In a world of fools, a liar can make a pretty piece of coin. Werner garnered a great interest in his finds and eventually took his show on the road. Beau Werner the Gear Monger became Beau Werner, Secret Society Hunter and Collector of Ambiguously Named Items. (That second part I made up on my own.) Knowing what I know of Werner and his bag of goodies, he was a charlatan, with exception of his original finds from that fateful day. Not before long, Werner claimed to have artifacts from over a dozen secret societies. Each new find trumped the last, eventually putting the real evidence of a GhostWurks agent somewhere at the back of his sideshow display.
Upon his death in 1357, Werner's belongings were mostly tossed to the rubbish bin. All except for the original bag of goodies. Over the years the rumors grew into fact: GhostWurks was real, but no one knew anything for certain. The original items collected by Werner inside The Walls disappeared into the aether. Rumored to have been bought up by an unknown GhostWurks agent and destroyed, or by a collector of such strange items for a private collection, no one is certain. The rumors vary widely concerning the actual buyer for even I have been rumored to be the owner of said items. Alas, I am not.
All that exists now of Werner's finds are illustrations based on first-hand eye-witness accounts on the matter; a few technical drawings done by some high-minded, anthropological individual who knows when the getting is good. Through years of study, GhostWurks bubbled to the surface through others’ accord. The journalographers picked up the story once again. Several educators from The University took note, followed by men and women of the publishing world. What Werner failed to do in a decade, everyone else was doing for him in no time at all. GhostWurks went from whispers to speaking trumpets. Thousands of stories went from rumor to validation almost overnight.
Then the most strangest occurrence occurred: Those most vocal, those with the largest audiences, those who were hellbent on turning the study of GhostWurks into a career began meeting with terrible accidents and unfortunate misfortunes.
Maurice Denmarge, author and collector of all things anomalous, was the most vocal proponent of the GhostWurks mystery. That is, until he was found in Haverton Falls Square, in front of the clock tower, his eyes plucked from his skull, his mouth sewn shut, and his ears plugged with with melted copper. He was placed on a pike, his hands tied behind his back, fingertips clipped off. It was a clear message: See no evil, hear no evil, tell no evil by spoken or written word. He was taken down by Metro Sentry and the subject of GhostWurks quieted down across the major metros.
No one ever figured out exactly who turned Maurice Denmarge into such a macabre message, but everyone had similar suspicions. GhostWurks was seldom discussed within the Clockwork Foundation, few politicians and various Works officials said no more than what needed to be said. Everyone was stricken with fear over the subject. GhostWurks then began to emerge from the shadows, conducting their business as they saw fit. People didn’t look. People didn’t stare. People didn’t stick around for when GhostWurks showed up on the scene.
I’ve witnessed a group of three GhostWurks agents storm into an eatery, a fancy one at that, abduct someone from a table of diners, and leave. Like a gust of wind blowing the front doors open and rattling the silvers, they made their entrance. Eyes shifted as heads remained still. A few diners awkwardly made conversation as to distract them from what was happening. The man they abducted screamed and kicked. One of the GhostWurks agents removed a syringe from his jacket pocket, I remember the plunger was quite ornately decorated, brass I do believe, stuck the man, and he quieted down into a paralyzed lull. Then, once they were all gone, all the diners resumed their meals. Mind you, there was a definite and tangible chill upon the mood.
The table from where the fellow was abducted remained quiet. The lady of the table, most likely the man’s wife, was a well-to-do sort, classy, yet understated and quite tight-lipped. She held back tears as her jaw trembled beneath the weight of her loss. The other gentlemen at the table tried making conversation about the weather. I knew they feared the worst: GhostWurks would be back for them. The woman I heard quip, “That’s just like Gerald, isn’t it?” Her lip quivered as she let out a forced bit of shrill laughter.
