The Fathom Flies Again

by James Walley

  A few dozen hurried paces ahead of them, Timbers struggled to keep up with the newly invigorated Marty, but managed a panting query nonetheless. “So, what’s this way?”

  Marty had his eyes fixed on a group of buildings which huddled in a miraculously unannihilated group across the street. “You’ll see,” he breathed, new purpose blooming in his voice. “There’s no clowns here, so how about we make some?” He glanced down at the puzzled expression which had sprung up on Timbers’ face.

  “Make some? You can’t grow clowns, they come creeping out from Satan’s backside or something,” Timbers chuckled.

  Marty grinned, maybe to dream it and to do it weren’t such bad things after all. If you have the keys to Pandora’s box, why not get a keg and invite the neighbors over? If the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed, then perhaps he could paint a big smiley face on the mountain and see what else came along to play.

  “How’s your juggling?” Marty asked as Timbers arrived beside him in a tatty old shop doorway. Timbers looked up, reading the sign which hung limply, advertising Fancy Schmancy Dress. His gaze trailed back to Marty, who was gasping for breath through an ominously mischievous smile.

  “This can’t be the plan,” Timbers groaned. “I liked the plan.”

  Behind them, Kate and the rest of the crew came to an untidy halt at the steps of Fancy Schmancy Dress. In its windows, all manner of party finery hung on display. Roman centurions stood, much more impressively than their headless mannequin in the street behind. Vampires, cowboys, even pirates lined up in a row which ended with the sobering figure of their nemesis. Shop window clown stared back at them blankly, no less terrifying than the biting, clawing psychopaths that had arrived that night to tear the town a new one. Marty pointed up at the window, towards the macabre, hanging jester costume, and fixed Timbers with a knowing gaze. “We’re going undercover. Grab a fluffy wig and a balloon.”

  The little captain sighed, shaking his head doubtfully. Beside him, Whipstaff crossed himself and uttered a barely audible sea faring prayer. Oaf, already beguiled by the bright colors and sparkly outfits in the shop window let his jaw fall open. “Balloons?” he chimed, clapping his hands together.

  The large glass door of the shop stood closed, a helpful sign hanging behind the glass to emphasize the point, and Marty cupped a hand up against it to peer inside. It was oppressively dark, and several figures lurked within the gloom, although they seemed only there to model the many resplendent and garish outfits that the place had to offer.

  “Are we knocking, or what?” Kate ventured, peering past Marty cautiously. Whipstaff was at her side in an instant, having again swiped Oaf’s mighty hammer. “Too right we are, missy.” He hefted the club and swung it through the delightfully yielding glass of the shop front, sending splinters of glass flying inward, and a surprised Marty stumbling outward. He turned to rebuke the first mate, but Whipstaff had already hopped up and through the shattered doorway, no doubt eager to resume an already busy evening’s exploring and wholesale looting. He turned to meet Marty’s look of bewilderment. “What? I thought we were doing this now.” He dropped the hammer, and Oaf scuttled forward to collect it, holding it against his barrel chest protectively. “You let me do that last one.” During the last few hours, nothing that even approached logic had reared its methodical head, yet this statement was making a solid case, and he grudgingly nodded, following Whipstaff inside the store.

  Only a few feet inside, it became apparent that this was something of a gold mine for those willing to put reality on hold in favor of far more important things, such as messing about and generally treating life like a playground. Marty smiled as the others filed past him. This was exactly why he had always loved Fancy Schmancy Dress. On more than a few days off, he had frequented this glorious establishment, if only to while away the hours donning amusing masks, or pushing buttons which would faithfully deliver comedy sound effects. Outside these doors, the world plodded on, getting on with its day to day trudge through tedium, whilst in here, he could be the hooded vigilante, off to rescue the local orphanage from an unfortunate penguin related catastrophe. He could be the hero who saved the day, armed only with a piñata and a trash can lid. He could be the other guy, and he frequently was.

  Costumes, props, and other paraphernalia lined either side of the dimly lit central corridor of the shop, and the crew wasted no time in rushing to check out the various weird and wonderful wares on display.

