by Gideon Defoe
By and by, the College Secretary showed me a painting of the new intake from 1677 and indicated the Count. Those eyes! That sickly pallor! A sight I shall take to my grave, so ill-made it was. As I hurried back through the quadrangle, clutching my hard-won bounty to my breast, my heart filled with the ichor of intrigue. Lengthening shadows seemed to chase after me. Not literal shadows, but metaphorical shadows. Shadows that suggest a grim and uncertain future awaits us. This is no fool’s errand. For such a gargoyle to seduce so many, there must be dazzling wonders in that elusive tome. So, we must hasten, my friends, to . . . Castle Ruthven, Ruthven Pass, Carpathian Mountains, South-Eastern Romania.
‘Pretty Romantic stuff, Percy,’ said Byron, downing his coffee and then banging the mug on the table.
‘Thank you, Byron, I like to think so,’ agreed Percy with a theatrical sigh.
Jennifer frowned. ‘Mister Shelley. Am I understanding this right? Did you essentially walk into your old college and give them a cash donation in exchange for an address?’
Shelley snapped a hand away from his brow.
‘Did you not listen, madam? Orpheus! A three-headed dog! Oh, but you’ve proven my point – one can reduce the most incredible tale to rational facts and make it sound dull and workaday.’
‘What’s a “rubicund”?’ asked the albino pirate.
‘Do “visage”, “countenance” and “face” all mean the same thing? Why not just say “face”?’ said the pirate with gout.
‘How can a mote hold dust? I thought they were full of water,’ said the pirate in green.
‘Lads! Lads!’ said the Pirate Captain, holding up an admonishing hand. ‘Leave the man be! You’re forgetting that not everyone can be a dashing swashbuckler who eats danger for breakfast. It’s tremendously brave for a lubber to go and ask a man for an address.’
‘And what an address!’ said Byron. ‘The sort of address that speaks of dark legends! Moonlit passes! Unnatural goings-on! We haven’t a moment to lose!’
Everybody cheered and, for the last time in this adventure, they were all smiling, even the pirate with a prosthetic wooden bottom-half-of-his-head.
The happy mood was spoiled a few minutes later when the adventurers arrived back at the pirate boat. It looked pretty shabby at the best of times, seeing as it was the front half and back half of two different boats hammered together. But now the boat looked even worse than usual, because there was a big piece of graffiti scrawled right across the side of the battered hull. Whoever had done the graffiti hadn’t used paint or a marker pen like you might expect – instead the message appeared to be written in blood:
TURN BACK OR FEEL DEATH’S ICY HAMS!
And underneath that was a rough approximation of a skull saying, ‘I DIDN’T TURN BACK AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO ME! THINK ON.’
‘Dear me,’ said Babbage. ‘I don’t much like the look of this.’
‘Do you think it could be a warning of some sort?’ said the pirate who was slow on the uptake.
‘What do you suppose “Death’s icy hams” could be? It’s making me quite hungry,’ said the pirate with bedroom eyes.
‘I’m not sure that says “hams”,’ said Mary. ‘I think it’s meant to say “HAND”. “DEATH’S ICY HAND ”. You have to cut whoever did this some slack, because it’s probably quite tricky to write with dead crows.’ She indicated two severed bits of crow discarded on the riverbank.
‘It’s a rum do,’ said the Pirate Captain, trying a new expression, ‘but you can’t help but admire the ingenuity. Rather like crow crayons. Very inventive.’
Byron slapped his thigh. ‘This is the ticket! First an attempted murder in a library, and now a dire warning telling us to back off. A proper adventure! You’re a man of your word, Captain!’
‘Should we turn back?’ asked Babbage. ‘I have limited experience of awful threats written in crow blood, but it seems like the kind of thing you should probably pay attention to.’
‘Turn back?’ said the Pirate Captain, already halfway up the gangplank. ‘Of course not. You see, the thing is, whoever wrote that warning doesn’t know us pirates very well.’ He flashed his devil-may-care grin again and winked at Mary. ‘Half the crew would sell their own grandmothers to have a skeleton face.’
