Dr. Noweigh and other members of the ship’s crew were quite heartened by Ashtoke’s condition the following morning. The nasty pale lime green shade of Ashtoke’s face was gone completely. Replaced now by a far less ugly grey colour that matched his now bluish lips rather well. The upbeat start to the day regarding Lord Ashtoke’s condition lasted well into the afternoon, until Dr. Noweigh noticed a change in his patient’s breathing pattern. It had suddenly stopped. He decided not to administer the prescribed rum ration at sunset as even with his complete lack of any formal medical training, he could tell that his patient was possibly totally and more than likely, utterly dead. His observation was confirmed the next morning by the cold feeling of Ashtoke’s forehead and the unpleasant odour that was starting to fill the small cabin assigned to medical emergencies. In keeping with his responsibilities, he naturally informed the captain of the unfortunate demise of his patient – a task he regularly performed on most voyages.
Luckily, for the benefit of the planet and the stability and profitability of the entire Empire of Gloth, the captain had the good sense to inspect Lord Ashtoke’s belongings. After doing so, he realised his recently departed passenger had clearly been an important gentleman and aristocrat. Letters, documents and diaries of a very important man were contained in an expensive looking leather document pouch. What looked awfully like a royal seal on the outside of the pouch also added to the important nature of the contents. The captain could not help but be impressed by an introductory letter to the Pope signed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. There were also documents mentioning the Earl of Goodwich, Lord Emberly and the Archduke of Chester. Matters of church and state needed to be handled with the utmost discretion, respect and loyalty. So with that in mind, the captain, sensing his duty, decided that the document pouch should be delivered without delay, after docking in England, to the Archbishop of Canterbury. And for going to all that trouble, he also decided that Lord Ashtoke would have thought that a reward for such loyalty was warranted. Hence the captain accepted his reward of the considerable amount of money and gold that was also contained within the document pouch. After checking Ashtoke’s other personal belongings, he advised Dr. Noweigh to wrap the body, and decided he would write a letter to the Earl of Goodwich, notifying him of Lord Ashtoke’s unfortunate demise and where his body could be collected.
On arriving in Southampton, the captain gave his second in charge the responsibility for delivering the letter to the Earl of Goodwich, and finding suitable shore accommodation for Lord Ashtoke’s remains. The captain then proceeded to London to make his important delivery to the Archbishop of Canterbury − with a keen sense that a second round of rewards might be in the offing. He succeeded on both counts and promptly took an early and very well funded retirement.
Lord Ashtoke was laid to rest in London some weeks later by way of an elaborate funeral attended by any number of important people, including members of the royal family and members of a now uncertain group of men who belonged to the Camera Stellata. Luckily for them, the Archbishop of Canterbury conducted the funeral service, and had the presence of mind after performing his ceremonial duties, to advise Lord Emberly, in passing conversation, that he had been given Lord Ashtoke’s document pouch.
As the next eldest member of the Camera Stellata, the Earl of Goodwich became the new president. Lord Emberly arranged to collect Lord Ashtoke’s document pouch and have it delivered to the new president who upon reading the contents of the pouch, immediately contacted five of his closest colleagues to have the voices necessary to call an emergency meeting. As the Star Chamber had now been closed, the meeting would be held at the country estate of the Archduke of Chester, some miles south of London. Messengers were sent with a dispatch informing all members that attendance was compulsory.
*****
It was late winter when four English gentlemen arrived in Rome. They had felt the chill during their Mediterranean voyage, but as they disembarked, very light snow was unusually falling in Rome. Hardly what they had expected.
‘Luverly weather,’ the bosun said with a smile as he bid farewell to his passengers.
‘Indeed,’ Lord Emberly replied without smiling. Perhaps he would have managed a smile if he had known that within one week he would be enjoying the finest in-flight silver service in the entire Twelve Sun Systems of Gloth, aboard a Glothic Cosmic Cruiser in Luxury Class. Until then, he saw little reason to smile.
