A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (17 page)

“Indubitably, sir. I am certain had you not been wearing your canvas leggings, you might not withdraw your boot with your leg as the suction would very likely prove to be insurmountable. I have already lost a brace of shoes, singles to a pair, and disparage your suffering a similar, though singular pedaling fate.”

“I’m a cautious fellow, Ma’am.”

“Indeed, Mr. Temperance, I would go so far to say that a man that wears both belt
and
suspenders is one who does not trust to the whims of fortune.”

“I see a couple of boulders sticking up from the mire that look pretty inviting, Ma’am. Let’s sit down for a second so I can clean my boot.”

“Of course. Ah, thank you, your steadying hand to assist me as I sit upon this boulder is much appreciated, sir.”

“Yes, Ma’am. You sit tight right there, and I’ll sit over here and scrape some of the mud off with this little stick.”

“That gift for our friend was a surprise to me, Mr. Temperance. I did not know that you had built such a device.”

“The idea came to me last night during dinner.”

“Are you planning to build anything else?”

“Dang, Miss Plumtartt, we must be on the same conceptual wavelength. As a matter of fact, that Mrs. WinterBottom put me onta something. Remember back in London at the Museum when I attempted to discharge the Ecto-Powered pistol? I think her active elements have gone flat. This Colt .45 is a fine and formidable weapon, but I do like to use instruments of my own design and construction when I can. If this Mrs. WinterBottom turns out to be on the up and up and the real McCoy as far as a séance goes, I wonder if I could construct a device to collect the raw ectoplasm that might manifest? I could then refine the material and thus rejuvenate the munitions of my Pee-Gee, Double-Dee.”

“An admirable plan, sir. Let us hurry back to the Manor so that you can build your ectoplasm gathering device.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Ghhhuuuhhhh...”

“Did you say something Ma’am?”

“Not I, Mr. Temperance.”

“Ghhhuuuhhhhh...”

“I hear a strange and lonesome sound, Miss Plumtartt. It sounds as if it is coming from somewhere very close by.”

“Ghuuuhh-ette auffghe meh yeh shtooo-peeedde ouohn-r-r-r-reee-peen-tint bar-r-r-r-r-stardhe!”

I look down to see the boulder I am sitting on looking back at me. It looks vaguely familiar. Like an angry dandelion, the fierce face is lined with horizontal, light-coloured hair and beard. A clean shaved upper lip exposes bared teeth.

“I’m sorry sir! I thought you were a rock!”

“That man looks familiar, Mr. Temperance. I believe this is our shepherd, Jebediah BarbarraHaughnne’s, brother...”

“Yabadabadubadiah!”

“Then I must be sitting on...”

“Skoobidubidubadiah!”

“The mystery spirit of animating life has been vanquished from the shaggy companion.”

“Yabadabadubadiah BarbarraHaughnne is trying to speak, Ma’am, but the wounds that hasten the end of this man’s mortal existence take their fatal toll.”

“Bheh-wheirre the Ghahnghje o’ Hah-whooonhes!”

“With that last intonement, the grim old Quacker reaches his expiration date.”

“Did you catch that last statement, Ma’am?”

“‘Beware the Gang of Ones’, Mr. Temperance.”

“Isn’t that the first part of the message that our friend was able to decipher from the bushes by means of cutting hedge technology?”

“Indeed, sir. How very cryptic. I wonder to what it refers?”

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

“Do you hear something, Miss Plumtartt?”

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

“I believe I do, Mr. Temperance.”

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

“Sounds like a steam engine, Ma’am.”

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

“It sounds like several steam engines, sir.”

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

We peer in all directions but the fog has a distorting effect on the noise. It is difficult to know from what direction the sound comes. The wind blows the sound of the sputtering steam engines as much as it does the leaves.

Miss Plumtartt and I strain our ears to try to get a heading from which the incongruous sound emanates. Another unusual sound reaches out to us through the veiling mists.

Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz! Skee! Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz!

The two sounds seem to be connected and working in conjunction. I think they are growing louder and more distinct, as if they are drawing closer.

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup
Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz! Skee! Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz!

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz! Skee! Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz!

In a moment of unusual atmospheric activity, there is a bubble of clear air across the moor. Over the rolling landscape at a distance of about two hundred yards, I see something that I cannot make sense of. For a moment it gives me a bit of a start, for my mind cannot comprehend and therefore absorb the evidence that my eyes are sending to my neural disseminators.

I see a giant doll’s eye moving along the ridge. It is a perfect circle, containing a misshapen triangle of pupil at its bottom. It reminds me of a jiggly eye one sees affixed to a child’s stuffed animal.

It stops. I get a terrible sensation that it is looking at me. Its circle collapses from the sides until all that remains is a capital ‘I’, or vertical hyphen.

I see another one, but as it is not outlined on a ridgeline, I do not get as clear of a view. I can now make out wisps of black coal smoke and white steam. I can hear excited voices ‘whooping’ from one to another as more of the unusual sights come into our field of vision. I believe the first object made visual contact with us simultaneously with our observation of it and has passed on our position to its brethren.

“Mr. Temperance, I feel as if it would be prudent to withdraw.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

We withdraw as fast as our feet can fly but the strange creatures quickly gain on us.

The leading monster is nearly upon us.

“Keep running! Don’t stop, Miss Plumtartt!”

I pull the Colt and turn to meet our attackers.

Even now I am just starting to gain the ability to make out the devil. It bounces wildly across the rocks in a mad ridicule of the harsh environment. Barely touching the ground before bounding into the air again, it moves with overwhelming and frightening speed. I try to get a fix upon the incomprehensible attacker, but the freakish speed and erratic path make aim impossible. I get a brief glimpse of an arm protruding from the side of the oncoming edge of the circle. The arm is in possession of a three foot staff. A cup is stuck on one end of the thick stick, flaring back over the hand that grips it. A couple of feet of staff extend backward beyond the hand.

I get the impression that a switch is engaged because something happens to the short staff. It suddenly grows, extending out from the cup, about twelve feet straight up into the air. I barely get to see it do this before th
e extendo-lance falls to a level position and nails me amidships.

The blow sends me spinning inside out. After a distant flight, I make a sticker bush landing. I know exactly where my pistol has landed as I hear a wet ‘ploop’ announcing the latest victim of the Great Sucking Death Mire.

“Yeep! Yeep! Yeep! Wah-Hoo! Yeah! Yeah! Yeep! Yeep!”

Two more of the monsters fly past, bounding madly in scattered directions after making momentary contact with the Earth. Their brief kisses of the planet grant them amazing propulsion, hurtling the unfathomable aberrations in a strangely grounded flight. They only seem to pay the most minimum of tribute to the Laws of Gravity. I am now able to get a brief, but good look at our foes. They ride within great single tyres, the strange black latex balloons spinning on a hub that conforms to its inner circumference. The banshee like pilots of these one-wheeled steam cycles ride in a stationary position upon their engines within the five and a half foot wheel spinning about them.

Whirr! Zzz! Zee! Whirrzz! Skee! Whirr! Zzz! Whirrzz!

bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup,bup

The sound of overwhelming approach impels me to look back. I get a momentary image of a small, blunt-barbed cannonball on a short length of chain. The steel sphere at the end of the lethal leash is held aloft by centrifugally generated orbit. A brief image of myself flits through my mind. In it, my head is replaced by a ripe watermelon that explodes under the decapitating desire of the steel orb at its tether’s treacherous trajectory’s termination. As I spin away from this attack I catch the swing of a cricket bat full in the bread basket by a hysterical, laughing unicycler.

The super cycled swing has batted me many feet to an ignominious landing.