  Marty picked his way through pieces of recently hammered doorway, scanning the shelves for plan-worthy items, as Timbers gingerly offered an opinion from behind him. “This isn’t going to be as much fun as it looks, is it?”

  Marty waved a scolding finger at the captain. “Fun’s where you find it.” He was remembering more than a little reckless abandon from his time aboard the Fathom in his own dreamspace, and his soul embraced it like the return of a prodigal, if somewhat problem child. Timbers’ nervousness was starting to galvanize him. In these last few minutes, roles had apparently been reversed, and Marty reveled at the helm of this speeding train of mayhem that he was in no way attempting to steer.

  Amazingly, the train seemed to pull in at Timbers’ stop, and he brightened, offering a hearty thumbs up. “Right you are then,” he chirped, and scampered over to where Whipstaff and Oaf were trying on zombie masks. Beside them, Kate twirled amidst the clinging grasp of a feather boa, and caught Marty’s eye with the first genuine ‘Kate smile’ he’d seen that night. She fluttered briefly, seeming to almost levitate in a shaft of light that obviously wasn’t there, and Marty replied with a smile borne from the belief that everything was going to be okay. He had no idea of any such thing, but a smile like that could not be answered in any other way.

  “This place is great,” Whipstaff piped up from a corner of the shop. He had donned a pair of jamjar spectacles which made his eyes look like hubcaps, and he staggered forward, knocking over a display of amusing hats that Timbers had been eyeing gleefully. “But what exactly are we doing here?”

  Still grinning, Marty smacked a palm to his forehead. Given a plethora of playthings, and a clown free setting, it seemed that your average pirate would forget almost anything, even a freshly rekindled plan. “Like I said, we’re going to bring the noise by being the noise.” Marty stepped forward, holding out a brightly colored wig, and a cherry red plastic nose that he had liberated from shop window clown. The headwear stopped the cavorting pirates in their tracks. Oaf dropped the face paint he had been using to draw a crude picture of himself next to a giant treasure chest on the wall.

  “Street performers drop a little cash into their hat to get the money flowing,” Marty continued, as Timbers wrestled with Whipstaff for control of a rather fetching sombrero. “We’ve got no clowns, so we’re going to make some.” The sombrero toppled to the floor, and several button eyes darted in Marty’s direction at the utterance of the ‘C’ word. “If we make them, they will come.” It seemed a disservice to one of Marty’s favorite movies, but the point was valid, and he intended to run with it.

  “So what did you have in mind?” Whipstaff asked, the look on his face making it clear he really didn’t want to know the answer.

  Marty moved quickly across the store, planting a fluffy, brightly colored wig on the first mate’s head. “Well. This.” Chuckles rang out across the gloomy shop floor, and Whipstaff sunk into himself, like a child who had been told to eat his greens.

  “Maybe we can just spray paint the massive afro under your bandana,” Kate offered quietly, provoking a hasty shush! from Whipstaff. He patted disapprovingly at the mass of cotton candy hair that had invaded his head and shot a glance over to his captain.

  “I’d have gone with red, personally,” Timbers giggled. “Matches your temperament.”

  Despite the obvious clown connotations, Whipstaff failed to suppress a smile, and launched into a high kicking jig, which threatened to bring shelves, displays, and Oaf crashing to the floor.

  All right, Mart
y thought. This was the time to do it: when the pirates were distracted by amusement, brightly colored things, and a frankly death defying dance. Quickly, he gathered up a handful of fancy dress gear, and darted through the store, fitting a red nose here, and hoisting a hideously oversized pair of pantaloons there. Within minutes, he was finished, just as Whipstaff completed his dervish of a performance and looked down at himself.

  “What the…?” the first mate yelped, pulling halfheartedly at the bright checked waistcoat that had arrived about his person. “You’ve clowned me!”

  Moans and cries of objection rang out from his shipmates, who had found themselves similarly be-jestered, but Marty stood defiant, a small pot of greasepaint and a brush in his hands.

  “This isn’t my hat.”

  “What am I wearing? Is this even a real color?”

  “These shoes are actually quite nice.”

