The Fathom Flies Again
Page 20
Almost instinctively Marty grabbed the tent pole, flailing with his free hand to find Kate as the portal burst outwards and instantly engulfed a group of clowns in its wake.
Marty had often wondered what it would feel like to have his life flash before his eyes as he died, and this was as close as he had ever come to it, as the world seemed to hurtled past him into the shining maelstrom at his back.
Mercifully, Kate’s hand found his. Peepers skittled past, grabbing a tree limb to steady himself against the whirling vortex which was now forming where the portal once stood. “Looks like you’re coming with me either way, Marty. See you on the other side.” He giggled and let go of his mooring, cascading towards the portal, end over horrendous end. The giggles stopped abruptly, as a mighty leprechaun foot planted itself into the ground, and pancaking the wretched clown flat.
Marty smirked, forcing himself not to impart a one liner of his own. This was not the time.
Around him, the contents of Harper’s Meadow were swirling, whirling, blurring into the shiny abyss. One of the big top’s masts tore free of its mooring and threw its canvas coat into the eye of the storm. The clowns which once stood as an army, now charged helter skelter in a myriad of horrible shapes behind it, and Marty fought to hang on to Kate, and also to reality.
Somewhere over behind the tree line, something groaned and creaked into motion, and as more debris sailed past, the vast, dark shape of the Flying Fathom drifted up into the sky. Timbers was at Marty’s side, clutching a row of seats as the mighty vessel pitched sharply sideways. “Zephyr! Migration Maneuver. Fly south, big lad!” he barked, his words falling inward with the rest of the big top towards the screeching portal.
Whatever command may have been uttered fell short, as the Fathom veered into a sheet of canvas tent rigging and raked the ground, throwing up a torrent of grass and dirt as it turned against Zephyr’s toiling wings and dragged up a cluster of clowns in its crashing wake. Wood splintered as the squawking bird fought to maintain control, but the force pulling them back to dreamside gripped the world with inexorable fury.
Timbers dropped his cutlass as the Flying Fathom, his Flying Fathom blazed past in a whirling mass of wood, metal and Bobs, sucked finally through the portal and out of sight.
Marty felt his grip relax as the shock hit him, before realizing that one of his hands held Kate. She flapped and flailed in the wind, her feet mere meters from the shrieking vortex. He shot a look back into her eyes, and remembered their first date, when his awkwardness had gotten the better of both of them. Her hand was slipping, as Benji tumbled past, issuing redundant cries of protest, and equally empty flashes of light as he disappeared into the light.
Marty recalled her walking in on his dream, making him wake up, in more ways than one. Their hands were only fingertips touching now. his mind showed him their first, post dream date, and the kiss that had followed, screaming at him that he had to save her.
Their fingers drifted from each other, and Kate dropped silently into the portal, following the sprawling wreck of the Fathom. Something boomed loud enough to shake the heavens, before darkness finally settled on Harper’s Meadow.
Chapter Thirty-One
There wasn’t a lot left of Harper’s Meadow, when police constable O’Riley poked his head out from the debris that was once his sniper’s nest.
Whatever giant, pixie presence had taken hold of the field was now gone, and the silence felt almost painful in comparison. O’Riley was full of beans. He had been filled to bursting with righteous, trigger pulling, murderous beans, and now there was nothing more to shoot at. Rather fortunate really, since his weapon of circus destruction was now nothing more than kindling, a bed of mulch that he was now scrambling from.
He took a moment to survey the site of his great triumph. Confetti littered the scene, smoking and flitting through the air, with no evidence that it had once been a gang of marauding demons.
Something at O’Riley’s feet clanked as he moved, and he smiled as he looked down, to find that his mighty pie cannon had survived, He checked the clip; a half dozen Lemon Fancies and a couple of armor piercing Cranberry Tartes would be sufficient to continue his quest.
Heaving the cannon onto his shoulder, O’Riley wandered away from the chaotic scene he had wrought. This was exactly how he had pictured it in his dreams, minus the whipped cream of course. There was even a sunrise into which he could wander. There would certainly be straggling do-badders from this procession of insanity, somewhere back townwards, and the job that he had pretended to do his whole adult life, suddenly became the job he was born to do.
He hoisted his trusty pie chucker onto his shoulder, searching for a clever quip to bookend the moment. Fate had given him his moment. It had bestowed upon him a lease upon life that blazed like freshly stirred embers in his soul. It sadly fell wanting in the sunglass donning zinger department, however.
Within moments, constable Michael O’Riley was back on the road towards town, and woe betide anything, clown or otherwise, that got in his way.
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Marty brushed several layers of ex-clown from his face, and turned to Timbers, who stared at where the portal once stood.
The lifeboat came to a gliding rest beside them. Altitude, it seemed, had saved the tiny vessel and its occupants from the world warping events that had occurred below. Now it stood, the only remaining vestige of the Flying Fathom, in a blasted field littered with pieces of broken everything.
“Good thing that guy’s into sunrises and guns,” Whipstaff muttered, dropping to the ground, and picking his way to where Timbers and Marty stood. “Seemed like the sort of no nonsense vigilante cop type we wouldn’t want to mess with.” Oaf poked his head out behind the first mate. “What guy?”
Timbers remained silent, staring out at where his ship had vanished. Marty stood beside him, having also lost something dear.
