A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1) (10 page)

This poor tractor ain’t gonna go no faster, and that’s a solid fact. I gotta slow down that villainous baron.

Quickly tearing it in two, I wrap my hands in the Engineer’s discarded shirt and climb out to the front of the disintegrating tractor. With the material of the rags protecting me from the red hot train, I attempt to draw a bead on the steamer. This rickety ride does not make for good aim. This thing is gonna crash. If I don’t take my shot now, I won’t get another chance. I have to time my shot with the fraction of a second that the engine is in the air, and not being jolted by the pavement. I fire. I miss! A cloud of glass shards explodes as I have hit a safety lantern on the steamer, rather than the Doktor himself.

The Bavarian bully is outraged as he realizes he is under fire. I shoot again, hitting the steamer’s body. The pressure tank for her boiler is punctured, forcefully shooting scalding steam into Herr Himmel’s face. Gratefully, Miss Plumtartt is spared the heated release. The truculent Teuton screams in pain and rage as the steamer quickly loses speed from her pressure drop.

I, on the other hand, have quite lost control of my steed.

An angry hum brings my attention to the hub of the tremendous drive wheel behind me. It is smoking and whining in tortured defiance.

The wheel begins a drunken weave at unbelievable velocity. This disharmonic imbalance severely throttles the entire machine before the wheel releases its hold on the axle.

It is an unreal and sinking feeling to see one’s own wheel pass one by.

The unlucky locomotive Leviathan unhappily flings its parts in all directions as it slowly tilts to its unsupported ‘port’ side. With a terrific crash, we fall to the left side of the tractor, the axle angrily rending and carving an ugly gouge deeply into the pristine Parisian Boulevard des Saint Jacques. The plunge of unforgiving steel into the immaculate stone fills the wide street with its tortured objections. The wrecked locomotive’s whistle wails as if in mourning for her own sad death.

I leap off and hit the ground running. I manage to stay upright for several lengthy strides before succumbing to a series of uncountable tumbling spins. Somehow I come out of the tumble back on my feet and running at top speed. My errant wheel maintains its pursuit of the Doktor’s steamer. As the Doktor slows, and then stops, I see him grab the wrist of Miss Plumtartt, making to pull her after him. He is forced to release her and dive for his safety as the gigantic steel wheel from my locomotive crushes the steamer as flat as the Kansas prairie, making the once gorgeous mechanical carriage one with the street. Steam rises from the squooshed carriage. The sleek steamer is now as flat as a lake. Like a penny that’s been laid on the railroad track, and then run over by a train, she looks like a shiny steel puddle of water. Her tyres are forced akimbo, like a puppy that has lost its footing on a slippery floor. The villain and the heroine are now about fifteen feet apart, facing each other with the flattened steamer between them.

The howling wind and pounding rain will not slow me.

At a hundred feet, a sight that bends my concept of reality almost causes me to slow: almost.

From a distance that is too far for him to actually reach her, Herr Himmel reaches out to Miss Plumtartt. His arms stretch out in length. Further and further they extend, metamorphosizing into ghastly squidlike appendages. They have a squamous, boneless attribute. These articulate into a dozen tentacle arms that grasp Miss Plumtartt and lift her into the air with a crushing, viselike grip. The writhing, aquatic sucker-pod covered octopus legs smother Miss Plumtartt from head to toe.

A terrific red flash explodes with Miss Plumtartt at its center. The sphere of crimson energy bursts with a concussive scarlet bubble that knocks me back on my rear. Herr Himmel has been blasted back about twenty feet, and Miss Plumtartt also. I’m glad she was wearing her bustle!

While the concussion knocks me down, I barely touch the ground, as I am back on my feet immediately and running at top speed. I am intent on getting Miss Plumtartt to safety. Before either of them can recover, I have already snatched up Miss Plumtartt, and I’m making tracks in the opposite direction.

“Thank you, Mr. Temperance, I believe that I can now manage to run under my own initiative, sir.”

I hang onto one of her delicate hands in an effort to increase her speed. The buffeting wind and rain blows us along with the same indifference as the newspapers around us.

There is a lot of Deutsch cursing, behind us.

“Schweinehund Amerikaner! Anmaßende Schlampe!”

I hope that’s not a language Miss Plumtartt is familiar with. I am sure Herr Himmel is not using polite words.

