they doffed their hats, Clamour added, “For all your motorcar needs in Darbyfield, Thorn Harbour, and the Emerald Dell, go see Cresh and Byrne!”

  Priscilla groaned and touched her fingertips to her forehead. “I am never buying one of those bloody things,” she muttered.

  Clamour pointed at a well-dressed man and woman who were standing nearby. “Next, meet our race officials!” he said. “First, motorcar enthusiasts Thompson Quick and June Goldbloom!” They waved to the crowd. “Also, please welcome Master Vic Skedaddle, Thorn Harbour’s top source for motorcar parts and supplies!” A tall man carrying a glowing canister with a flexible nozzle walked up to join Quick and Goldbloom, as the announcer added, “Many of these motorcars use Master Skedaddle’s Patented Lubricat-O!”