by Paul Taylor
General Washington strode to the airship’s command console.
“Begin the reveal,” he ordered, “and send the demons back to hell!”
I turned a gear on the console and slowly cranked open a small aperture I had installed on the nose of the ship. It made a hole no greater than the size of a quarter. I reached up and quickly yanked the handle on the end of a rope. Inside the nose cone, a quantity of powder made of magnesium and potassium chlorate ignited with a flash, flooding it with intense light that would sustain for the duration of the powder’s slow burn. Inside the massive balloon above us, a giant image was projected. It was the image of one of the objects delivered from Spain by the Temple Trust, which I had affixed to the nose cone. The image was projected through the quarter-sized aperture, and magnified through the principles of refraction.
The airship’s balloon illuminated, casting a pale glow on our gondola below. The magnified image filled the belly of the ship and was cast on every demon inside. As I expected, they seemed to recognize it immediately and flew into an angry frenzy, turning their talons on each other in a crazed effort to erase the image from their sight.
The hellspawn screeched like banshees as they raced to tear each other apart. The pitch of the cries rose until it pierced our gondola like the whistle from a boiling kettle.
And then it stopped in a flash of light, leaving only the dense smell of sulfur behind.
It appeared the hellspawns’ collected hatred had finally generated enough energy to reopen the inter-dimensional portal, sending the demons back from whence they came.
I turned to a confused crew.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “you have just witnessed the world’s largest camera obscura!”
Below us Napoleon had gathered his Habsburg forces, and they were charging north.
“To Shuter’s Hill!” ordered General Washington.
Our small militia met the advancing vampires. They stood their ground like mighty oaks, but ultimately fell like stalks of wheat under the scythe-like hands of the advancing Habsburgs.
It would fall to Washington and me to end this battle.
Though the militia fell, they delayed the vampire’s progress long enough to allow our descent at Shuter’s Hill in advance of their arrival. Washington and I ran to a large iron door leading into the ground.
Napoleon strode to greet us. Gyorgy lumbered close behind.
“You have quite a bag of tricks, Dr. Franklin,” said Napoleon. “But the Habsburg vampires are untouched by your magic.”
Napoleon unsheathed his sword.
“Habsburgs attack!” he ordered.
But Gyorgy stayed put, as did the other vampires.
“Why do you take us here, Bonaparte?” growled Gyorgy. “Our target is Washington City!”
Napoleon shook his sword.
“I need what is behind that door!” he insisted.
“You saw what became of the hellspawn,” said Gyorgy. “Franklin supplements science with his own supernatural powers!”
I stepped forward.
“Napoleon has not come for Washington City!” I cried.
Gyorgy stepped away from Napoleon.
“Of what do you speak, Franklin?”
“Have you not wondered what the hellspawn saw inside our airship’s balloon?” I asked.
Gyorgy tilted his head.
“They saw the divine law,” I said. “The hellspawn thrive on blasphemy, murder, theft, and adultery, all condemned by Biblical principles. They hate the divine law with every damnable fiber of their being.”
I pointed to the airship Great Hall, docked next to Shuter’s Hill. The nose cone was exposed, revealing two stone tablets.
“The light cast upon the demons bore the image of the Ten Commandments!”
Gyorgy recoiled as if from the sun.
“The Americans have the Decalogue!” he hissed. “And so they must have the Ark!”
Napoleon shifted uneasily in his saddle.
“And if the Americans have the Ark,” spat Gyorgy, “they must also have the grail!” Gyorgy turned to his Habsburg brethren. “The Holy Grail would give Bonaparte strength and power far more enduring than ours!”
Gyorgy knew well the history of the grail, as the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperors were appointed by the Pope. They knew that before Solomon’s Temple was seized by the Muslim hordes in 598 B.C. the Knights Templar rescued the Ark and the grail from its chambers, along with many other treasures. What they did not know was that the treasures were kept safely in Spain and managed by the Temple Trust of Scotland, a group composed of descendants of the Knights, for hundreds of years, until the Spanish Inquisition’s infiltration by the Barbary pirates left them vulnerable to plunder by the Pasha. And so President Hidalgo had advised they be taken here, to America. Only the highest-ranking Masons knew of this, including Napoleon, myself and Dr. Franklin.