“Oh, oh my, Mr. Temperance.”

“Pardon me, Miss Plumtartt, but you just shuddered as if gravely stricken. I know you've shown a propensity for awareness of unnatural occurrences, so I'm figuring by the look of your terrified countenance, something enormously horrible has been triggered. Even I can get a sense that something basely evil has been released.”

“Look there, Mr. Temperance!”

“I don’t see nothing.”

“Use your goggles, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The spectro-enhanced vision reveals a huge plume of phosphorescent, green smoke pouring up from out of a narrow, tunnel entrance behind Doktor Himmel. A steady show of lightning illuminates the dastardly Prussian's outrageous features, accompanied by that dang maniacal laughter again.

“No!” cries Miss Plumtartt, “not the Catacombs!”

“Oh, Mr. Temperance! I somehow know that this monstrous Herr Himmel has drawn upon the uncounted dead of Paris’ ancient subterranean mausoleum for his horrible army. What can we do?”

“I’m doin’ all I can, Ma’am.”

Under the ‘Beauties’ glow, the roiling miasma churning up out of Paris’ catacombs forms into scores of hideous monsters of a combined, marine and insect design.

Wind, rain, lightning and monsters chase us North, towards Rue d’Enfer. More green puffs of smoke form and burst in that direction also. The overwhelming clacking of a fifty bug monster’s exterior skeleton feet clicking on the pavement closes upon us.

There are skinny ones, like praying mantis, or walking sticks. Others seem like a bottom of the ocean style of underwater insect. These are usually of a bloated consistency. They all seem to have the same characteristic of possessing too many legs, eyes, and teeth.

I desperately try to help Miss Plumtartt along, but the futility of our efforts is becoming all too apparent. The overwhelming cacophony of insectile chitterings is maddening to my senses. Desperately slashing with the green knife, I defend this beautiful girl from the endless horrors in a maddened attempt to save ourselves. We dash northwards, vainly trying to avoid more monsters, but alas, we are completely surrounded. We have been encircled in an unthinkable ring of horror.

Scores of giant, wrongful insects are forming and then making for us. I P.E.R.K. the first one to catch us in his cephalopodal eye. I slash a leg from another one as we dodge and scramble for safety. I give a few others a swift and meaningful kick.

Miss Plumtartt directs a red-hued energy blast at an aquatic abomination. It is blasted to dangnation.

Miss Plumtartt collapses in an exhausted state, having expelled her defensive humours in that brief, crimson flash of defense. I slash with the green knife and kick with my boots, but the swarms shall soon overtake me to ravage Miss Plumtartt’s defenseless form.

Legions of demon spawn make our position untenable.

- - -

The angriest storm to hit the Continent in many years hammers Paris with high voltage punches of destruction.

The light show is so steady, it is almost a blue-tinged daylight.

I fight to the bitter end, as mauling mandibles close upon us with murderous intent.

{{{BO
O
O
O
OM!!!}}}

A brilliant lightning strike coupled with a terrific explosion bursts in the air behind us. A dissipating green cloud marking the point of ignition. The attacking hordes pause in confusion.

BAH-BAH-BUH-
BO
O
OM!!!

Another lightning strike ends with an explosive green cloud violently blooming on a rooftop!

Now there are more and more explosions! My ears ring and I cannot hear myself scream from the onslaught! The lightning storm has turned the fury of Mother Nature herself against our enemies. With uncanny speed, and unerring accuracy, lightning strikes find every disgusting monster in Paris. Each hideous creature explodes with unbelievable energy! I am pounded by the proximity of myself to the exploding monsters. I do what I can to defend Miss Plumtartt from the concussive blasts. The light overpowers my ‘Green Beauties’ so I hastily remove them. I no longer need the devices to see my enemies. Each bolt of lightning reveals its terrible target. This strike of meteorological might shows our foes in stark silhouette. Fiends of many legs, eyes and tentacles enjoy a fraction of a second’s visibility before suffering an explosive demise. A hundred of these horrors provide a pop-up picture show across the boulevards. Monsters that are caught out upon the tops of buildings smash great holes in roofs when slain in the electric combustion. The overpowering cacophony continues unabated for what seems a small eternity. Eventually, it tapers off into distant rumbles, as the high voltage cleansing drifts out across the city, and then the French countryside.