Pope Urban had been busy in the months since Lord Ashtoke’s visit. A secret chamber deep below the bowels of the Vatican, only accessible by an even more secret passage from the anteroom of the Cavern of Clavius, was refurbished to become the centre of power for the Camera Stellata. Furnished to accommodate the twenty-five sitting members in comfort, plus one other place for any unfortunate potential accused. Calvino Gregorian had engaged his most trusted artisans and artists to create a stunningly accurate recreation of the original Star Chamber. However, due to the depth of the location, the windows were painted onto the walls.
Needless to say, Lord Emberly and his entourage of three were suitably impressed with the new headquarters for the Camera Stellata. However, their impression of the new Star Chamber would be chicken feed compared to their impression of Luxury Class aboard a Glothic Cosmic Cruiser and being served chilled Fozzoxly, something akin to champagne, but made from the fermented liquid contents of the man eating Oxlypyriad flower found only on the planet Sckidd. Once they had tasted the Onglets of Tirdd with a rich Yuretha Jus, they would forget about their impression of the new Star Chamber altogether and be transported to epicurean heaven.
By the time they reached the orbit of Gloth and gazed out upon its attractive pink oceans and uniformly pale mauve rivers with remarkably few twists and turns, they would have forgotten about Rome, Rom, Erde or Earth. A gentle piece of advice from the Head Steward of the Luxury Class Cabin that they consider changing their attire before their arrival on Gloth would be accepted graciously by Lord Emberly once it was made clear to him that their seventeenth century English dress was going to be right out of place. Gloth was quite a few thousand years more advanced in fashion than even Rome, let alone London. Although feeling a little odd exchanging their flat caps, doublets, jerkins, chemises, upper and nether hose, cod pieces and Duck's Bill shoes for black brogues, polyester trousers, cotton shirts and polybenzimidazole jackets, they suffered the change of style with good grace.
So with the arrival of Lord Emberly, Sir Ronald Donald, the Earl of Spinster and Chief Justice Henry Hoop on Gloth, the Camera Stellata began its travails, and its path to becoming the ultimate authority and supreme ruling council of the planet Erde. Within just a few short decades, they would establish their ultimate power by managing the economic, political, social and judicial affairs of Erde, orchestrating beneficial wars and planting the seeds of control over democracy, seating and unseating dictators, kings, queens and revolutionaries, manipulating trade and commerce to the financial betterment of Gloth and inflicting a heavy hand of justice on those who stood in their way. After another two centuries, they really had things ticking along quite nicely and Gloth was really very pleased. Finally after thousands of years of accrued losses from the Erdean HUMAN project, the first substantial profit was turned. Big things were expected in the future, and with the gradual implementation of Glothic technologies on Erde, production output and exploitation of the masses began to bear fruit. Slowly but surely, over the next few hundred years, Erde would finally take its place as a Glothic economic miracle.
Unfortunately, no one on Erde knew about this. Well, except for the few members of the Camera Stellata who were becoming infinitely richer by the day. While they were making disgusting amounts of money, the vast and diverse populations of Erde were still wondering if the Earth was flat, and where the hell this heaven place was. They were also wondering where their next meal would come from and how they could avoid their children falling ill and dying so young. Most fell back on the old beliefs dating way back to the GOD or Glo
thic Oversight Detachment days of thousands of years past. This seemed to help a little. Churches, Sundays, gods and old books kept them busy. And when that failed, a good war was enough to settle things down again.
The Camera Stellata became old hands very quickly and by the time a new millennium dawned, everything was ticking along just beautifully. Having recently decided to punish the Soviet Union for not showing a profit after more than forty years of support, they felt their decision to scrap the Eastern European communist project was going to prove extremely rewarding in the years to come. They were also quite proud of themselves for only having had to assassinate a small number of presidents, prime ministers and dictators during the course of the century leading to the new millennium. A few wars had of course been highly profitable, although a couple had gone on a bit long and lessened their final return. But all in all, the Camera Stellata could collectively smile at their last meeting before the millennium dawned − deep below the bowels of the Vatican in their secret Star Chamber.
