"Who's being daft? Whatever her relationship to Rotterdam, just remember, that's the company she keeps."
It was a rather dour bit of reasoning, guilt by association. Though, Rotterdam had tried to have me killed before, just never by means of such a gorgeous woman.
Geraldine and I struck the ground from our chairs and moved swiftly towards the door hoping to catch Miss Shelton. Outside on the sidewalk, the crowds were thin, but we couldn't find her in either direction we looked. I took off in one direction, Geraldine in the other.
I didn’t get far down the street, there was no need. I could see clear down to the end. Perhaps I still was uncertain as to the depth of her guilt. Perhaps this was another GhostWurks ploy? I stood by, next to the flower stand, peering down the road looking out for her blond hair. The aromatic mix of flowers wafting from the shop’s displays were crisp and just pungent enough to keep the nose curious without offending the olfactories.
We had lost her, it seemed. I turned around to see Geraldine down the street in the other direction. She threw her arms up to show she was empty-handed and gave a shrug.
The flower pot hanging beside my head from a wrought-iron hook just then exploded. Pottery, dirt, petals, and roots, all exploded at once. I reflexively flinched and crouched down. I had been in enough battle zones throughout my life to know, the smaller a target you make yourself, the harder you are to hit. Unless the shooter has really explosive or fiery weaponry, but in the case of a pistol, rifle, or other firearm, making one's self small always seemed the best tactic if there wasn't something immediate to hide behind.
I looked all around as my eye was caught upwards to the rooftop of a building down and across the street behind me. All I could make out really was the silhouette of a man, long, tall, and lanky, wearing a top hat that accentuated his length skyward. He stood at the edge of the rooftop meddling with a rifle frantically, muttering. The rifle seemed the length of the man himself. He looked down to me, away from his malfunctioning firearm for but a moment to see me sitting there, crouched behind the flower stand, peering from between the stems of longfennias, staring at this fool. He groaned abruptly, letting forth the sound of a distant “Gah!” which I could barely hear from where I crouched. He then turned, lept down from the ledge to the rooftop and was gone.
The street was aflutter with worried and confused people. Some ran for cover, other sought the source of the blast. Metro Sentry had been alerted to the area and began a search. I was able to find Geraldine who had taken refuge in a maker-shoppe.
Geraldine didn’t bother asking if my current emotional state was fair. Instead, she laid out the facts, “Either that man took offense to the flower shoppe, or he was aiming for you. You think the silkvine was an accident? How about yesterday’s train derailment just outside of your stop?” Geraldine was definitely making me nervous, but she was right. Things weren’t looking up for me.
I escorted Geraldine to the nearest RailWorks station, as we both kept constant, vigilant eyes about us. I had Geraldine go about her day and warn Harold of anything strange that might be afoot. I didn’t dare tell her of my GhostWurks encounter, not in public, not where there were listening ears.
I walked her up the steps of the station, “I think it would be best if I just went about my normal schedule. If Dorothy Shelton shows up to my next lecture, we’ll confront her then.” I made sure she was safe on the train and I didn’t leave the platform until the engine left the station.
I walked the emptying platform casually thinking about whether or not I should confront Rotterdam, or at least Mr. Tsue, personally. Dorothy Shelton was such a sweet lass, though. And Rotterdam had just offered me that surveying job. Perhaps it was too soon to lay blame. There was also the fool on the rooftop that couldn’t work his gun properly. GhostWurks isn’t as foolish to suffer the jamming of a rifle. Even so, they always had plans in case of such flounderings.
I walked slowly, allowing for foot traffic to pass me by. I wanted to be the only one on that platform before I left to the street below to make certain I wasn’t being followed. Eventually the crowd cleared and I was alone on the second level platform. Alone for but the company of an automaton. A SweeperMaton swept the platform with the wide broom contraptualized to its front. As I passed it on my way to the stairs, he spoke up, “Hey, Monocle! Hey!” He whispered in sporadic grunts, “Hey! You Dr. Monocle?”
I was about to be murdered by a Ghostwurks funded SweeperMaton, I instantly thought, but as I took a closer look, I could see it was a man inside. The man was shoddily disguised as a SweeperMaton.