“Miss Plumtartt!”

My girl is pale, and seems at death’s door.

“Miss Plumtartt!”

She is lifeless and not responsive. Those red energy spheres she discharged have drained all the life from her delicate body.

“Miss Plumtartt! You gotta be okay!”

All life would seem to have left my lovely charge.

Wait a minute, I recall another manner of awakening a slumbering, beautiful girl, who languishes from evil's curse.

I tenderly raise her head and shoulders.

Taking her chin, I turn her head.

I kiss my princess.

- - -

I hold the tender kiss for a few, short, beautiful moments...

and then... a flicker?

“Miss Plumtartt?”

A flutter?

“Miss Plumtartt!”

Her eyes are definitely fluttering now.

“Per..! ... That is, I mean, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am!”

She slowly comes to her senses, as if waking up from an afternoon nap. Calmly taking in her situation she smiles.

“We really do seem to be getting on, Mr. Temperance.”

I have the impression that she is teasing me, a bit.

“Um, yes, Ma’am. Here you go, let me help you up.”

“Come on, Ma’am, we can take shelter from the storm in the alcove of this church.”

The storm has left us completely soaked. Miss Plumtartt and I do what we can to wipe and shake ourselves dry, and then we start to laugh. Just a little at first, but then it grows and by golly, we really let it out in a burst of relief and wonder with great whoops of laughter. By the time we have settled back down, the storm’s front has passed through.

Surprisingly, the streets outside have resumed their normal activity, almost as if nothing had happened. These Parisians! Unflappable, they refuse to be impressed by anything! Then I remember that much of the activities concerning the monsters were largely invisible, up until the lightning storm, anyways. Many people could see flashes of the creatures before the storm hit, but everybody could see the monsters just for a fraction of a second before they exploded beneath the powerful lightning strikes. There are many people who are quite upset. Something very unusual has happened, and even these haughty French aristocratic folks know it.

“Mr. Temperance, I hear the calls of a search for ‘un fou Américain,’ in reference to the coal wain débâcle. Let us hurry and surreptitiously get a cab for the Da’ath Clubbe. I want to confer with Stanislas again after this intelligence we gained at Monsieur Bin-Jamin’s.”

“Yes, Ma'am, Miss Plumtartt Ma’am, but I reckon I better just wait in the coach while you go inside, though.”

I spend that time prying that ugly roach head off my boot. It did not disintegrate for some reason. I might keep it as a souvenir of my visit to France.

Miss Plumtartt soon returns with bad news. Where we had hoped that this climactic show of lightning and power would signal the end of our harrowing adventure, Monsieur de Guaita thinks not. Rather, he suggests that the facts  indicate instead that there are increasingly powerful forces moving against us. He believes we were extremely lucky with the arrival of the storm and its brutal power that was so strangely effective against our foes.

Miss Plumtartt says that Monsieur de Guaita is quite amused by my tendency to kick the brutes. He suggests a lesson in ‘Savate.’ This is a way of fighting without weapons that these French folk have developed. He says I oughta do this before leaving the city, but leave it we must, and as soon as possible, for there is no time to waste. Our task, though we have not quite got a handle on it as of yet, still lies ahead.

Persephone

“I was thinkin’ of maybe keeping it as a souvenir of our trip to Gay Paree, Miss Plumtartt.”

“Lovely,” I convey in a voice to indicate that it is anything but. “I would very much prefer that you find a place to store your trophy as I do not care for the way it looks at me.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Mr. Temperance then puts the over-mandibled roach head that he has devised to disengage from his ’mud pounders,’ into a large cloth valise.

Passing down a long hallway, we find the rooms of ‘Athletique de Rigor’, the clubbe suggested to me by de Guaita. I stop to speak with the gentleman of the offices, while Mr. Temperance is inexorably drawn straight through, and out into the open courtyard behind.

“Mademoiselle?” The gentleman is desperately glancing back and forth between me and my impatient friend. He wants to dart after Mr. Temperance, but French chivalry forbids him from any discourtesy. I ’push my advantage,’ as Mr. Temperance might say.

“This clubbe has been referred to me with the most glowing references. Monsieur St. Clair said how effective your training methods are; Count Baruzy spoke very highly of the depth of skill shown in this amazing form of honorable combat. Finally I come from Monsieur de Guaita directly.” This name snaps the man into supplication modus operandi. “Monsieur de Guaita wishes this man to be extended your every courtesy and assistance.”