I turned to Gyorgy.
“Napoleon has exploited the Habsburgs and the other supernaturals to get him to the grail, which would allow him a power that would overwhelm your own!”
Gyorgy looked back to his Habsburgs. Their jaws were already dropped, laced with salivation. Napoleon edged his steed to turn.
“Hold, Gyorgy!” cried Napoleon. “The grail has been protected by the Knights Templar, and then by the Freemasons, for too long! It has great power! It could cure your Habsburg afflictions!”
“Our power is a gift, not an affliction, little general!” cried Gyorgy. “And we intend to keep our advantage!”
The Habsburgs dove upon the dictator, dragging him and his horse to the ground. A dense pack of the vile beasts ground into their prey and rose to reveal a sparse pile of entrails, both human and horse, floating in a puddle of blood.
“To the inner sanctum!” cried Gyorgy. “We must destroy the grail and preserve our dominance over man!”
I stood fast before the iron door at the base of the hill. Gyorgy charged, moving quicker than my brain could order my legs to move. I saw a gaping throat framed by extended serrated jaws barreling toward me like a spiked printing press bearing my imminent obituary.
And then something dropped from above. It was a wisp of delicate fabric that fell like a curtain before Gyorgy could complete his vile act.
It was Dolley. Gyorgy landed upon her neck like a hammer to a crystal vase. She screamed as Gyorgy drank so deeply from her neck that her feet seemed to shrivel.
I recoiled, viscerally falling back from the horror despite my need to help the precious Dolley. She dropped to earth like a soiled kerchief.
The other Habsburgs followed Gyorgy to the iron door, each taking turns hurling their massive torsos at its hinges before it finally buckled and the door was thrown open.
Inside was the Ark of the Covenant, plated in gold and topped with sparkling cherubs. Gyorgy tore off its cover and briefly surveyed its contents. Then he drove his gaping jaws into the Ark, chewing what was inside with his mutated mandibles, then swallowing hard as only the hungriest for power could.
Gyorgy turned to face his fellow Habsburgs. His face held an expression as close to satisfiaction as his gruesome features would allow. He started to speak, but his expression turned quickly from triumph to horror. His mouth, agape, was filled with wood. He reached for his throat. His frame buckled, and his head fell back, lingering on his shoulders for a moment before his torso melted into his waist. His arms flailed wildly for a moment, grasping the edge of the Ark and pulling it on its side as he fell into a heap of steaming coagulation!
I ran to Dolley. Her face was already ashen, and it was beginning to take on the mucous tint marking the vampiric disease. As the vile infection began to give her supernatural strength, she lifted her head to speak.
“I stowed away in the airship,” she whispered. “I had to do what I could to save you!”
My heart melted into my arms, and I was on the verge of holding Dolley ever so closer.
“You are the only one who can save my loving husband,” she said. “Promi
se you will bring him back to me!”
My mind scattered and then slowly, reluctantly, coalesced around two words.
“I promise,” I said.
I looked away from Dolley as her jaw began to deform. I gazed at the overturned Ark. Inside was Aaron’s rod, made of almond wood, one of the Ark’s treasures. The rod was said to have taken the form of a snake when Moses confronted the Pharaoh. Apparently this day it had taken the form of the grail when confronted with the bile-filled Gyorgy.
Washington ran to the rod and lifted it from the festering pile. He held it aloft for the remaining Habsburgs to see.
“Fear the stave of the brother of Moses!” he cried. “Endowed with miraculous power during the plagues of Egypt, it shall rid us today of a plague of vampires!”
The Habsburgs, rows deep, smelled Gyorgy’s death, and then their own. With a uniform shriek, the remaining Habsburgs shrunk away, and spirited themselves into the woods to the south.
“The grail!”
I turned to Dolley. Her voice was dulled under her newly muscular esophagus, but it still contained the sound of wonder.
“The grail!” she said. “It’s so beautiful!”
Her formerly delicate arm outstretched a knotty hand, pointing at the Ark.
I looked again to the Ark, but saw only Aaron’s rod. Then I remembered the legend of the grail. It holds that only the most true and faithful can see it.
