The Pirates! in an Adventure with the Romantics (12 page)

My reverie was interrupted. ‘Hoy! We don’t want the likes of you in here!’ barked an uncouth Oxford accent. ‘Clear out!’

A porter! He prodded me with a stick.

Here was my second obstacle – my River Styx. Page forty-two. This required cunning and guile. I transformed my countenance, adopted a menial expression that does not come naturally to me and eyed a nearby drain.

‘Good morrow. I am but a humble drain cleaner with the filth of civilisation foremost in my mind. Behold my rude attire! Savour, if you will, my drainy aroma. Think of me as an uneducated Heracles, tasked with clearing the Augean stables.’ Then I turned the full force of my cunning to bear. ‘My assignment? To cleanse the drains ’neath the college records, preferably those that date back to the seventeenth century. Guvnor.’

The rubicund visage scrutinised me for a moment, then split asunder into a broad grin.

‘Master Shelley! Why, we haven’t seen you in years! I was saying only this morning to Bert, I was saying “we haven’t seen Master Shelley in some time, have we?” I did used to enjoy his company. Always a good boy, I said. Never any trouble.’ He looked at my outfit. ‘Is it Rag Week already? Very good costume.’

Disaster! My innate air of cultivation, so impossible as it is to conceal, combined with the Captain’s frankly shoddy disguise – that would be hard pressed to bamboozle a sea-cucumber – risked all. My thoughts were like quicksilver. ‘Master Shelley? Be he the poet on everyone’s lips? I hear his views are too shocking by half.’

The impudent porter reached out and tweaked my cheek. ‘Bless you! That’s what you were always saying! Look at your little face, you haven’t aged a day! Why, I’ll bet you still don’t need to shave.’

I only tell you this to emphasise his idiocy. Whether a man needs to shave or not is neither here nor there. Some men are just naturally less hirsute. The ancient Assyrians recognised it as a sign of advanced thinking, I’m informed. I make no comment.

‘Be told, man! I am but a simple drain cleaner.’

I received a stagey wink in return. ‘Right you are, Master Shelley. Now, you said something about the college records? You’ll be wanting the College Secretary’s office, through there and up the second staircase. Oh it is nice to see you.’

Rising like a tiger, I stole across to the staircase and crept upwards with a rough-and-ready working-class tread. Upon entering the College Secretary’s office, I bowed and waved my drain-cleaning stick.

‘Drain technician!’

‘Master Shelley!’ said the College Secretary. ‘I thought you left us after that misunderstanding with the pamphlet? No matter. Have you returned? How lovely! Is it Rag Week already?’

Here was my Hades! Like Orpheus confronting the Lord of the Underworld, I dropped all artifice and fixed him with a look that said I was not a fellow who would take any nonsense.

‘How can I help you? It’s always nice to see one of our alumni returning. You probably realise that at this time the college is suffering from something of a shortage of funds. We’ve had to stop serving pheasant for breakfast to the undergraduates altogether. Just five groats a month could ensure a law student receives fresh plover’s eggs delivered to his rooms every morning.’

I bargained with him and, by means which I shall not disclose, extracted the following eerie tale. I will now attempt to impersonate his voice.

The College Secretary’s Account

It was many centuries ago, a dark time of tights and unflattering haircuts. One Count Ruthven came up to the college during a thunderstorm. He was unremarkable, didn’t mingle much, spent rather more time in the library than one would expect from a student. Then after a term, something changed. He became a
seducer
! It is said that he impregnated half the city’s young women within the week. Naturally the University authorities couldn’t stand for that sort of behaviour, and he was sent down forthwith.

Yes, he did sound that ‘growly’. No, he wasn’t Geordie. Nor Welsh. Fine, so I can’t really do accents. It’s not a talent I envy in others. Can I carry on? Good.

By and by, the College Secretary showed me a painting of the new intake from 1677 and indicated the Count. Those eyes! That sickly pallor! A sight I shall take to my grave, so ill-made it was. As I hurried back through the quadrangle, clutching my hard-won bounty to my breast, my heart filled with the ichor of intrigue. Lengthening shadows seemed to chase after me. Not literal shadows, but metaphorical shadows. Shadows that suggest a grim and uncertain future awaits us. This is no fool’s errand. For such a gargoyle to seduce so many, there must be dazzling wonders in that elusive tome. So, we must hasten, my friends, to . . . Castle Ruthven, Ruthven Pass, Carpathian Mountains, South-Eastern Romania.

‘Pretty Romantic stuff, Percy,’ said Byron, downing his coffee and then banging the mug on the table.

‘Thank you, Byron, I like to think so,’ agreed Percy with a theatrical sigh.

Jennifer frowned. ‘Mister Shelley. Am I understanding this right? Did you essentially walk into your old college and give them a cash donation in exchange for an address?’

Shelley snapped a hand away from his brow.

‘Did you not listen, madam? Orpheus! A three-headed dog! Oh, but you’ve proven my point – one can reduce the most incredible tale to rational facts and make it sound dull and workaday.’

‘What’s a “rubicund”?’ asked the albino pirate.

‘Do “visage”, “countenance” and “face” all mean the same thing? Why not just say “face”?’ said the pirate with gout.

‘How can a mote hold dust? I thought they were full of water,’ said the pirate in green.

‘Lads! Lads!’ said the Pirate Captain, holding up an admonishing hand. ‘Leave the man be! You’re forgetting that not everyone can be a dashing swashbuckler who eats danger for breakfast. It’s tremendously brave for a lubber to go and ask a man for an address.’