“Oh, my. What are you doing in there?” I asked the man cramped into the bent-out-of-shape automaton shell.
“Shhh, keep it down, Doc,” he said as he gestured for me to come closer. I leaned in cautiously and he spoke in grunted whispers, “I got a message from Scheckendale Kilmarten, you get his letter?”
“Yes, yes, go on,” I was terribly intrigued.
“Meet him today. At the address on the letter. Go there today. Not tomorrow. Not the day after that. Not at your earliest convenience. Today. It is of the utmost importance.”
“What is this? Who are you? What is going on here?” I didn’t understand why this man was talking to me while masquerading as an automaton.
“It isn’t safe. Just go.”
I tried getting a good look inside the headpiece of the cleaning contraption, “Who’s in there?”
“I’m just a messenger. Get out of here. You’re going to get us both pinched. Get on! Go.”
He pushed at me with his broom and when I barely flinched he started taking hindered half-swings at my knees. I hurried along down the stairs, looking back to see the “messenger” back to sweeping the platform.
I hailed and boarded a passenger carriage down at the street level and directed the driver to the address in my letter. Just across the metro the steamdriven carriage chugged along, quickly averting not one, but two, near-disasters. Steamdrivers weren’t engineered with the best breaking systems; there was a lot of, often too much, power behind these drastic machines. Foresight, or anticipation of future events, perhaps it is reading the fleeting randomosity within the moment, but whatever it was, it was something a good pilot needed to have to avoid wrecking with another steamdriver, or worse, a person. Two steamdrivers colliding creates an awful mess, but a salvageable one. When the disaster involves a steamdriver and a person, unlike as I had just previously witnessed with the automaton half-buried beneath the weight of a steamdriver and mangled and crumpled, there is little left but that which coagulates in the nooks and crannies of the gears.
Were these assassination attempts related to the TrustWorks attorney, I had to wonder. Was there anyone who currently wanted me dead? Who wanted revenge on me, now? I spent the last few months teaching and lecturing. Surely a student wouldn’t have gone as mad to want revenge on me this badly, or would they? Grades weren’t released for another week, I reasoned. I thought back further. Lecturing, teaching, lecturing, consulting, fact-finding, teaching. There wasn’t much to go on. Most, but definitely not all, scholarly endeavors rarely resulted in being marked for death. Before this last semester, though, I was on that terribly awful boat which has since sailed. I doubt anyone aboard swam to shore just for revenge. I was at a loss.
My steamdriver ground to a halt. I felt certain this third time was it. We were certain to crash this time, by the sense of the abrupt application of the breaks. I looked through the window to see a steamdriven cart overturned, gears and cogs of immense sizes toppled from the back of the bed. There were two massively over-sized GearMen trying to clear the roadway while trading insults with passersby and the pilots of stalled steamdrivers.
“This is fine, I can walk from here, my good man.” I exited the carriage and paid my driver his coin plus gratuity.
The GearMen moved the industrial gears effortlessly, like they were mere child's toys. Why anyone would trade insults with these massive gentlemen was beyond my reasoning. The i
nsults reached its peak when one the GearMen overturned the steamdriver of a mouthy pilot. He was about to go back for seconds with an over-sized wrench, probably almost as long as I am tall, and certainly just as heavy, before his fellow GearMan stopped him and brought him to his senses.
I turned a corner, only three more metro blocks to Elseafter Boulevard and the address noted in Kilmarten’s letter. I thought if I were being followed, I should have lost my pursuer back there in the traffic build up. Though, I could have sworn - sworn under oath before The Clockwork Foundation itself - that I did indeed saw the top-hatted fool who failed at exploding my cranium like the potted plant he struck instead.
I was strolling at a leisurely pace and I had that feeling, like eyes upon my being staring at me secretly. What is that odd sensation, like ocular tendrils and tentacles psychically blanketing me? Even in the wispy crowds, I could feel it. Like the feeling of being stalked in the jungle. The eyes peer at you from somewhere hidden, somewhere you’re not supposed to know. By the time you find those eyes, though, it is often far too late.