Reports were often of a strange groups of men, usually in groups of 3 or 5, sometimes up to 11, and even once cited by famous conductor Gregor Arcadia of up to 23 when he witnessed as many in the alleyway outside of his hotel room in the downtown area of Haverton Falls. He described a single-file line, marching from the far end of the alley, through the darkness, through the wispy steam rising from grates embedded in the alley floor. They made their way to a large circular grate cover, the single-file line broke into a swarm that surrounded the entrance to the underworld. And like water down the drain, the swarm of agents circled down into the sewers. The great maestro Arcadia said it all happened so quickly and seamlessly that it was like some sort of macabre street theatre performance or artistic sequence by the most bizarre group of performers known to man.
Yes, GhostWurks sightings, while rarely in the public eye, do occur, but almost all of the time, there’s no telling what is happening. In other words, the situation can never be assessed fully that which GhostWurks delves into. Most of what they do is just strange, like that witnessed by Maestro Arcadia.
I care not to speculate on the matter of GhostWurks beyond the notion that they are indeed a bureaucratic entity murmuring on the fringes of civil society and acting within shadows and vision’s periphery. Furthermore, I’ve said too much already.
*1 Ninjaneers: Highly efficient warriors of the Eastern Bay islands, known not only for their stealthily strategic fighting style, but also for their adeptness at constructing everything from weapons to traps to vast tree top canopy fortresses. Most interesting about their canopy fortresses: They are built so finely and intrinsically, with actual working parts, mind you- this is a group of warriors on the move, they need to be able to vanquish their traces left behind, if any. The fortresses, built with dew and rain collecting apparatus to create a gravity-based running water system; built with pulley systems and wenches and cranks that did all sorts of wondrous things, from escape hatches to raise complete living levels to heights above or below the fog cover; but most importantly, these fortresses were built to destroy themselves. All that fine, intrinsic, natural gear work was built to snap loose and collapse into shambles, thus erasing evidence of their living style. The ninjaneers knew to build with as few materials as possible. The less there was, the easier it was to cover it up, or collapse it down as it were. Though, it is their style of stealth maneuvering which reminds me so of GhostWorks agents. [Side-note: Look into the works of Jacques Von Chang, particularly, Field Study, Eastern Bay Islands, North.]
12
GhostWurks. The name stuck in my head. I spent my evening rattled and far too preoccupied to do anything besides check and recheck the locks of my windows and to the door of my flat. Peering from behind the curtains to the street down below whenever I felt the anxiety build, I looked for them. If I heard any sort of commotion out in the hallway, I checked the peephole on the door. I must have looked the fool in my own home, creeping and sneaking up slowly to the front door, freezing in place upon the slightest creak in the floorboards.
I could have been abducted, I kept thinking. I could be dead. Reason crept up on me as not to rattle me further. I figured, and quite rightly so, that if they wanted me, then they would have taken me without a problem and before I could even tell what was happening. There was no use in my keeping a watchful, paranoid eye to the street below. I had no good reason to cautiously check and recheck the peephole. If they wanted me, they would take me. If they needed to communicate a message to me, that message would be relayed without hindrance.
I sat at the desk in my study and tried tapping out a few words on the typographia, hoping the right strand and combination of consonants and vowels would take to words in a steady stream of written thought, but alas, I was mired by indecisive action on the part of my
fingers to work accordingly with my brain as it was taken with dark thoughts of porcelain-masked men.
Eventually, I made my way to bed where I pulled the covers up to my nose like a child hiding from the dark within the closet. What would be next on my part? Leaping from the mattress to the floor in a sprint on my way to the loo as to avoid the monsters beneath my bed from grabbing my ankles? I surely thought not.