Eleven
Scream, Barnacle, Scream!
Note found pinned to galley door, pirate boat:
To whom it may concern,
I understand that spirits are running high, and I would be the last to condemn demonstrations of enthusiasm. But since we set sail for the continent the noise on this boat has been untenable. For the past three nights, I have been prevented from sleep by a relentless cacophony of accordions, poetry and bellowing.
So I have taken the liberty of conducting a small experiment. Imagine, if you will, a series of marbles of increasing mass. These are placed on a smooth wooden tray immersed in a shallow pool of water (to correct for the natural rocking motions of the boat). Ignoring negligible air movement in my cabin, we can assume that any motion in the marbles is caused by vibrations induced by sound waves. I have calibrated the escalating movement of marbles (and therefore volume of noise) as ‘Silence’, ‘Acceptable Hush’, ‘Nuisance’ and ‘Untenable’. Most nights the noise levels have alternated between ‘Acceptable Hush’ and ‘Nuisance’. I would probably have let this pass. However, last night, a particularly robust bellow (from Lord Byron, I believe) tipped the marbles into ‘Untenable’. There is my evidence. You are welcome to inspect the apparatus.
Please be more considerate.
Your cordial travelling companion,
Charles Babbage
Note found pushed under the Captain’s door:
Dear Pirate Captain,
Here are the first few chapters of my novel, working title – ‘Gorgo: Half–Man, Half–Seaweed!’ As a fellow enthusiast for monsters and the macabre I dearly wish to know what you might make of it. Though be gentle with my efforts, for they are but young buds, easily stomped on by shiny pirate boots. And I would beseech you once more to not mention any of this to Percy – it is not his fault, but I fear he would never be able to understand my fixation with such creature-based frivolities.
Love,
Mary
PS: Do you think Garagulon is a better name than Gorgo? I can’t decide.
Note found glued to bread bin, pirate boat:
To the bread thief,
Strong words? Perhaps. However – on the last two occasions that I have visited the bread bin, I have seen someone has pilfered a slice from my special loaf of bread.
I am wheat-intolerant. This is the only bread I can eat without inducing numerous unpleasant symptoms. If I run out, then I would be very surprised if the bakers in the local Eastern Mediterranean ports are capable of making a replacement. I anticipate the bread theft will end now? (This is a rhetorical question. I very much wish it to end.)
On an unrelated note, the noise situation has worsened. We had two nights with ‘Untenable’ interludes (Lord Byron again) and then somebody took my marbles. If the bread thief is also partial to marbles then please return them also.
Your travelling companion,
Charles Babbage
Note found stuck to Mary’s hammock:
From the pen of the Pirate Captain
Hiya Mary,
1) Garagulon and Gorgo are both good names. Though I would be inclined to stick with something more mysterious. ‘The Beast That Walked Like a Man’? It is always best when something ‘walks like a man’. Even when it is just a man.
2) Try using more capital letters. I’ve always found that a great way to make a scene more dramatic than it would otherwise be is through the liberal use of capital letters and underlining. e.g.: ‘A sudden FLASH of lightning made Phoebe GASP. She RUBBED her eyes. Had that been a shape she’d seen, momentarily silhouetted in the WINDOW? The shape of a man? Or rather a shape . . . NOT QUITE LIKE A MAN?’ See?
3) Another good trick is to give every single chapter a s
urprise twist ending. So, maybe for the end of chapter one you could reveal that your heroine, Phoebe, is actually called Eve, and that your hero, Mr Henderson, is called Adam, and that this is all taking place thousands of years ago on a planet called . . . Earth! Other good twists to consider: one where the ‘monster’ turns out to be beautiful by our standards, it’s everybody else who is hideous, except then it turns out no! actually everyone was just wearing masks, so it is the right way around after all. Or one where dinosaurs never existed and that’s important somehow.
4) Your paper smells nice, by the way.
5) I have taken the liberty of drawing you a cover illustration. When you eventually send this off to publishers you’ll need to have drawn a cover illustration if you want to look like a serious writer. I realise your story doesn’t involve a bear but I’m pretty good at bears, so I put one in anyway.