I turned, quickly, scanning the area for those eyes. I looked down the street, across the street, in shoppe windows, to the rooftops, back down- But wait, what had my eye seen? I looked back to the rooftop where I saw the top hat of that fool only to find that it was but one of a series of chimneys for the flats in the building below.
There was nothing. I had begun working myself up into a state of paranoia again. Instead, I took a deep breath and held it together admirably. I would need to be able to hold it together. Holding it together is a skill and a talent. Some people panic. Those who panic tend to make matters worse. Others remain calm. Not everyone who remains calm is of help, for calm may be a catatonic state of shock.
I strolled at an even, leisurely pace. Perhaps it was the shouting and arguing of the GearMen and the idea of holding it together that made me think of Bellwrung.
12
He’s what they would refer to as a miserable ginger. Sickly pale skin. Uneven frocks of freckles. Oily, thin hair. Weak, bloody gums; his teeth spaced far apart and smallish. His eyes were too close together for comfort and beady, a piercing green. And for what he lacked in looks he didn’t make up for in personality. Martin Bellwrung was his name. The mere mention of his moniker reminds me of the foul odor on his breath, that which can only be described as fresh scatological release with a hint of pine (Martin Bellwrung was so dastardly and vile, he gnawed on strips of pine bark in hopes of strengthening his weak dentistry).
Worst of all was that he was indeed miserable and he made it his business to be certain everyone else was miserable as well. He’d inflict pain for fun. He’d embarrass and shame women to tears just for kicks. He’d knock the hat off your noggin and then kick it away as you would attempt to retrieve it. He’d take a child’s toy just to break it and then toss it back. He was a miserable, bent-whistle of a man. Martin Bellwrung lauded evil and took away happiness whenever the chance was available to take.
Bellwrung had lived in the Northward Territories his entire life. And during that time, he made Northward bend to his every violent whim. During the time of his reign, Northward was just as lawless as it is now, probably even more so. I was just a young man when I had my unfortunate experiences in Northward as my path crossed that of Martin’s. I must have been somewhere in the early years of my twenties for I remember I was a graduate student on an excavation in Northward. We were stationed in Northward for several months, in Partridge Monarch Abbey*1, myself, a group of about fifteen students, and 3 professors. As lawless as Northward was, no one had planned on hiring protection for the group.
By the end of our second day in Partridge Monarch Abbey, three students had been stolen from camp and, most likely, sold off to work in some hellish, awful job within The Walls.
Outside of Partridge Monarch Abbey was an older, abandoned settlement. It had been deserted for decades, left mysteriously without reason. We were using it for study. Little was left, but it was a project based more in principle than discovery. Why we had to pick a location in the wild north, I wasn’t certain.
We became quick to learn to depend on each other, never leaving to go anywhere alone. In fact, we packed together so tightly, we did nearly everything together as a group. We found an ale house that reminded us of home, Northside Tavern. There were at least a group of us there twice everyday; once for an early breakfast and again for a late dinner (lunch was eaten at the excavation site). I guess word got out that the Northside Tavern had become a favorite haunt for some non-locals; metro folk, we were, in fact. Somehow that made us targets.
We had gotten in very late one night. Most of the group opted for turning in, while I and a small group of others legged it over to Northside Tavern. It being very late, the only food left was the prior day’s stew in a bucket waiting to be tossed. We helped ourselves free of charge, the tavern owner, Francis Antonio had taken a liking to us (we paid every time and we never caused trouble which was a nice change of pace for him).
The stew had begun to congeal and thicken. I became fearful of gagging while at the table. I became horrified at the thought of dry heaving. I took a good look at the congealed bits: pudding-like, but completely unappetizing, the way it lazily slopped over and slightly jiggled. I thought of the texture in my mouth, thick gloops of globs of stew gob between the inside of my cheek and gums. I became mortified at the thought of losing it all right there in the food line.
“Suck it in, Monocle,” I thought to myself.
“Suck it in? Or suck it up? Which was it?” I thought. Then I thought suck it up, it being the stew jelly, some of it now becoming translucent around the edges.