I had been face to face with the most vile of men. I have been close enough to smell the rancid breath of viciously violent underdwellars. I’ve fought in wars and have been close to death more times than I can count on the fingers of both hands and the toes of each foot. Though, through any and all of that, fear was merely a brief obstacle to overcome and push through. Fear was never an emotional burden that affected me in a debilitating way. Fear is something one must merely step into and absorb, realize there is no fuss to be made, and discard to the rubbish bin of the mind. Accept, understand, and when it comes to fear, reject. I do believe anyone who has overcome fear can attest to the silliness of the emotion in retrospect. Through experience one finds courage, I do suppose that is another attribute of it all. My point being, originally, that I was truly afraid of very few things in our world, but for one, GhostWurks.
I tossed and turned that night. I remember a distinct uncomfortable feeling running through the length of my body. For the stress of my being, I couldn’t adjust myself, acquaint myself, nor adhere myself to a position of soothing rest. The gas lamp outside, just below my bedroom window, burned with an intensity that night, illuminating the ambiance.
The ticking clock taunted me. Even with the shades pulled, lamplight from the streets still kept the room aglow. I could distinctly feel each lump within the mattress.If I closed my eyes, would they show up? If I dozed off, would I awake somewhere else? Would I awake at all?
I was awake long after the streets had fallen to sleep, but sleep eventually set in allowing me at least a few hours of rest.
By morning I had shaken that peculiar feeling of paranoia, but there was a lingering feeling of uneasiness, like that which may be left resulting from a horrific nightmare. The feeling would gradually wash off during the course of the morning, I hoped.
Upon greeting the cold, hard wood floor with my bare feet, I awoke just a tad further. I opened the curtains to reveal a bright and sunshiny day. As the glorious morning light shown on my face and its warmness renewed my vigor, I took a deep breath and let it all out. I was beginning to feel better already. I remember that morning very clearly. I washed and cleaned; shaved my face and trimmed my mustache. I examined the fading black tattoos mixed among the newer ones. Like memories, fading away.
I went over to my dresser, to my monocle collection and chose a darker rimmed monocle. I affixed the eyepiece to my left eye and all was clear. There I stood in my undergarments, monocle in place, examining my choices of over-garments.
I dressed for the day, a suit with vest, dark grey. I chose a light-weight suit due to the increasingly warm summer days and for the mere fact I’d be sitting at my office desk for most of the day grading papers, going over lecture notes, and pestering Geraldine with nonsense and tomfoolery. I suppose I enjoyed her company because I missed my own children so. Then again, I had known Geraldine for long enough to become close like family.
As I was picking the lint from my noggin stack, a resilient top hat beautifully crafted by none other than master hatter Maurice Venndel, I considered a fresh cup of seavenly. Fresh air, a little stroll, and a cup of seavenly would do me well, I thought.
And so I did. On my street, just down a ways, was a lovely tea house and eatery. Their selection of seavenly ranged from Northward Territories to Southland, from Haverton Metro to Eastern Bay, including the finest Gorillian blends. Ten years ago this shoppe wouldn’t be possible (in fact it was a butcher’s shoppe), but minor revolutions can often fix what ails a people.
The morning air was crisp, a slight humidity gave a dampened feel to everything. Steamdriver traffic was minor and the street was relatively open and free of mechanical clutter. I was greeted by a couple of lovely young ladies in passing. I gave a good greeting in return. I was feeling better, indeed. And to think back on it all, it always comes down to just wanting a fresh cup of tea. I do suppose it was all inevitable, though.
I was able to procure myself a small table inside the tea house which was not an easy feat as there were many revelers out enjoying their morning seavenly. The smell of fresh pastries wafted through the air. As teacup and saucer came into contact, the delicate colliding of porcelain sung through the establishment like a disjointed wind chime. From the window I saw unto the street, Geraldine. Her eyes saw me, but her feet failed to get the message as she nearly passed the window by. She stopped in her tracks, smiled and waved.
Geraldine joined me. She order herself a cup and sat down, “How did you get home yesterday?” She asked, bringing the cup to her lips.
“Took the rail line in, of course.”
“You're lucky. Got it before it derailed.”
“Derailed?”