“Let’s hurry after your friend and make sure he is staying out of trouble,” says the harried manager, “Some of the boys might be a little rough with him. Oui?”

When we catch up to Mr. Temperance, I see that he has begun practicing with the other students.

This school to which we have been directed is one that practices a gentlemanly French defense. It is a civilian, though martial based sporting exercise known as ‘Savate’, or, ‘old shoe.’ The primary focus of the exertions is directed to ‘hand to hand’ combat, or should I say, ‘foot to foot’! The strict laws of this country consider striking a man with a clenched fist to be assault with a deadly weapon. To get around this law, many Frenchmen have learned to fight with their feet! This talent has been honed to an art form within this community. Here, we have the best Savate students in Paris to help instruct my friend.

I look to the courtyard to see Mr. Temperance with a large group of young men. I can easily discern that these young French rowdies are not giving Mr. Temperance an easy time of things.

The manager, Monsieur Lebeaux, informs the aristocratic ruffians that Mr. Temperance is to be shown a few basics as a courtesy, before being sent on his way. Some of these Frenchmen look as if they are all too happy to apply a few of the basics to this intruder in their personal domain. These rowdier gentlemen give a definite aura of not wanting this foreigner included within the inner sanctum. I am suddenly very concerned for Mr. Temperance’s safety!

Mr. Temperance is shown the proper stances, and balance so as to be able to kick and block, utilizing one foot or the other.

Standing in a manner that places him sideways to his opponent, Mr. Temperance is shown how to use the leg and foot closest to his foe for some kicks, and the foot further away for other types of kicks. Some of the more subtle attributes are revealed, such as the fact that the foot upon the ground’s surface would seem to be as, if not more, important than the leg endeavoring to make contact with its foe. Mr. Temperance is shown how to get a ‘snap’ out of his ground foot that resonates through his taut body to be released in a devastating climax of energy on the unlucky target. Some kicking techniques even employ a spinning maneuver that develops remarkable torque for uncanny velocity to be unleashed on the unwary enemy. With knees drawn high, tremendously stout blows are practiced on the heavy bags of material hanging about the yard.

Some of the more eager participants are ready to move past basic instruction and begin some light, friendly sparring. I foresee one on one bouts not unlike English fisticuffs, though these foot fighting Frenchmen fancy feeticuffs.

To my dismay, I see that several of the more aggressive and adept students have begun buffeting Mr. Temperance with blows much harder than practice, however rigorous, usually entails. The kind and trusting nature of Mr. Temperance is taken advantage of by the roughhousing sophisticates. A small moue of disgust crosses my face. I tamp down an urge to go batter the brutes with my parasol in defense of my good hearted friend.

I look to Monsieur Lebeaux for interference, but then I notice that a strange phenomenon has occurred. At first, Mr. Temperance is like one of the heavy leather punching bags that are hung about the court. His naive gullibility makes him easy sport for what appears to be a gaggle of bullies. I fear that my presence has exacerbated these attacks, as prideful glances are interspersed with appraising looks cast my way. Men! If these ruffians think that this impresses me, they could not be more wrong. Yet before I can say anything, I see that Mr. Temperance is fast becoming more adept at the devious tactics, along with the dynamic technigues of this esoteric fighting art.

He no longer falls for their taunts and tricks as before. He seems to be able to come up with a trick or two of his own!

Before my eyes, I can see the intrepid and persistent young man developing the balance and coordination enjoyed by his fellows. Soon, it is apparent that the determined American has within himself, the grace, balance, and focus that the art of Savate requires. He turns the disadvantage of his smaller size to an advantage as he maneuvers around his larger opponents.

Before long, my fellow adventurer has begun to surpass a few of the less advanced students. I keep silent, wondering. Then, as time passes, I see that he has eliminated most of the lower and middle ranks; now he is matching blow for blow with two students the manager indicates (with some amazement) are among his most advanced pupils. My earlier musings seem confirmed. It is my belief that the
'
Revelatory Comet’s’
effect upon Mr. Temperance is giving him an edge in his training and performance.