“C’mon, Monocle,” Jessup Winfeld nudged me from behind, “it’s not going to get any better.”
I smiled as I was slightly nudged forward by Jessup’s knuckle on the back of my shoulder. I remember trying hard not to drop the plate of food that was making me sicking to just look at.
And then Jessup slammed into me from behind with such force that it brought the both of us down to the ground. I had landed chest-down on my food. The sudden shock of it all took my breath away. I was covered in the putrid gravy, I could feel its weight caked into the seems and buttons of my pocketed tweed vest. We both looked up to see him. His thin lips stretched over his diseased gums into a rotten smile. I noticed he was dressed in a mish-mash of metro quality clothing, clashing ever-just-so. Certainly these were the stolen garments of far classier men.
“You should watch where you’re going next time,” he squealed a bit in his giggle, just enough to make one nauseous.
“What?” Winfeld blurted out, missing the nuance of Bellwrung’s bullying craft, “You clearly pushed-”
Bellwrung grabbed Winfeld off from me, swung him around, and laid him down quite aggressively atop a dining table, a thick slab of aged wood. Bellwrung leaned over him, directly in his face, “What? What? What was that? You say something?” The question hung in the air heavily. As the seconds marched on, the heaviness pushed the air from the room. It sucked the breath from our mouths.
Winfeld lay atop the table motionless, silent.
“What’s this? You’re mute? You a blooming mute?” Bellwrung taunted him.
It wasn’t anything specific to Bellwrung’s attack, but the attack itself. It shocked all of us into a frozen state. I know, for he told me later, Winfeld was in a nightmare state. He felt fearful, shameful, hopelessness, and what he called, “crushing anxiety.” He said his mind was a weird ball of jarring friction, that of shear terror and numbing emptiness. He said, “In an act of senseless violence, there was a tingling of sadness for the man.” This I found interesting. I suppose I did feel a sense of sadness for this man’s lost humanity, how a monster was made, I care not be privy. What I did understand was that in that moment, with Bellwrung profoundly threatening my friend, Winfeld, there would be no reasoning.
That which happens within a moment. That, being events, which can be anything. Th
at moment which can be at any time. So much can get wrapped up within a moment, that the moment can’t hold any longer and bursts into the next moment.
From the dirty, wet tavern floor I sprang to action. Arthur Monocle, a scrappy twenty-something, yet to be scarred in battle, a mustache not long enough to yet curl, lunged forth, his chapped hands latching onto Bellwrung and adjusting his position upright and away from Winfeld.
I look at it now like I’m looking at someone else. I wasn’t particularly strong or agile or menacing, just a scrawny boy. This is what I had to do for Winfeld to save him. I stood Bellwrung right up and gave him a little shove off which I believe was really me shoving off from his massive bulk. (And now that I think of it, it probably wasn’t me lifting him from Winfeld, but him reacting to some pest on his shoulder.) From my breast down to my navel, I wiped the gravy goop from my shirt and vest. At the time, I was convinced I was capable of bringing an onslaught of disturbed frenzy through a gentleman's bout of fisticuffs. We would step outside, I thought, and settle this tomfoolery once and for all.
Bellwrung reared his head back and brought it forward thusly, forcing the thickness of his forehead into my nose directly. I remember little after that. I was told by my peers, now colleagues, that I flew into a rage upon the sight of my own blood and thrashed Bellwrung to shreds. Upon the final blow to his beating, a righteous upper-cut as they tell me, he left town for good and was never seen again.
I must have been aglow upon hearing how I single-handedly took out the Bellwrung Beast. I swelled with pride. My nose swelled with coagulated blood and splintered bone.
I had my doubts, but it wasn’t until years after that I asked for confirmation by my friend, Dr. Harold Smalls. While Harold wasn’t there on that particular expedition and excavation, just as I know everything he doesn’t know, he did in fact know everything that I didn’t know. I didn’t know what happened that night, but Harold did. I knew those loose-lipped loud-mouths I call my peers would give up the gooses and the ganders ever so graciously. I don’t know specifically who told Harold (I know it was Winfeld), but it was someone on the excavation and at the tavern that told him (Winfeld).
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 12