Most importantly, the secrecy had been maintained. No one other than twenty-five Erdean men and one Pope knew anything of the Camera Stellata. And of them, only one Pope and the five most senior members of the Camera Stellata knew anything about Gloth. Of course, the descendants of Calvino Gregorian knew quite a bit about everything. They had to; they were overseeing the whole Erdean project.
Surf’s Up
‘So what did ya’ father do?’
‘No idea really. Used the family name to make money I think.’
‘He was some kind of Earl or something, wasn’t he?’
‘A Baron. But it was just a name thing he inherited.’
‘But he was rich though?’
‘I suppose so. I need to contact some solicitor guy in London. Said he was handling my old man’s stuff, and that he might want me to go back to London or something.’
‘So will ya’?’
‘I’m really not sure what to do yet. Maybe he wants to tell me about a nice juicy inheritance. Then I could just keep surfing the world.’
‘Lucky bastard.’
*****
Halbert Hoop, better known as Hal to his friends, was a lost member of the British peerage. His father, Baron Spencer Hoop, who’d unfortunately come to his demise a few months earlier when he fell from his polo pony and was struck in the right temple by the hoof of his own pony, and simultaneously by the mallet of an opponent who miraculously scored the winning goal with a fortunate ricochet off poor Spencer Hoop’s dying left cheek bone, had disowned his son many moons before his death. His son Halbert had disappointed him greatly by firstly being expelled from Eton for reasons that included beer drinking, habitual smoking, truancy, abuse of fireworks in the school chapel and for causing wilful damage to a number of tutors’ private property. This involved the addition of sugar to the petrol tanks of some tutors’ cars, while others were fitted with potatoes in the exhaust pipe. Both means produced extensive damage to the inner workings of the vehicles in question. His second misdemeanour was associating himself with a group of London punks who regularly arrived at Hoop Manor and proceeded to swear an awful lot and spray graffiti all over the hallowed walls. The final straw came when Halbert insisted on the West Wing of Hoop Manor being converted into a squat for homeless Rastafarians.
Halbert wasn’t a bad young lad at all. He just liked a little fun but got a bit boisterous at times. Probably something to do with his jovial nature, large frame, clumsy nature and a passion for rugby, rugby songs and beer. In fact, he didn’t particularly like the punks, Rastafarians or his other ‘edge of society’ acquaintances. It was just that they did such a great job of annoying his father. Although born into the peerage, Halbert hated the restrictive nature of his upbringing and in particular the snooty class system that he was a part of. Halbert just wanted to be Hal. It was probably the Bert part of his name that he disliked his father the most for giving him.
However and finally, as Halbert had reached the age of eighteen, Spencer Hoop decided that he could take no more of his son’s behaviour and propensity to accidentally break things, and arranged for his son to be formally disowned by the Hoop family. His mother, Baroness Hilda Hoop, was extremely disappointed by her husband’s decision as she was rather hoping that young Halbert would grow out of his rebellious ways, and settle down to study law, and then go on to become a QC MP like many of her luncheon friends’ sons had become. Her only other child, Halbert’s younger sister Matilda, was now her only hope. But she knew that a woman could never acquire the QC MP title. She could only hope she learned to do needlework and marry well.
Halbert was therefore invited to leave Hoop Manor, but would be supported by an allowance until his twenty-fifth birthday. His father had presented him with the necessary papers, bank account details and a one-way ticket to Sydney, as he shook his son’s hand for the last time and then promptly closed the door before Halbert had time to get into the taxi that was waiting for him. A few tears escaped from Hilda’s left eye as her son disappeared through the door to be banished forever. Matilda took it as her cue to ask her mother when she could move in to Hal’s room because it was bigger and had an Internet connection. Spencer Hoop just mumbled something about hoping his son was swallowed by a shark. It seemed he wanted his son to obediently disappear from existence.
Hal looked out from the taxi as it headed towards the long driveway to the road. He smiled at the remnants of graffiti that were still just visible on the walls of the manor. He also satisfied himself by making a rather nasty gesture with the middle finger of his right hand towards his now ex-family home.