Note found nailed to Byron’s cabin door, pirate boat:
Selfish monster,
Despite my mathematical abilities, I am unable to make the logical connection between my polite messages and the abusive missive found attached to my pillow this morning.
I can accept the comparison to nocturnal animals. They are merely insults. I can bear mockery regarding my prowess at physical sports. I have never seen the purpose of competitive games. But I cannot condone the use of an apostrophe in the word ‘turnips’. Are you suggesting that the turnip possesses something? Apparently not – the sentence ends on that very word. Does your Romantic rejection of convention even abhor honest grammar? You claim that words are your craft, but this suggests otherwise. Worse, I strongly suspect you did it deliberately, knowing how such things provoke me.
I cannot share a boat with such grammatical abominations for another day. Thank goodness then that we are taking stage coaches for the remainder of the journey to Ruthven Pass. Any vomiting I do will be caused by my travel sickness rather than poor punctuation.
I should also like to inform you that no part of my anatomy has been ‘transformed into turnips’ due to neglect. That would be fanciful even by your ludicrous standards.
Charles Babbage
Editorial from Young, Brooding & Doomed,
Volume 2, Issue 18, 1816
Ahoy, Byromaniacs!
How is life in the WORLD OF TOMORROW? Is a TIN BUTLER serving you TEA on the MOON?
‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ you’re thinking, ‘Bad Bouncing Byron has finally lost his mind, probably from all the syphilis.’ But wait! I can explain. You see, because of the vagaries of the publishing business, I’m writing this several weeks before the issue of Young, Brooding & Doomed that you hold in your excitable hands even hits the magazine stands. And, not only that – there’s a good chance your pal is writing to you from BEYOND THE GRAVE! Like a skeleton with a ghostly pencil! I hope I haven’t chilled your spines too much with that awful image. Whilst you huddle under a blanket – no doubt reading this in secret, by candlelight, because your mother doesn’t approve of my rakish influence on your developing mind, failing as she does to realise that you’re a woman now, with a woman’s needs – let me explain what causes me to suggest such a ghoulish possibility . . .
As you’ll know from my last column, Pulse Pounding Percy Shelley, Marvellous Mary Godwin, and yours truly have recently embarked upon an adventure with the inimitable Pirate Captain and his Terrifying Troop of Capricious Cut-throats. There have been feasts, coffee, poems, tattoos, trips to the library, cryptic warnings and all sorts of astonishing goings-on. But now we embark upon the most dangerous part of our quest – as we journey to Castle Ruthven, deep in the Carpathian Mountains! What terrible truths might we uncover there? Who – or what – can have been responsible for the attempt on the Captain and young Mary’s lives? I have no idea at all. But in the meantime enjoy this SPOOKY WORDSEARCH. It is designed to help build up atmosphere.
Excelsior!
Lord Byron
Twelve
Dial ‘S’ for Skeletons
‘Is he asleep?’ asked Mary.
The Pirate Captain leaned over and poked Babbage. Then he flicked his ear. Then he tugged one of his bushy sideburns. The mathematician let out a little snore.
‘Thank Neptune,’ said the Captain. ‘He wasn’t joking when he said he gets travel sick, was he? Doesn’t look big enough to hold that much stuff inside him.’25
Mary gave Jennifer a gentle nudge. She seemed to be asleep as well. The coach bumped over some rocks, but neither of them stirred. ‘I’m glad they’ve nodded off, Pirate Captain,’ said Mary. ‘Because I’ve been looking for a chance to talk to you about my novel. The fact is, I’ve run into a few . . . difficulties.’
‘Is it description? I always find that tough.’ The Captain chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘The trick is to use all the senses. So, let’s say your character was to look out the window of this coach. First off, he’d see miles and miles of gloomy forest, plenty of creeping mist, and an occasional glimpse of the moon. He’d hear the odd wolf howling and the sound of the other coaches rumbling along the unmade track. He’d smell the cedar top notes of his classy aftershave. He’d feel a bit uneasy because he’s more than a day’s travel from the sea and someone once told him that he gets all his powers from seawater. And what’s the other sense?’
