A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1) (9 page)

At last, the old scholar speaks.

“It is as I feared, my child.”

“The text your family has guarded for so long...we had always assumed it to be a translation into Arabic, or perhaps, at worst, Sumerian. If it were, things would be less dire. With every subsequent translation, more and more of the original text was lost, you see, but this is no translation.”

“The document I now hold is the original Eye of the Forbidden Gate!”

The Eye of the Forbidden Gate!

That name! A frisson of atavistic fear runs through my body.

I have heard rumors of a text stored in a small, North American university, supposed to be the remnants of a medieval-era Arabic translation of a Sumerian grimoire, but its provenance has always been dubious. Yet when Mr. Bin-Jamin mentions the name, I feel a strong shock of recognition that this lies at the root of the evil currently besetting Northern Europe.

“Sir, the...
original
Eye of the Forbidden Gate ?” I ask, but secretly fear I know the answer.

He sighs. “The document stored in the American university is a pale copy, containing many errors which weaken its power: though, make no mistake, it is still quite dangerous. Indeed, the Enemy has created quite enough horror with another such copy. This document is the original.”

“Is not the Eye of the Forbidden Gate designed to summon some terrible demon to feed on mankind?”

“Not precisely. This document is designed to summon Something utterly Other, Something that does not belong to this universe.”

I feel my gorge rise. Surely...?

“And this particular document was written by no human hand.”

“They saw the end coming, you see. These abominations were from some place incomprehensible to us. They could not interact with our world fully. Metals and certain gases were useless to them, but they needed access to these materials for their dark industries. They could “possess” life forms, but the brains and nervous systems of our existing animals were too simple to serve as vehicles for their aims. Thus, they attempted to...meld...with and adapt tissues native to Earth. They used their black magics and their twisted sciences to create living creatures from the matter of this universe, but these mongrel creatures failed to serve as adequate vehicles for the monsters’ ambitions. The result led only to life forms that were little more than clockwork factory workers, quite capable of seemingly complex tasks, but with no more power to decide than a slime worm...yet they could remain, when their masters were banished by another alien race, one from our own universe.”

“A guardian race?”

The elderly scholar shakes his head in negation. “They were guardians only in the sense that a man might avoid stepping upon an ant. Although they were beneficent enough to our world, it was only to serve their own goals and to defeat their own enemy.”

His tone bids me interrupt no more.

“Working in secret during the last months before their defeat, the abominable masters used their misshapen servants to write down a means by which they could be summoned from their entrapment. They knew a time would come when the incongruity between our universes would lessen to the degree that they could come through the portal in their original might.”

“For millions of years, these twisted servants preserved this knowledge.  When our species emerged, the monstrous shepherds watched quietly, as their masters had created them to do. As humanity rose from the savannas to the ziggurats, the dark scribes prepared the alien knowledge in a form our minds could understand. By the time of our first civilizations, many men had become all too ready to worship at the altar of any evil if it would slake their thirst for power. It was a simple matter for the servants to pass this information to credulous and evil humans, though few human minds could fathom this utterly alien language; thus, the translations began. The Sumerian name became attached to it, but only because its true name cannot be spoken. Acolytes began work and dark rituals were enacted. And now, the time approaches out of the unfathomable past such that the congruency of our universes grows close enough for their return.”

“The Eye of the Forbidden Gate cannot be destroyed by humans; thus, wise men have taken the last scroll written in the hands of their servants to keep evil men from summoning these abominations. You are the latest in the long line of scroll protectors, as I am the latest of its loremasters. It is a sacred trust, and one upon which everything that exists...depends.  That is why we cannot fail. We cannot let this document fall into the hands of the enemy. If we fail, the Portal Dweller will open our world to them so that they can return to conquer this universe utterly.”

I am not a woman accustomed to vapors, but I feel the room moving far away, and the distressed voice of Mr. Temperance calling for me. He steadies me and we take our leave of Mr. Bin-Jamin.

I hear Mr. Bin-Jamin give Mr. Temperance some last instructions, but their words come as from the bottom of a well.