  The last statement, uttered by Oaf, drew stares from every corner of the room, which instantly erupted into laughter. The freshly harlequin-ed giant looked up in surprise, before nervously giggling along with the group, because something amusing had obviously just happened, and he never really got stuff anyway.

  Timbers composed himself, stepping up to where Marty brandished his brush. “Come on now, Marty. What’s this all about?” He moved a hand up to his head, in an attempt to silence a cluster of tiny bells that jingled with every movement. “It’s not wise to mess with a pirate’s ensemble.” The bells jingled again, and the little captain grimaced. “It’s like putting a floral bonnet on a werewolf, or giving a supermodel a cheeseburger. You’re upsetting the balance of the universe.”

  Marty paused, checking the words queueing up on his tongue for rationality and sense. None of them seemed to make the grade, but then this was an evening not fully acquainted with the sane protocols of normality. He chose a few of the easiest sentences and pressed on. “Look, Timbers. We’re fishing for clowns without any bait.”

  Timbers huffed, finally losing patience with the chiming around his head, and throwing the bells to the ground. “I’m not a worm on a hook, me hearty.” He stomped over to Marty, his hackles on fire at the very notion. “My lads’ll take on an army of those red-nosed monsters, and come out of it with tales to tell and songs to sing, but they sure as shingle ain’t wriggling maggots in a bucket.”

  Marty’s eyes widened. He was staring down at his friend, who had raced into, and spectacularly out of battle alongside him on more than one occasion. Now the little pirate stood before him, with no clowns in sight, with his hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. Clearly he had messed with the pirate code, something that should not be taken with a pinch of salt, let alone a glob of greasepaint, and he lowered his brush.

  “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry.” He raised a hand to stay any potential swordplay that was in the offing, in no small part due to the fact that he was not packing a blade himself. Marty sighed, raising a hand to cover his eyes. Another volley of random insanity lined up in his mouth to spill forth and no doubt complicate matters further, when another voice spoke up.

  “Timbers, you’re not bait.”

  Marty withdrew his hand as Kate appeared by his side. “You guys are pirates, right?”

  Whipstaff had fallen in beside his captain, who was still bristling, and both nodded guardedly. “What gave it away?”

  Not much, you look like a miniature circus parade, right now, something inside Marty tried to say. Good sense beat the thought to death before it could make it out of his mouth.

  “I bet you’ve been on all kinds of adventures. Missions. Super secret, behind enemy lines stuff, am I right?” Kate continued, smuggling a barely visible wink towards Marty. Some part of him could see where she was going with this, and he smiled back, hoping that she had this covered. The smile took root and spread. Maybe he didn’t have to be the man with the plan all the time. At no point since he had known her had Kate been anything less than on the ball, and she was sprinting towards the end zone right now.

  “Adventures?” Whipstaff stepped forward, his little chest puffed out, and only slightly less impressive due to the sequined waistcoat upon it. “We’ve done this, we’ve done that. You tell me who’s done this and that.” The chest inflating increased. “We’ve been here and we’ve been there. I only know a few folk who have been here, and those who did would soil their britches at the thought of going there.” The little first mate’s eyes darted about him. Clearly he was running out of places to wax lyrical about. “We’ve done…well, we’ve done a lot of stuff. You wanna go here and there, you talk to a pirate.”

  Timbers glanced over at his crewmate, who breathed heavily, apparently exhausted by his rant. “Good show, Whipstaff. I remember going there, it was brutal.”

  Whipstaff turned to his captain and smirked. “Boatload of fun though.”

  Kate rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. Nostalgia was going to get them nowhere, although Marty was rather curious to hear more of this ‘there’ place. “What I’m saying is, are there any more qualified fellows to go on a covert mission than this fine crew?”

  The bluster fell from the pirates’ sails like a fleeting squall, and they looked to each other uncertainly.

  Kate mocked surprise, holding her hands theatrically to her face. “You mean to tell me that you guys have never been on a covert mission? Sneaked into a stronghold and plundered some booty, and then soared off into the night like a bunch of stealthy nin…er…pirates?”