“It was in this morning’s edition of The Gazette,” she said as if I were connected to the pulse of the metro at all times. She pulled this morning’s edition from her bag of books, “Knocked the expedition gala to page three. Gazette insinuated it was rigged to blow and that's what knocked it off the track. It cut service for the rest of the day.”
I took the Gazette and looked at the article. It was in between my stop and the next, several metro blocks away, “No one was on the train.”
“Fortunately only a few people received scrapes and bruises from flying debris. Believe that?” She took the paper back and re-examined the article.
"Dr. Monocle, the randomosity, I do say!" I heard a woman's voice boom from behind. I turned in my chair and looked over my shoulder to see Dorothy Shelton, yet once again. This day was looking up, indeed. I was quite taken with Miss Shelton. She seemed pleasant and polite with a happy-go-lucky attitude.
"Oh, Miss Shelton, good morning to you!" I said as I stood up to greet her. "You are indeed a great follower of mine! Where ever I go, you certainly do follow!"
"Yes, yes. It is becoming a tad embarrassing, I fear you'll begin thinking that I'm after you," she said as we laughed.
“I could think of far worse predicaments to be caught up in, I do say!” I said and she beamed a smile as wide as the day was long.
I introduced Geraldine and Miss Shelton to each other and offered her a seat at our little table as I took my own.
"No, I really can not stay," she said sadly, "I saw you through the window and wanted to say hello. Again. Though, I really must be on my way, I was just passing by. RailWorks service is- Oh, which reminds me, I'm so terribly glad to see you were off that line before the disaster. That was your line where I saw you yesterday, was it not?"
"Yes, yes indeed, disaster averted," I smirked as I adjusted my seat and took my cup in my hand.
"Well, a tip of the hat to good tidings, then. Oh, I must be going!" She said as she once again grabbed my hands as I was about to take my first sip of seavenly. I had been waiting patiently for that optimal temperature at which I wouldn’t burn my mouth, but was warm enough to invigorate my being. Instead, I nearly spilled the hot liquid on myself as she tried to dramatically say goodbye, "I better see you later this week for your special lecture. Ta-ta and toodles!" With that she let go and was off.
I was feeling that I longed for just a moment longer.
"She's the one with Rotterdam?" Geraldine was shocked, "She's far too cheerful."
"Well, I don't know that they have a relationsh- it really is none of our business." I said as I went to take a sip of seavenly.
"Wait!" Geraldine shouted in my face as she jumped from her seat and delicately grabbed around the perimeter of the tea cup with the tips of her fingers, "Don't drink that!"
My lips were pursed, suspended in the perpetual state of doing a facial impression of a duck. My eyes were wide an
d I easily submitted to Geraldine's hands gently easing the tea cup away from my face and back to the saucer.
"What are you doing, dear girl?" I demanded to know.
"There's something floating in your tea." She said as she examined the surface of the seavenly from an angle, "A powder. Look. What is that?"
I looked and I, too, could see a dusting of powder that had not dissolved into the tea. I took a careful whiff of the steam rising from the cup and winced, taken aback for wont of fresh air.
"What is it?"
"Silkvine powder."
"Are you certain?"
"Of course I'm certain." I needed not to remind her that I was adept and knowledgeable in the field of plant and flower scientificalities with an emphasis of study in plant toxins and venoms.
The reality of the situation at hand, the fact I almost just drank my death, smacked hard and fast, "She tried to poison you," Geraldine offered, slightly panicked.
"What? Don't be daft! I know the woman, she's a lovely-"
"No, when she took your hands, she must have slipped the powder into your cup!" Geraldine was wide-eyed with the fervor she was creating.
"Geraldine, that's just her sense of manner, she did the same to me during the intermission luncheon, it's just the way she conducts herself," I reasoned.
"You had tea then?"
“Yes.”
“You drank it?”
"Well, I didn't. A servermaton bumped into me and I spilled it everywhere."
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 11