‘And what an address!’ said Byron. ‘The sort of address that speaks of dark legends! Moonlit passes! Unnatural goings-on! We haven’t a moment to lose!’

Everybody cheered and, for the last time in this adventure, they were all smiling, even the pirate with a prosthetic wooden bottom-half-of-his-head.

The happy mood was spoiled a few minutes later when the adventurers arrived back at the pirate boat. It looked pretty shabby at the best of times, seeing as it was the front half and back half of two different boats hammered together. But now the boat looked even worse than usual, because there was a big piece of graffiti scrawled right across the side of the battered hull. Whoever had done the graffiti hadn’t used paint or a marker pen like you might expect – instead the message appeared to be written in blood:

TURN BACK OR FEEL DEATH’S ICY HAMS!

And underneath that was a rough approximation of a skull saying, ‘I DIDN’T TURN BACK AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO ME! THINK ON.’

‘Dear me,’ said Babbage. ‘I don’t much like the look of this.’

‘Do you think it could be a warning of some sort?’ said the pirate who was slow on the uptake.

‘What do you suppose “Death’s icy hams” could be? It’s making me quite hungry,’ said the pirate with bedroom eyes.

‘I’m not sure that says “hams”,’ said Mary. ‘I think it’s meant to say “HAND”. “DEATH’S ICY
HAND
”. You have to cut whoever did this some slack, because it’s probably quite tricky to write with dead crows.’ She indicated two severed bits of crow discarded on the riverbank.

‘It’s a rum do,’ said the Pirate Captain, trying a new expression, ‘but you can’t help but admire the ingenuity. Rather like crow crayons. Very inventive.’

Byron slapped his thigh. ‘This is the ticket! First an attempted murder in a library, and now a dire warning telling us to back off. A proper adventure! You’re a man of your word, Captain!’

‘
Should
we turn back?’ asked Babbage. ‘I have limited experience of awful threats written in crow blood, but it seems like the kind of thing you should probably pay attention to.’

‘Turn back?’ said the Pirate Captain, already halfway up the gangplank. ‘Of course not. You see, the thing is, whoever wrote that warning doesn’t know us pirates very well.’ He flashed his devil-may-care grin again and winked at Mary. ‘Half the crew would sell their own grandmothers to have a skeleton face.’

Eleven

Scream, Barnacle, Scream!

N
ote f
ound pinned to galley door, pirate boat:

To whom it may concern,

I understand that spirits are running high, and I would be the last to condemn demonstrations of enthusiasm. But since we set sail for the continent the noise on this boat has been untenable. For the past three nights, I have been prevented from sleep by a relentless cacophony of accordions, poetry and bellowing.

So I have taken the liberty of conducting a small experiment. Imagine, if you will, a series of marbles of increasing mass. These are placed on a smooth wooden tray immersed in a shallow pool of water (to correct for the natural rocking motions of the boat). Ignoring negligible air movement in my cabin, we can assume that any motion in the marbles is caused by vibrations induced by sound waves. I have calibrated the escalating movement of marbles (and therefore volume of noise) as ‘Silence’, ‘Acceptable Hush’, ‘Nuisance’ and ‘Untenable’. Most nights the noise levels have alternated between ‘Acceptable Hush’ and ‘Nuisance’. I would probably have let this pass. However, last night, a particularly robust bellow (from Lord Byron, I believe) tipped the marbles into ‘Untenable’. There is my evidence. You are welcome to inspect the apparatus.

Please be more considerate.

Your cordial travelling companion,

Charles Babbage

Note found pushed under the Captain’s door
:

Dear Pirate Captain,

Here are the first few chapters of my novel, working title – ‘Gorgo: Half–Man, Half–Seaweed!’ As a fellow enthusiast for monsters and the macabre I dearly wish to know what you might make of it. Though be gentle with my efforts, for they are but young buds, easily stomped on by shiny pirate boots. And I would beseech you once more to not mention any of this to Percy – it is not his fault, but I fear he would never be able to understand my fixation with such creature-based frivolities.

Love,

Mary

PS: Do you think Garagulon is a better name than Gorgo? I can’t decide.

Note found glued to bread bin, pirate boat:

To the bread thief,

Strong words? Perhaps. However – on the last two occasions that I have visited the bread bin, I have seen someone has pilfered a slice from my special loaf of bread.

I am wheat-intolerant. This is the only bread I can eat without inducing numerous unpleasant symptoms. If I run out, then I would be very surprised if the bakers in the local Eastern Mediterranean ports are capable of making a replacement. I anticipate the bread theft will end now? (This is a rhetorical question. I very much wish it to end.)

On an unrelated note, the noise situation has worsened. We had two nights with ‘Untenable’ interludes (Lord Byron again) and then somebody took my marbles. If the bread thief is also partial to marbles then please return them also.

Your travelling companion,

Charles Babbage

Note found stuck to Mary’s hammock:

From the pen of the Pirate Captain

Hiya Mary,

1) Garagulon and Gorgo are both good names. Though
I would be inclined to stick with something more mysterious. ‘The Beast That Walked Like a Man’? It is always best when something ‘walks like a man’. Even when it is just a man.

2) Try using more capital letters. I’ve always found that a great way to make a scene more dramatic than it would otherwise be is through the liberal use of capital letters and underlining. e.g.: ‘A sudden FLASH of lightning made Phoebe GASP. She
RUBBED
her eyes. Had that been a
shape
she’d seen, momentarily silhouetted in the WINDOW? The shape of a
man
? Or rather a shape . . . NOT QUITE LIKE A MAN?’ See?