As we leave the apartment, I am still not quite myself. I had suspected that these dark forces were after me, and I had feared incipient megalomaniac tendencies. Now I know that it is true, and what's more, they are after me, because I hold this key... and because, somehow, I
am
a key. Worse, I now know, beyond any doubt, that my father betrayed a millenia-old trust to use the filthy document in some way to complete his design. The sigils in Father’s laboratory, once incomprehensible to me, I recognize all too clearly now. They came from the inhuman language in the Eye of the Forbidden Gate! I am shaken to my core.

Leaving the apartment building, I falter on a broken step and Mr. Temperance must steady me once again.

Doktor Himmel’s voice calls:

“Mind your step, mein Fraulein, vee vouldn’t vant anyzhing bad to happen to you.”

Ichabod

Black smoke pours from her double stacks. Gleaming copper, brilliant brass, and lovingly varnished wood delight the viewer. Deep, rich, maroon upholstery, no doubt smelling of Corinthian leather, comfortably caresses the operator’s backside as he mans the controls. The wheels are a composite. A wire-spoked chromium-treated rim is surrounded by a new invention called the ‘tyre’. Constructed from an amazing, tropical, organic substance, known as ‘rubber,’ these ‘tyres’ are inflated as balloons, giving the craft remarkable stability. Her steam is up, giving promise of great energy on store. She is a wondrously appointed mechanical carriage! I have seen quite a few examples of commercial and privately maintained vehicles, but this carriage is a true phaeton! A land torpedo, she is built for speed! I am familiar with the abundance of many new steam-driven horseless carriages, and I had heard of such marvels here in metropolitan Europe. So sleek and dynamic, this ostentatious creation is a gorgeous sight to behold!

Unfortunately, the sight of this wonderful steam-speedster is marred by the insouciant pose of its owner, lounging against it. Herr Doktor Himmel has somehow followed us. He grins at us evilly.

“Guten Abend, Fraulein Plumtartt.”

Miss Plumtartt and I are plumb struck by the unexpected sight of the dastardly Doktor.

“You like the Steamer? Beautiful, eez she not? Horseless, as you can see.  I have found in recent years, zaht my presence makes zee horses nervous. I am sure I do not know why.”

We are transfixed. I snap my mouth shut as I realize it is hanging open.

“The little American with the big boots. You have struck a superior. A superior being of a superior race. You are in possession of that which will fulfill my destiny. I shall have untold power over this world, and I shall eat the likes of you for mein lunch.”

“And my Dear Fraulein Plumtartt. All the portents indicate you as the one who could possibly be a threat to our plans. I assume that you are still in possession of your maidenhood, ja? It is the delightful little chore of relieving you of that burden that will seal my fate to rule this plane!”

He chuckles. He laughs. He bubbles up with maniacal laughter.

Miss Plumtartt gives a frightened start. At the same time, I hear horses down the street whinny their displeasure.

Knowing what this usually portends, I quickly pull the ‘Green Beauties’ into place and spin up the generator.

Miss Plumtartt looks up with a start. Gasping, she falls back a step.

I turn to where she is looking and see two fluttery, batlike creatures: batlike, but more insecty. I want to feel pity for the unfortunate beasts, but they appear so happy to be evil. Awkwardly flying to us over the rooftops, the two iridescent green scarabs circle above us. The gopher sized beetles are saddled with a few extra legs, and sets of mandible pincers.

The beastly bugs click their many prongs in excited anticipation and fall to the sidewalk with legs a-scurry.

Instinctively I draw my pistol, squeezing off a .45 calibre shot into each one as they fall to the ground before I remember the proven ineffectiveness of the lead bullets.

The big insects, moving with blinding speed, are immediately upon us.

No, the arthropodal horrors are making straight for Miss Plumtartt.

I run forward and kick the first one into the stone lion guarding the entry to the apartments. I have to twist and then fall flat out, to barely, and painfully catch the other by its serrated leg. The emerald beetle is just a hair’s breadth from snapping a chunk out of Miss Plumtartt’s leg.

I pull back on the determinedly murderous Palmetto bug as the slavering mandibles continue to snap, just short of their target. I use its surprisingly heavy weight to pull myself up, while concurrently spinning, somewhat like a gyroscope’s self-balancing inertia and momentum. This centrifugal force allows me to fling the creepy-crawler back at its companion, just as it is regains its senses from impact with the lion. I endeavor to push my advantage by running up, and kicking one of ’em as hard as I can right in the middle of his ugly face.

