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

With the lantern turned down low and shovel in hand I speed ahead as fast as I can yet at the same time trying to be stealthy in my approach. I can hear, if not see, my targeted objectives.

It takes me a moment to realize that I can no longer hear them. Perhaps they have seen the glow of my lantern and now lie in ambush. I set the lantern in a place of concealment and move ahead in darkness. The light of its red tinted safety glass was kind of creepy in itself, anyway.

As I move forward quietly my hearing becomes sharply acute. I feel that if anyone were here, I would hear him. I decide to return for the lantern as precious seconds are slipping away and my Miss Plumtartt is being stolen away into goodness knows what sort of terror.

I turn the red light of the lantern all the way up. This tunnel appears to be deserted. Somehow they have disappeared. My search grows more frantic.

Their footprints in the dirt stop in this one place. Hello, what’s this? These bricks in the wall do not match up with the others. They have no mortar. These bricks have been hastily replaced to hide a passage from the railroad tunnel. The hole is in the Eastern wall, headed back into the city.

It only takes a second to kick through the loose bricks and I am stepping through the hole, from one tunnel, legitimate, into another tunnel, nefarious. The dirt tube is only about three and a half feet tall, but it’s tall enough to stand in if one maintains an extreme crouch. Shuffling and skootching my feet as fast as I can, I hurry after the costumed, kidnapping thughis.

I now make more cautious use of the light, as I perceive a source of illumination ahead. I turn the light down low and hold it behind me as I approach the end of the line.

The tunnel stops and standing space is entered as the tunnel takes an abrupt ninety degree turn upwards. A hole is opened above. A short ladder brings me to a square, marble lined aperture. Even with Miss Plumtartt’s life on the line, it is hard to bring myself to put my head up through that hole. As a Scottish golpher takes a ball from its tee, I am fully expecting a scimitar’s swipe to take my head off as soon as I break the entrance plane. I hold my shovel handle before me and attempt to squeeze myself small enough to fit behind it. I rise. Greatly relieved to be alone, I place my shovel before me, then pull myself up and into the room.

I am in the center of a very large and unusual hall. In fact, it is circular. Many rows of desks expand from my central location. Then we come to the circular walls. The walls cannot be seen for the books. Hundreds of thousands of books surround me in a staggering collection of information. I am only vaguely aware of the ceiling. It must be up some ways beyond the circular balcony that somehow manages to stay suspended above my head. These walls are also swarming with weighty, shelf-devouring volumes. I may have to amend my original guesstimate at the number of books to be in the millions.

I must be in some kind of gigantic library. A distant peal of maniacal laughter hurries me on my rescue motivated trespass of this building’s integrity. My internal compass tells me that the passage I take from the room of books is to the North.

I only travel a few feet before I discover a body on the floor. I hurry to the person. I am at the same time disappointed and relieved that it is not Miss Plumtartt. The person I find myself lending assistance to is a night watchman.

“My goodness, sir, are you all right?”

“Oooooh,...”

“Did you see a gang of horrible villains come through here?”

“What sort of horrible villainous gangsters?”

“Well, they weren’t really gangsters. They were more like desert pirate Japanese bandits in make-up.”

“Oh, yeah. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Were they bearing with them a beautiful young lady? Preferably unharmed?”

“I don’t know... What was she wearing?”

“A big yellow dress and hat!”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? Yea-ah, I seen them scalawag rice-eating Blackfoot buccaneers all right, and the pretty girl in a yellow dress, all sleeps-a-bye, too. I was sitting right here on the floor taking a breather when they all ran by. Sure am glad they didn’t notice me. Ye’d best hop to it, if you plan to save the girl, boy.”

“Yessir.”

I scoot down that hallway and slide into the middle of an adjoining far greater cathedral like stretch. My slide ends in me backpedaling away from a great and tremendous lion. I look up in horror knowing that there is no escape. That is, until I notice the kitty is made of stone and is apparently quite old.

What sort of place is this unbelievable building? Am I awake or dreaming all this?