‘Are you a Man’ United supporter then?’ the taxi drive asked with a smirk.
‘No way. Arsenal.’
‘So where to?’
‘Selfridges in Oxford Street. I wanna buy some Billabong t-shirts and board shorts!’
‘Going swimming?’
‘Yep. Going to Australia.’
‘Ah. My niece lives in Brisbane. Maybe you could look ‘er up sometime.’
‘I’m going to Sydney.’
‘Well, it can’t be far. I’ll give you her address.’
‘Ok,’ Hal agreed to keep his taxi driver happy.’
‘Her name’s Narelle, about your age, maybe a bit older. Her dad’s a policeman I think. She’s my wife’s sister’s kid so only met once when she was about five.’
‘Nice name.’
Hal gripped his door handle just a little bit tighter as the taxi driver started to write out Narelle’s address while steering the taxi with his knees. The sound of the right wing mirror skimming the hedge by the side of the narrow country lane didn’t seem to affect the driver’s concentration as he tried to remember how to spell Narelle’s surname, but it did cause Hal to nervously sneeze. An unfortunate affliction he had suffered since he was a child. Although a number of doctors were consulted, no remedy was found unfortunately. However one diagnosed an allergy to dust, while two others believed it to be a type of nervous tic brought on by stress or insecurity.
‘Berkowski,’ he said slowly. ‘Just can’t remember if it’s B E R or B I R. Maybe B U R. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find a phone book when you get there.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Hal replied as the driver swivelled in his seat and passed a piece of paper with Narelle’s address. The left wing mirror now skimming the hedge on the other side of the lane now. Hal’s grip on his door handle firmed a little more at the sight of a delivery van approaching, and wondering if the swivelled taxi driver had noticed the oncoming of impending doom. As the driver turned his body back towards a face forward driving position, Hal thought it a prudent idea to close his eyes. He did, then sneezed again. When he opened them a few seconds later, the road ahead was clear.
‘Where’d the van go?’ he asked.
“What van?’ the driver replied.
Finally arriving in Oxford Street, the driver asked Hal if he would like him to wait. Hal thanked the driver politely for the offer, but said he planned
to be shopping for some hours. He was just very happy still to be alive, after having endured the taxi driver from hell for over an hour. As he paid the driver, he tried to will his hands to stop shaking. He was partially successful, but after he had alighted the taxi, and it pulled away into the traffic, he had a relapse. His right hand shaking so much, it dropped his small suitcase to the ground. He tried then with his left hand, which had a little more success. He cursed that it was still too early for the pubs to be open. A drink would’ve been just what he needed. After a couple of deep breaths, he instead readied himself for some beachwear shopping. By the time he finished his shopping, he hoped that the pubs would be open.
With his small suitcase in one hand, three Selfridges bags in the other, and a half smoked cigarette hanging from the left hand corner of his mouth, Hal waited at the entrance of the Slug and Lettuce Pub. The fifteen minutes he waited seemed like an eternity to his arms, but finally he got to quench his thirst, then sip slowly and consider his future while he looked at his refection in the mirrored glass shelves behind the bar. He recalled how his father had often called him the ‘Green Eyed Devil’, which was a quote from a James Clavell novel about a character named Dirk Struan. He knew his father had meant it in a derogatory way, but Hal imagined how his appearance resembled Struan. Red hair, green eyes and a sharp nose. His hair probably much longer and curlier than Struan would’ve had, but he could imagine himself as a buccaneer. He then wondered if Dirk Struan had played rugby, what position would he’ve played? Probably number eight like Hal. You needed to be tall, solid, strong and athletic to play at number eight. Hal looked again at his reflection, and recalled how Dirk Struan in the book Tai-Pan had set sail for the Far East. It was Hal’s turn now. His only real concern was whether his fair skin would tan or burn on the sun drenched beaches of Australia.
‘Another one Laddy?’
‘Yes please,’ Hal replied as he accidentally knocked over his empty glass as he sneezed.
The Adventures of HAL: The Second Hilarious Glothic Tale (The Glothic Tales Book 2) Page 3