“Shoot!”

Now my boot is stuck on his dang mandibles!

I yank out the green knife and stab at one of the fiendish cockroaches, while trying to shake the other off my boot. The ever-lovely Miss Plumtartt valiantly, if ineffectively, gives the one on my boot a severe thrashing with her parasol.

This causes that devilish Deutschman to laugh even more uproariously.

My blood’s a’ boiling now, and no doubt about it.

I am caught up fighting these persistent pests, but I get a flashing impression from out of my peripheral vision. The Doktor’s cane shoots out and hits Miss Plumtartt behind the ear. I turn as she goes down. Miss Plumtartt has been struck and knocked into unconsciousness by the Doktor! Herr Himmel is several feet out of reach even with the cane: how did he strike her, I wonder? I am sure he has not moved. I kick the mean little monster on my boot against the steps and search for a soft spot to stick the other. There is another flash of movement in my peripheral vision. The Doktor is now holding the unconscious Miss Plumtartt in his arms! He still has not moved! How did he do that?

“Aufweidersehn, you little American bug,” he chortles. “Zee girl ist mein!”

“Hahahahahahaha!”

He places Miss Plumtartt’s innocent and defenseless, unconscious body in his slick, and speedy steamer.

“Mwuhahahahahahaha...”

Doktor Himmel and his victim speed away in the steamer car, the villainous chauffeur laughing all the way.

“Ahahahahahahaha...”

This is intolerable!

In exasperation I try to reason with the ugly fellow still clinging to the end of my boot.

“Make up your mind! Either chew your way in, or let go and get off my dang foot!”

Fighting giant, beetle, cockroach monsters from another dimension is bad enough, but I feel pretty silly with a giant bug yanking my foot out from under me. The other is quick and vicious. I want to stomp him, but I can’t as long as I've got the other at the end of my opposite appendage, disrupting my equilibrium. I try to get a fix on the monster trying to bite me, while the critter trying to get away from me keeps pulling my leg.

“This ain’t gonna work.”

Tinkerers build, but when we are not building, we dismantle. I believe this is what is called for in this situation.

I tango my toe-bound partner to the sidewalk. Keeping the one on my boot between me and my harasser, I locate a spot behind boot boy’s head and shove in my emerald knife. Quickly, but with great effort, I pop the body from the head, granting myself balance and maneuverability.

The other is too big to squash with my boots in the conventional manner. I do manage to stomp down and pin one of its legs, though. I use my free hand to grab one of the mandible pincers trying to pinch me. As I dismantle the monstrous insect, I try not to notice that the thick, horrid bug goo within reminds me of Key Lime Custard. That will no longer be one of my favorites, I suspect. As quick as his head pops loose I am in pursuit of that German laughin’ hyena, and my Miss Plumtartt.

You’d think my heavy old mud pounders had wings on ’em the way I fly down Rue Cruelebarbe. When I clatter out into the expansive Boulevard des Gobelin, the horses have a bad reaction to the beetle head, still stuck on the front of my right boot. Apparently it is now visible to the naked eye.

I pull the ‘Beauties’ out of the way.

These Parisian boulevards are big; nevertheless, they are still crowded, even with the storm starting to hit. I look quickly left and right.

There! The path of the speedy steamer is easy to spot. Horses are giving it a wide berth.

I run for all I’m worth but they gain distance. The steamer is a sleek, and built for speed. Passing all horse drawn transportation, it looks to be the fastest conveyance on the Boulevard.

I gotta commandeer a vehicle to maintain my chase ’cause I ain’t havin’ Herr Himmel to kidnap Miss Plumtartt.

Fancy carriages and Hansom cabs ain’t gonna cut it. There are a few private, mechanical carriages, but ain't none of ‘em in the same class as the Doktor’s beautiful craft.

Aw, heck, now it’s starting to rain!

I run down the street; the pouring rain mocks me as I watch Herr Himmel get away.

I can’t give up! The steamer is getting further and further away.