I am apt to choose the latter, for as I emerge from around a corner I find myself in the presence of a giant. He calmly views me with a look of bemused indifference. It takes me a moment to realize that I am looking at a giant Egyptian bust. It is such a strong and living presence in the room that I half expect it to sprout arms and reach out to prevent my entering into his sanctum.

I get it! I must be in the British Museum!

“Mmmwuh-hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

“Man, there ain’t nothing funny about that laughter rolling down this wide and lofty hallway.”

I take a firm grip on the shovel. I also have my firearm, the P.G.D.D. (Pronounced, Pee-Gee Double-Dee. Plasmo-Gasmic Discharge Device). The refined ectoplasm dynofrequenator, what uses its supernatural goop as both propellant and incendiarial munition, is a formidable and potent weapon, but, seeing how these monsters are holding Miss Plumtartt hostage, I do not dare to use the dreadful device as she herself might be harmed.

Now I see flickering lights ahead as well as several voices. The lights cast sinister shadows across the stern and disapproving faces of Egypt’s past rulers.

From behind a marble block supporting a Pharaoh headed lion, I sneak a peek.

My five ninjian pirates are sprawled across an open space. They indolently consume mass quantities of the opium and bang so normally associated with hasheeshassasins of this variety. They have no concern for the base ceremony going on behind them.

On a flattened, half cube of undetermined material stands Miss Plumtartt. She does not stand by her own free will for her hands are securely bound behind her back and two, tall, hooded figures stand to either side of the block holding her steadfastly in place. A third member of the order, who though hooded is easily discernable to be female, prepares some kind of ritual that might not be pleasant for my girl. I ain’t got no time for no thoughtful stratagizing, I’m just gonna have to waller in and wing it.

“Hold it right there, Little Missy, you need to set that girl a loose right this second. I got a shovel and I ain’t afraid to use it.”

Nine sets of eyes instantly afix on me. Five sets of eyes are bloodshot, inebriated on bloodlust and bang. Three more sets of people lights are hidden within the deep recesses of their robes, and thus hidden to me. One set of eyes are the most beautiful in the whole wide world. With only a minimal amount of make-up enhancement, these blue peepers sparkle with hope and new found vitality at the sound of my voice.

“Oh! My word! Mr. Temperance, I do seem to be in a dreadful quandary. I say, help. Yes, indeed, I should say so. Rather. Help! Help!”

“Don’t you worry none there, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am, I’m sure these ol’ boys just made a little case of mistaken identity. Y’all got the wrong girl, folks, that’s all. Now, you all behave, because I’m gonna fetch this gal along with me.”

The two monks and the monkette remain silent but watchful. The female druid makes a flicking movement with a slender hand to send the hopped up Hashishin into a whirling dervish of insanitized fury.

“Aiyee! Yip, yip, yip!”

“Wow! You opium-soaked scourges of the seven seas snapped out of your fumous funque and into murder mode in nothing flat!”

I am barely able to get the shovel into action before they are all over me in a hail of scimitar assimilation.

I am a firm believer in a good offense being the best defense, but these killers move with a speed I have never seen before. I force them to respect my spade. My shovel alternates between wide sweeps, close blocks and sneaky jabs to keep these guys from slicing me into a thousand pieces. It is my unorthodox movements and quirky choices in angles of positioning that keep my appendages intact. I finally knock one war-painted samurai from his toe-boot footed feet by sweeping his tootsies out from under him. Slipping the handle out and between the legs of another killer drops him on his puss. Blocking with both hands on the handle straight above my head, I prevent number three bad guy from splitting my skull. I fall backwards, rolling with the cleaver strike and kick my feet up into his stomach sending Long John Ahab on a distant flight.