“Go to the grail, Dolley!” I said. “Drink from it!”
Dolley, growing delirious from the disease, crawled awkwardly to the Ark and cupped her hands. She held them up, and drank heartily from a phantom vessel. When she was satiated, she turned to me. Her features had been restored and she was beautiful as ever.
When all was quiet, Washington and I replaced the iron door at the opening of the tunnel before taking shovels. We methodically buried the entrance leading to the Ark, where the temple relics would now be stored, known only to us and the highest ranks of Temple Trust Masons. And now, also, to the beautiful Dolley Madison.
Postscript
Months later, I was settled down for an afternoon tipple of Madeira, when there was a knock on the door. It was Hamilton. He handed me a letter he had received in an unmarked envelope.
Mr. Hamilton:
Let us meet again in the fields of Weehawken, New Jersey, tomorrow morning at six.
It was signed by Aaron Burr.
Hamilton asked that I again be the weaponsmith for the occasion.
The Weehawken fields were cold and damp just after sunrise. I arrived with the weapons and greeted the seconds. Hamilton’s was President Jefferson. Burr’s was Edwin Dashwood.
The weapons were pistols. Dashwood expressed concern regarding the narrow gauge of their barrels, and the tightness of their hammers, but Burr brushed off the objection and insisted the duel proceed immediately.
The duelists walked their paces.
Despite his grotesque facial scars, Burr strode with an air of supreme confidence that belied his journey into madness. He had begun a man who believed he was entitled to political power in proportion to the strength of his own convictions. But his embrace of utopian ideals was incompatible with a system based on the separation of powers designed to control the ambitions of men, and so he was drawn to conspire with otherworldly beings and exploit their own lust for dominance in pursuit of his own. He sought to use the supernatural to dominate the natural rights of man, and in so doing became a monster himself.
So ambitious was Burr that he seemed immune from disillusion. And I knew he was not done conspiring.
The duelists reached their mark, and turned.
Burr immediately dropped his pistol. Hamilton did not. A loud crack rang out with the sound of a dozen anvils. Burr flew back, and spun in place for a moment, so powerful was the blast that struck him, until his shoulders drooped and his body sank inelegantly to the ground.
“Burr clearly threw away his fire!” cried Dashwood.
And then he revealed Burr’s final conspiracy.
“Hamilton has killed Burr in cold blood! He is a murderer, and Franklin and Jefferson are his accomplices!”
I ran to examine Burr’s body. As I expected, there was no evidence of any wounds. And Burr, while stunned to unconsciousness, was breathing normally.
“Burr has not achieved the martyrdom he sought!” I said.
Dashwood ran to Burr’s body. Sure enough, he discovered it was unblemished. Even Burr’s linen shirt was intact.
“What new trick have you performed today, Dr. Franklin?” spat Dashwood.
I had been inspired to create the pistols by observing the caridean snapping shrimp, which immobilizes its prey by snapping its claws so hard as to create a sonic cavitation bubble that hits its target at fifty knots.
“The gun’s spring-loaded clappers produce acoustic pressures that stun,” I said, “but leave no physical evidence.”
“Burr lives to be tried for treason!” cried Jefferson.
As so he was.
But the trial was another spectacle choreographed by the notorious Hellfire Club. Burr was represented by Dashwood, who argued the policies supporting the Barbary pirates had been approved by the Supreme Court itself, and that the Habsburg emigration treaty was approved by the Senate. Moving to the silver standard was approved by Congress, and control over zonbis was authorized by the Constitution’s Slavery Clause. Finally, any evidence of a Barbary plot in Mexico or a conspiracy with Napoleon pointed to one Armaan Burayd, not Burr.
Chief Justice Marshall announced the decision of the court, and Burr was promptly acquitted.
So ends this tale from my corner of the multiverse. Should you have similar historical experiences that might inform our collective understanding, please do not hesitate to send them by return address through the enclosed trunk, which has been tested to withstand snow and rain and heat, and even the prying hands of the most persistent hellspawn.
I must now pack by bags, in the hopes of soon finding the great Mr. Madison.
Neighborly yours,
Benjamin Franklin