“So. What now?” The request was almost apologetic, as Whipstaff sensed the tone of the moment.
Timbers lowered his head, staring at his feet. Momentarily, he wandered over to a patch of ground not festooned with the remains of the clownish invasion, and picked up his sword. He turned to Whipstaff, a surprising glint in his eye. Marty had seen the look before, but never with such serious intent. Timbers clearly had a plan, but there was no cheeky aside or clever retort to accompany it. This time, the stakes were higher than they’d ever been. This time, the little captain meant business.
“Whipstaff. Oaf, see if you can find any of the spotlights those juggling scumbags left behind. Marty, come with me.”
There was something unsettling in that command, as though they had been playing war, and the big kids had suddenly arrived. All at once, the clarity of the situation fell upon Marty. Maybe he had been in shock at losing Kate, but reality was now banging on the door, and it wanted his lunch money.
Following Timbers’ lead, Marty began sifting through the debris of the big top, not altogether sure of what he was doing. “What are we looking for?” he eventually asked, having turned up little more than a few red noses and handfuls of colored paper.
“This,” Timbers declared, pulling a small, wooden cot from the wreckage. “Whipstaff, angle one of those spots over here.” The first mate duly obliged, training a light that he had plundered from the other side of the clearing at where Timbers and Marty stood.
“Jump on,” Timbers commanded flatly, motioning towards the bunk. “We may have lost the battle, but by Blackbeard’s britches, we’re not going to lose the war. Whipstaff, kill the light.”
Marty was slightly disconcerted by the monotone emptiness of Timbers’ words, but jumped aboard the creaky bed nonetheless. Clown beds seemed to be no more than a plank of wood with a sheet over them, but they served a purpose, and that purpose soon arrived under cloak of night.
Someone’s stirring, I can here you. A voice issued from beneath the bed. It sounded horribly familiar, as Marty turned to press an ear to the wooden mattress. You’re up there somewhere
, aren’t you? Give me a sign.
In the darkness, Timbers nodded solemnly to Marty, who duly stuck a leg out and rested it on the floor. That’s it, time to go. The voice issued out again from under the bed, and this time, something grabbed at Marty’s ankle.
“Oaf! Now!” Timbers shouted, prompting Oaf to leap from his hiding place beside the bed. He grabbed at the dark tendril circling Marty’s leg, and hoisted whatever was beneath out into the open. Timbers was quick on his heels, launching at the blackness with flailing limbs. It was all the prompting Marty needed, and he flipped over onto his front, dropping onto whatever Oaf had got twisting in his grasp.
“Gotcha, you sneaky bilge rat!” Timbers shouted. “Whipstaff, lights!”
The spotlight streaked a beam of searing light onto the bed, and whatever lay beneath the dogpile of Marty, Timbers and Oaf shrieked. Let me go. I don’t do well in the light, and I only take people one at a time. The voice pinched into a mewl. Dammit, this is why I don’t do sleepovers.
“Quiet, you.” Timbers held something, although none of them could see what. “I’ll cut your gizzard if you don’t help us out, or whatever it is I’ve got hold of here.”
Please, don’t hurt me. The unseen creature simpered. This is just my day job, everyone has to make ends meet, you know. What is it you want?
Timbers looked up at Marty, who was also jostling with an unseen limb. He winked, and familiar pirate mojo sprang forth from his tiny face. Timbers had a plan, and an even bigger purpose. “What is it we want?” he echoed to Marty, already knowing the answer.
“We want you to take us Dream Side,” Marty commanded, Timbers’ motive suddenly flaring brightly in his mind. “You’re going back under the bed, and you’re taking us with you.”
The shadow creature emitted a bowel loosening groan, thrashing against its captors and rocking the bed on which Marty still sat. A few moments later, the commotion ceased, and the voice spoke again, oh, is that it? Fine, sure. Follow me.
Marty released his grip on whatever the hell he was holding, and it slithered under the bed. He fixed Timbers with a look, which told the little pirate everything he needed to know.
They were going to find the Fathom, and they were going to find Kate, one way or another.
The crew dove beneath the frame of the makeshift bed, and vanished from sight. Marty took one last look at reality, and scrambled after his crewmates. He wasn’t sure if Timbers had realized the other intention which flashed out from him, brighter than any evil koala could have mustered.
He was going home.
About the Author
Arriving in the rainy isle of Great Britain in the late ‘70s, James quickly became an enthusiast of all things askew. Whilst growing up in a quaint little one horse town that was one horse short, a steady diet of movies, ‘50s sci-fi and fantasy fiction finally convinced him to up sticks and move to Narnia - also known to the layman as Wales. Since there was no available qualification in talking lion taming or ice sculpture, he settled for a much more humdrum degree in something vague but practical, and set out to find a talking lion to make an ice sculpture of.
Mystifyingly finding himself behind the desk of a nine-to-five job, he kept himself sane by singing in a rock band, memorizing every John Carpenter movie ever made, and learning the ancient art of voodoo. Finally deciding to put his hyperactive imagination to good use, he ditched the voodoo and picked up a pen. A few months later, his debut novel, The Forty First Wink, was born. With a clutch of short stories in the offing, James is now loving his new life as an author, and still sings when plied with alcohol or compliments.
He also recently developed a penchant for fiercely embellishing his past. He really was a singer, although The Forty First Wink may not have brought about world peace. Yet.