I tumble to my feet, retreating back behind my monumental barrier. As I hoped, my last two standing poonjabaneers track me up opposite sides of the Sphinx pedestal to simultaneously come around the end, each swinging his over-grown two-handed Bowie where my head would have been had I not foreseen the likely stratagem. As I bend straight down at the waist, the massive swords pass over my head to bite into the Sphinx stand. The obese-itars are heavy enough to knock chunks out of the marble pedestal. Port side gets a handle jab while Starboard gets his second attack blocked, for as I bring the shovel up, I shift my grip to the end of the handle allowing for a large blocking surface. Continuing my turn into a complete three hundred and sixty degree spin, incredible torque is developed and then released through the tool into its velocity- drenched, centrifugally-motivated dirt spoon. Starboard gets the flat of the shovel’s business end as his skull brings the wide parabolic swing to a sudden stop. In a quick reversal, Porty then receives the same treatment.

I hurry back around the colossal exhibit to finish freeing Miss Plumtartt. I’m not happy, but I ain’t surprised neither, to see that the three fellows I had down on the deck have now regained their feet. They form a line between me and the hooded trio holding my girl.

I think there is enough distance between Miss Plumtartt and her captors, and the three assassineers to take a Plasmo-Gasmic shot at the three merce-nindians.

I draw the large pistol.

My foes edge backward, for in a knife fight, the man with the gun wins... I hope.

I hold the P.G.D.D straight up in the air. Everyone is afforded a free examination of my terrifying and dreadful weapon. I have my thumb on the firing pin’s levered platform. The species-defining digit pulls back the hammer, rotating the cylinder and readying the ignition detonation sequencing.

“Close your eyes, Miss Plumtartt, this retort is likely to be enormous!”

I squeeeeze the t-r-i-g-g-e-r . . .

muh
-
wuh
-thuh-
mwubbb...

It is difficult for me to convey the deep sense of disappointment I feel at the failing of the device. Moreover, it is even a sense of shame and disgrace. It’s one thing for your inventions to not operate properly in the privacy of one’s workshop, but it is especially bad when you have an audience, and doubly bad in front of your girl, and exponentially more so when you are trying to use that invention to save your said girl from the rest of the audience that is snickering at you in hurtful derision because your rescue attempt just fizzled out!

“Are you experiencing difficulties, Mr. Temperance?”

“Gee whiz, Miss Plumtartt, this kind of thing has never happened to me before.”

“Oh no. Don’t you remember that time in Los Angelos?”

“Miss Plumtartt! May we speak of this at another time, please!”

“I say, be on guard, Mr. Temperance, for I am afraid that as your ingenious, if, unreliable, weapon has malfunctioned, it has freshly emboldened the three henchmen to resume their attack on your person, eh hem? My word, how rude! You two tall, hooded figures that assert your grip on my person are out of line and overly familiar!”

The cloaked priestess resumes her rituals and singing incantations.

I reholster the misbehaving pistol and take up my more reliable garden spade. I have got my hands full shovel fighting these scimitar-swinging skunks and cannot offer assistance to Miss Plumtartt. The unusual block she stands upon crackles briefly with an unlikely expression of electricity discharge. The hooded female gets very excited at this but is terribly disappointed as it seems that those two or three brief discharges are all she will manage to coax out of Miss Plumtartt’s small stone stage.

“I knew it! The
Ascension
and
Transition
cannot be fulfilled without the
Cubus Quartet
!”

“Where has your father hidden the ‘
Jewels of Impossibility
’?”

The Priestess pulls a long, wavy bladed knife from within the folds of her robe.

That’s about all I can stand. Holding the shovel before me I roll between the legs of the attacker between me and Miss Plumtartt. I hook his insteps, pulling them out from under the leg latched boy and sprawl him out before his mates. I fling my mud mover at them as I roll to my feet. Continuing my turn I run and leap to get a sideways push off a priceless vase to execute a sneaky flying kick with the outside edge of my boot to one cloaked man, freeing Miss Plumtartt from his clutches. His pal gets a boot upside the head that loosens his grip so that I can snatch my girl free. Putting Miss Plumtartt over my shoulder I hop from the block, stiff arming the Cloakie girl out of the way. I continue straight ahead down the huge museum’s hallway. Sounds of our pursuit are very short lived. If they are not chasing us, then I reckon they are trying to get away. I put Miss Plumtartt down.