The mounting wind pushes me along. A constant, rolling thunder, accompanied by approaching lightning promises a massive storm.

I need fast transportation right now! Besides those already mentioned, the only other choices of transportation are commercial: trolleys, wagons, and a lumbering steam-powered coal wain.

Wait a second...

It was so big, I almost didn’t see it.

Dominating the center of the Boulevard is a colossal, tandem trailered, steam powered coal wain. It steadily rolls along, but with drive wheels taller than the size of a grown man, it has possibilities.

Catching the rear gate, I pull myself up onto the back of the gargantuan coal bin. Climbing the twenty feet to the top, I scramble in, dash the forty feet forward and jump across to the next wagon. I barely am able to catch the other side and pull myself up and in. Then it’s across, and down, into the land locomotive’s own smaller coal bin. I jump down onto the engineer’s platform. I explain the situation to the startled engineer in English, and he angrily rattles away back at me in French, with equal incomprehension. Pulling my pistol, I point first to him, the coal, and then the furnace. I repeat the procedure more emphatically, and he reluctantly starts to shovel coal into his locomotive’s furnace.

I climb back over the tractor’s feeder car and uncouple the coal bins. Many tons of coal and trailer are unburdened from the trackless train. The steamer does not exactly lurch forward, but it does noticeably pick up speed.

When I return, the engineer’s platform is really warm. I indicate that I require more coal in the already glowing furnace. The French engineer refuses, pointing at the red lined monitoring gauges.

“I don’t read French.”

The engineer is very angry and emotional. He begs me most tearfully to spare his beautiful machine, something a tinkerer like me can comprehend in any language. Normally I would be in agreement with the fellow, but the needs of a fair maiden in distress tips the balance against the machine this day.

I point my pistol. He blubbers a bit as he continues to plead. I cock the Colt. He is very disapproving as he shovels more coal into the furnace that is now turning from orange to white with heat. A gauge pops off. The glass of another engine indicator gauge cracks. The French engineer throws his shovel off the platform, and bares his chest for the bullet. I respect this man’s love for his machine. This is his ‘Lady’ and I am not treating her with the respect she deserves. I indicate for him to climb into the coal feeder. The tractor, which has been steadily increasing in speed, gets a little faster as I uncouple the feeder car.

With a natural knack for things mechanical, I am able to quickly work out the controls of this leviathan. By the opening of certain valves, and then the closing of others, I am able to maximize the full power of the machine.

I lean out and look ahead for the Doktor’s carriage. I am gaining on him.

The tearing rain hits broadside as the full force of the pent-up storm finally bursts against us. The wind, rain, and lightning that have chased Miss Plumtartt and me these past two days at last has us at its mercy.

Good grief, what a racket! The great engine of my commandeering is being pushed way past its tolerances. This brute was never intended to achieve the speeds that I exhort from it. The monster is so clattery that it barely touches the ground except in hops, skids, and skips. The tractor was built to be stabilized by its trailing cars. Without even her coal bin in tow, she has difficulty remaining vertical. The gigantic steel wheels chew up the stone thoroughfare. Sparks and gravel spew behind as smoke and steam billow to Heaven.

An Alabama Fury is driven inexorably forward.

I am an unstoppable juggernaut.

Another forty feet and I’ve got him, who has made away with her!

“Dang it!”

Herr Himmel has turned to see what is approaching him in so dread a manner and realizes his position! He makes to gain speed and thus escape!

“Yikes!”

The glass dials of the gauges are starting to pop. The needles in the gauges are actually bent from being driven so far past the red line. A valve shoots by my ear! Rivets are popping. Scalding steam forces me from the controls.

The German’s smaller steamer dodges obstacles on the wide Parisian street. My runaway locomotive runs over or through any obstruction. Carts and wagons explode as the rambling wreck crashes down the boulevard.

As the Doktor gains speed, the borrowed behemoth is shaking itself apart.

Herr Himmel will escape with Miss Plumtartt! I am close enough now to see that she has regained consciousness and is giving the Doktor what for!

“Atta girl, Miss Plumtartt. I don’t know how much damage you’re gonna do with that little ol’ parasol, but I admire your gumption!”