This blow has sunk deeply into my solar plexus. All my wind has been forcefully expended and I gasp as a fish out of water. My mind reels from pain, panic and a lack of oxygen. I cannot draw air! I need to regain the ability to breathe for my mind to work. I need to reset my lungs. They need to be primed, as a pump does with water. I must fight the instinct of trying to pull air into my depleted lungs. Pinch my nose shut, hold my mouth tightly closed, and blow, without allowing any pressure to be released. This has the immediate effect of pushing my lungs back open. I can breathe!

The first three unicycles have gone on in their pursuit of Miss Plumtartt. I see her dodge the first as the cad intends to assault her with his lance. The next two hyenas are attempting to corral the harried girl like a couple of cowboys chasing cattle.

The last two in this gang of one wheel bykes stop their circular steeds by spinning their cycles in gyroscopic form. Having completed this uncanny maneuver, the result being a reversing of their direction thus facilitating a speedy return, the mayhemic motored cyclists mean to finish their murderous business with me.

My blood is up now. I gotta see to these boys and go to assist Miss Plumtartt, pronto.

This time I make a better show of myself as I dodge their next attack.

I gotta find a weapon! I’ve lost my pistol and that flimsy stick. There is nothing else upon the moor but fog, grass and muck. I can’t even get to a rock with out a shovel, and if I had a shovel, I wouldn’t need a rock!

“Yipe! Yipe! ‘ey. Eucalyptusti, ain’t that the squuht from deh myou-zeum?”

“Wot, really, Euripides?” Eucalyptusti simmers, steeped in thought, then roils with steamy anger. “Oi dinks it is! Oi owes dat wittle wankuh. Wet’s get ‘im!”

That brief conversation buys me just enough time to form and instigate a plan of action.

When I saw their compatriots as cowboys, I think it gave me an idea. I throw my coat to the turf and unbutton my suspenders. Miss Plumtartt teased me earlier about wearing both belt and suspenders, but my redundancy in precautionary measures has proven itself beneficial. I tie the two forward straps of the suspenders together to form a loop. I then securely wrap the single backside strap around my right wrist in preparation to take the terrible force I am about to put on it.

I accomplish this just in time to duck Eucalyptusti’s deadly cricket bat swing. I come up working my suspenders as a lasso in a strange counterpart to the whistling whirl of Euripides’ medieval, chained mace.

I carefully plot the timing of my move and cast my improvised snare. One end of my lariat trespasses upon the swirling spherical truncheon’s trajectory, trapping the two twirlers in a tight entanglement. I quickly turn and dig in my heels. The elastic limitations of my suspenders are pushed to their extreme tolerances before the inevitable snap-back yanks Euripides from his scooter and I from my feet as we perform a horizontal pinwheel across the moor.

We both land uncomfortably on rock and thorn. Euripides is wearing leather unibiker gear; nonetheless he comes up crying in unexpected pain and rage. I was a little more mentally prepared for the action. I knew the twirl and subsequent landing were coming and had already made up my mind to put the trivialities of bumps and punctures on the back burner. The mace’s handle is strapped to the lout’s wrist. I immediately utilize this bond between our wrists to yank myself to the cry-baby giving the dismounted cyclist a big boot of discouragement to shut him up. I unwrap the suspenders from my wrist and the handle from his. Untangling the suspenders from the chain, I take up the confiscated heavy mace.

Eucalyptusti brings his unicycle to a gyroscopic, spinning stop, with the wheel parallel to me. He tears the goggles from his black leather, ear-flapped, skull-bonnet and flings them angrily to the ground.

“Ee-yew nasty wittle git! Nobody attacks the European Eunion of Eunited Eunicyclists! Oi’ll muhduh-wait ee-yews!”

The only control mechanism of the machine that I am able to discern is a single throttle that is between Eucalyptusti’s legs. This he slams forward engaging the wheel. Holding the throttle lever for support, he leans over towards me. This has the effect of turning his cycle in my direction.