  Timbers raised an eyebrow. The rift between ninjas and pirates was well documented, and yet a challenge had been given. “What Whipstaff said is true,” the little captain declared finally. “There’s not a this or that, a here or there that we haven’t braved.” He patted Oaf on the shoulder, and the little giant turned to join the conversation, wearing a pair of oversized googly eyes that he had been busy trying on.

  Kate clapped her hands, fixing the pirates with a sugar-coated look of awe. “Then you’re the very ones to undertake this daring, clandestine mission!” She pointed out beyond the broken doors of the shop, into the empty street. “You can go out, infiltrate the clownish hordes, and bring them back to the Fathom, get them right where we want them.”

  Whipstaff slapped his thigh enthusiastically, turning to deliver a similarly purposeful smack to Oaf’s shoulder. “Yeah. We can do that. We’re pirates, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

  Oaf nodded happily, seemingly at least partially aware of what was going on. His googly eyes lolled and swung from his face, and he raised his hands to signify his agreement.

  “It’s settled then,” Timbers crowed. “We go in all sneaky and stealthy like, and we drum up some evil juggly action.”

  Cheers rose from the ranks, and Timbers rode the crest of his crewmates new found purpose. “We’re gonna beat these freaks at their own game, and then…just beat them. With sticks. What say you fine fellows?”

  Tiny cloth hands grabbed the greasepaint from Marty’s hands, and in moments, three tiny, grinning clown-pirates stood in a row, eager and willing to get on with a night’s subterfuge.

  Marty stood, taking in what had just transpired, and turned to Kate. There were several more words jostling for position in his head, but none were needed, as Kate cupped a hand to his ear, and whispered a smile back onto his face.

  “I knew what you had in mind. The plan is solid. I just Kated it a bit.”

  As the pirates hurtled back out into the quiet night which lay beyond the doorway, Timbers turned to Marty, flashing him a knowing smile. “Ohh, she’s good.”

  With that, they cavorted out into the street, Oaf clattering into a rail of clothes as they went. Googly eyes were fun, but you really couldn’t see a damn thing out of them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The street was exactly as they had left it. Decimated, ruined, and clownless. Except, that wasn’t strictly true. Three miniature, pirate-shaped clowns trotted out into the middle of the road, and stood in a frustrated and slightly embarrassed line,
as if waiting for ridicule.

  “Well, no clowns. Can I take this ridiculous get up off now?” Whipstaff flapped, pawing at his technicolor wig.

  “Hang on.” Marty stared out into the darkness as a shambling figure made its way towards them. As it drew closer, Marty flinched at the downright clownishness of its appearance, making ready to dash back towards the Fathom, but something about the new vagrant on the block made him pause.

  The stranger was old, that much was clear. A thick, gray beard hung over tattered garments which may have been brightly colored and merry several hundred millennia ago. It sported a jaunty, bell laden cap, and a faded red nose rested haphazardly upon its face. If this was a clown, it was about as daunting as a kiddie ride at Disneyland, and had probably been around longer.

  “Hey, old timer!” Timbers was quick on the offensive. “Seen any clowns around here?”

  The ancient jester flinched, as though he hadn’t expected to be addressed, and craned a wrinkled white neck to regard his addresser.

  “Oh! I’ve found you,” he croaked. “You young whipper snappers scamper off so quickly, you never give us veterans a chance to keep up.” He creaked towards the cluster of pirate-clowns, arms opening in greeting.

  “What have you young scamps been up to? Breaking things I’ll wager. In my day, we wouldn’t set upon the scenery until every last soul had been scared witless.” He sighed, wistfully. “Simpler times.”

  Timbers nudged Whipstaff, motioning towards the elderly harlequin and winking, as if to convey an elaborate scheme in one wordless gesture. “Yep, that’s nice and all, but we seem to have gotten lost. This street hadn’t been clowned yet, and…well, you know how it is.”

  The wrinkly circus freak gave out a huff, and shambled still closer. “Ah, where are my manners. the name’s Wrinkles, and I can set you on your way. Why, there was a time when I would have joined you, but these old hands can scarcely rustle up a balloon anything these days.”