I wonder if Mr. Temperance realizes how nonplussed his would-be tormentors are by his phenomenal speed of learning. In my estimation, he has learned several years’ worth of Savate techniques, skills, and - what is more - the muscle memory possessed by a very senior Savate student - in a few hours. Frankly, the other men seem a little unnerved by the ease with which he has acquired this new skill, but because of Mr, Temperance's modest demeanor, they do not feel threatened.

By the time we leave the gymnasium - several hours after we arrived - the other men have accepted Mr. Temperance as one of their own, and we leave with much greater confidence than we arrived. He is now ‘Athletique de Rigor, bon homme, Ichabod.’ Modest Mr. Temperance does not notice just how remarkable his quickly-gained prowess has been.

“Bon voyage, Ichabod, oui, oui!”

“Wee, wee, y’all.”

At Mr. Temperance’s behest, we stop for luncheon at a small street-side cafe.

“Miss Plumtartt? This might be a good opportunity to analyze our present circumstances and to get a handle on what we are mixed up in. May I make an attempt at roughly sketching out where we stand? Maybe then we can figure out what our next step ought to be.”

“Splendid! Hear, hear. Quite so. I agree Mr. Temperance. Let us try to untangle this unfathomable quandary in which we find ourselves entrenched.”

“Yes, Ma’am, thank you. Seems to me that your father, a man who felt the effect of the
‘Revelatory Comet',
may have set aside his duties as guardian of the 'Eye of the Forbidden Gate'. Instead he used the forbidden, occult craft to complete his experiments concerning the harnessing of the Sun’s power. Somehow, this use of unclean magic has cracked the barrier between our plane of existence and that of another, a place of horrible monsters. These creatures wish to conquer us and our universe. This ancient relic I carry is what your father used in his foul experiments. It was while conducting these arcane experiments that you were injured in a laboratory accident of some sort and, unbeknown to you, somehow changed. This has enhanced your natural abilities, allowing you to see and sense these inter-dimensional beings. It has even bestowed a power of protection upon you of some sort. Given the continued, mounting attacks against yourself, the working conclusion is that they desire to kill you, Miss Plumtartt. If we listen to the ugly portents that we heard Herr Himmel espousing, we can conclude that you, Miss Plumtartt, are destined to possibly stop these abominations from transgressing our world. This assumes that we are able to keep you safe from the tentacled likes of Herr Himmel. Further, the information we gathered from Monsieur Bin-Jamin indicates that if our goal is to prevent continued atrocities, we must undertake an arduous journey. Our destination to prevent the manifestation of these atrocities is in the most remote wastes on this planet. Beyond the impenetrable mountains of Afghanistan, and into the Himalayan Ranges of Tibet. Our adversaries possess the means to raise monstrous armies on a moment’s notice. Forces of dread intent are mounted against us in overwhelming odds. Have I got it about right, Miss Plumtartt?”

“Oh! I say! Well done Mr. Temperance, a succinct summation. I applaud your intellectual acuity!”

Since I am more familiar than he with Europe and Asia, I take my turn to set forth what I believe to be our best route. Realizing the necessity of haste, I speak quickly:

“I suggest that we start by heading south of the Alpine Range rather than west through Germany and across the lengthy Northern routes of the European Plain, to get to the Asian Steppes. My proposal is to make our ascensions by the Southern accesses. We can go by train to Montpellier. From there, we can take a boat across the Ligurian Sea to Genoa. Perhaps a dirigible across the Adriatic. From there, we will have to figure it out as we go. Perhaps we can sail down the Danube, skirting the Carpathian Mountains. We shall proceed by ship across the Black Sea, to the inland Azoz. This voyage will bear us all the way to Razoz in the Ottomans. We continue East, going North of the Caucuses mountains. We shall cross the Caspian Sea at Baku. At this juncture, I believe that we shall require the hiring of a caravan to cross the endless wastes of the vast, Great Karskum Desert. Pending our survival, the onus would be upon us to then break through the impenetrable fortress of Mountains that are the Hindu Kush. Following the completion of this challenge puts us onto the Tibetan Plateau. A scant, one thousand miles of desolate, uncrossable, terrain, and Bob’s your uncle. Of course, we shall be proceeding on the assumption and hope that we will not be harried by inter-dimensional abominations sorely bent on our destruction along the way.”

“Oh, good, I was scared you might have something difficult in mind, Ma’am; however, I think I may have a shortcut to get us a little jump on this expedition.”