‘Taste.’
‘He’d have great taste in clothes, decor and beard styling. Does that help?’
‘In a way,’ said Mary. ‘It’s more a problem with the direction that the book’s taking. Quite unexpected really. You remember the half-man, half-seaweed mutant? He was supposed to be really vile, cruel, vicious, murderous and so on. All the other characters feared and hated him in equal measure. Well . . .’
Mary gazed out of the window at miles and miles of gloomy forest.
‘Phoebe, the heroine, she’s started to see a different side to him. She’s developing feelings.’
Mary gave the Pirate Captain a look that he might have interpreted as significant if he hadn’t been admiring her delicate wrists and missed it altogether.
‘She’s not sure whether it’s anything serious. They have nothing in common! Phoebe’s a progressive woman toiling with the modern world and he . . . he sleeps in a rock pool and survives partly by photosynthesis. But there’s something about him. I don’t know! A quiet nobility almost. An attractive air of danger. He appears so effortless, whereas Sir Henderson . . .’
‘Her betrothed?’ said the Pirate Captain.
‘Yes. He . . . Well, he seems rather pedestrian in comparison. This wasn’t how I planned the book at all, Pirate Captain. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Have you tried having her swoon whenever anybody turns up? That way she doesn’t need to do much of anything. I’ll let you in on a secret – generally I avoid female characters in my novels because they do different things to men. You can’t make a female character set her jaw because the reader just wouldn’t believe it. But if I find I’ve made the mistake of writing a woman into the book, I make her swoon as soon and as often as possible.’
‘I don’t think you’re quite following me, Pirate Captain,’ said Mary, slowly, emphasising the words. ‘This is the key to her future happiness. Should she stick with Sir Henderson, who, though dependable, doesn’t share her interest in experimental vivisection at all, or should she defy society’s conventions and hit on the seaweed-man mutant?’
The Captain thought for a moment.
‘If she does that, she needs to look out for his beak.’
‘Your beak?’
‘Have you never met a half-man, half-seaweed? They generally have a beak next to their mouth. Could be a nasty surprise for this Phoebe if she’s trying to kiss him and there’s a little beak there crying out for fish in a weird raspy voice. “Fiiisshhh! Fiiissshhh!” it’ll go. “Giiivvveee meeee fiiiisshhh.” That’d put me off kissing for sure.’
‘You’ve lost me, Pirate Captain. Does this represent something profound or do you really have a beak?’
‘Me? Not that I know abou
t. But he would, wouldn’t he? If you want this book to be realistic that is. “Fiiiisssshhh! Fiiiisshhhh!” ’
While the Pirate Captain continued to illustrate how the half-man, half-seaweed’s beak would talk, Mary sat back and rubbed her temples as if she were very tired. Then, steeling herself, she leaned toward the Pirate Captain once more.
‘Captain . . .’
‘Last stop!’ shouted the coach driver. ‘Everybody out!’
‘Cogs!’ said Babbage, sitting up with a start. ‘Oh. Are we here already?’
The pirates, the Romantics and Babbage hefted their luggage off the coaches.26 Not for the first time the pirate with a scarf wished the Pirate Captain was better at travelling light. He had once asked if maybe the Captain didn’t need to pack quite so many fancy hats whenever they were away from the boat for longer than an afternoon, but the Captain just responded with a vague excuse about how his physical baggage represented, in some hard to define sort of way, his emotional baggage, which was something he didn’t want to talk about, and which the pirate with a scarf should be ashamed to have brought up in the first place.
The unlikely group struggled from the mud track towards a village nestling at the foot of the pass. More of the mist hung about doing its thing, and a bleak and relentless rain made everything as shiny and slippery as a seal, though not so adorable. Eventually they reached the village’s single little tavern, from which spilled the sound of meaningless foreign chatter, and the sort of music that strikes you as interesting when you’re on holiday to far-flung climes, but which turns out to be unlistenable in any other context.