The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “Hmm?” I propped upon elbow. Traced a finger across her pale cheekbone, writing my invitation. A shy message, saying if you want tonight, I want as well. A finger-touch to tell how I found her feminine curiosity fetching, but her womanly form more so.

  She pulled back, frowning. “None of that, man. You know right well. ‘Twas some news scrap wrapped about your ring. Everyone stood wondering at the ring’s return. But you read the paper, pocketed it. Now what did it say?”

  I bent forwards, put lips to her seashell ear, but not to whisper words. Why recite my obituary to my wife? Could only worry her. Distract from pleasure. So for answer I gave touch of breath to ear, to neck. She shivered, then drew away growling. A sound we who lay with vampirics were wise to heed.

  “You keep secrets from me, husband.” She sat up, crossed arms.

  Fine. So much for warm nights, rolling beds, conjugal rights. I leaned back on pillows, yawned to say all one to me. Hell with a man’s private thoughts. I shut eyes as a righteous man would slam the door in the faces of the unjust.

  “Well?” she demanded. I opened eyes again, surprised. I am large, dangerous and not used to pestering, save as bears are wont to being poked. Would she not leave off? I prepared a glare of indignation, only to meet her own angry blue windows. She angered? What right did she have to wrath? And how did she know the scrap had meaning? I am a spadassin, trained in deception. I’d shewn naught in face or word that hinted of doom. Was this some magic of her blood, to open my head and peer within? Or just wifely intuition? Whichever, damnation but it annoyed.

  “What was the meaning of that penny whistle?” I parried. “Looked bloodstained.”

  Idiot thing to say. But bedroom quarrel was new dance to me. I’ve fought friend and stranger aplenty, across tavern table and battle dirt. But who took bedsheets for the grass of the dueling field? Elspeth might go silent; else arm-crossed vexed. Making me nod, proud of my understanding of female mood. In truth I was merely tolerant. El had been bed-mate and house-maid. Not wife, not peer. With my new wife I’d enjoyed lying pillowed one upon another, boxing with words over old coats and mad family habits. In my innocence I’d supposed that argument.

  And so I puzzled what we did now. We ought to be poking one another, thrusting faces close, scowling to mask grins. That would soon leave off. Then would come laughter, sighs leading to joined eyes, deeper breaths, reconciliation in passion and completion.

  But Lalena scowled not, nor bantered. No, she turned her back to me. Built a great high wall of cold shoulder. I stared at the barrier sealing me to my cold half of bed, declined to scale it. Bah. I snuffed the lamp to say what I thought of walls, light and love. Night’s silence reigned, measured in sighs and restless shifts of separated bodies.

  In the morning came careful exchange of words chosen for no taste of confrontation, no smell of invitation. Lalena and her family might quarrel all the night, and come the dawn they’d laugh for the joy of reconciling. But no such magic existed between us.

  My obituary described time and place in wonderful sideways manner. “… should at last be brought to Judgement upon the day of his own birth.” My birthday approached. Surely it were wise to take ship far as Tarshis from Nineveh? And no doubt to the same result as Jonah’s flight from destiny. Scurry where I wished but a whale would spit me out upon the step to Keeper’s Tavern. The puzzle box, the ring and riddling obituary were props of my in-laws’ theatre. Masters of being who they wished, where they wished. And ensuring that you would find yourself on stage with them, for all your fox-trick dodges.

  Excellent. Let the Journal declare me dead. Had it not done so before? The retraction would follow with my continued grin. I did not face death. I faced dramatic nonsense of my wife’s family. Entirely fair of me to blame her. And I should have told her so, arms crossed, voice stern. Behold the wise husband confronting erring wife. She’d have crumpled in shame, an Eve dropping the half-bit apple. Instead I kept proud and noble silence. While she kept to her fortress of crossed arms, turned-away gaze. And what about her bloodstained tin whistle?

  I searched for it among her things. Disappeared. A certain reorder of my pants and papers made me suspect she’d prowled for the news scrap. Ha! A spadassin knows how to hide secrets. There passed more silent nights, restless sighs in the dark. At last the dawn of my birthday, I’d risen from bed, dressed, whispered a casual ‘later, my love’, and descended the stairs. Sword at side, ring on hand, obituary in pocket.

  In the hall I passed the housekeeper Mistress Grumble, as she arranged white roses in a vase. Pretty things.

  “Going out, Master Gray?”

  I considered the roses, the woman. I did not believe in a theoretical Mister Grumble. The title ‘Mistress’ designated holy union to the profession of housekeeper. To the house itself, perhaps. I wondered if they quarreled.

  “A minor appointment,” I informed her. With Death at a tavern, I almost added. I didn’t, it sounded dramatic. A servant should see the sensible side of their employers.

  Grumble nodded. Wrung hands in sign she wished to speak further but would not till I granted permission. A ruse; the woman spoke as she wished. But permission granted put the onus upon me. Don’t tell me how to speak to officers. I granted a sighing ‘yes’?

  Grumble leaned forwards, whispered. “Last night the Ladyship prepared a picnicking basket. With my help. She’s a hoping to ambush you in your study, take you out to enjoy the day. She’s been all of a solemn quiet thing of late.” The woman straightened, added, “Not that it is servant’s place to note.”

  Picnic? Ha! Then Lalena yielded first in our siege-war of silence. I all but shouted ‘Victory’. Domestic warfare: clearly naught to confound a strong man. Husbands, keep firm hand in your house, and all shall order itself as Nature intended. And yes, I know I was being an ass. I knew it then. Hell, Mistress Grumble knew it so, and was all but shouting in my ear ‘Don’t blow it boyo stay at home, make peace with your wife’.

  But… that appointment waited. And my anger still confounded. Not for Lalena’s defiance. I played no house-tyrant scowling at impertinent meeting of eyes. But how could she be angry at me? Were we not each the salvation of the other? We’d won through battles and dark dreams to waken clasped. We’d lain breathing one another’s impassioned gasps, giddy for the realization: ‘no longer alone’. I’d thought Lalena won, all fields conquered, all gates surrendered. Could she not trust me to keep my secrets? And what about her damned tin whistle?

  No. Her surrender came over-late. Let her knock at my study door, tiptoe in, find me gone. Ha! The pointless picnic basket would drop to the floor. Then she’d sit, sighing, weighing a heart full of pride against an empty room. Her uncanny senses would whisper I was about some business of grave danger. Perhaps she’d never see me again. Alas, she’d stand and pace and sit again all the day, wringing hands, repenting mistreatment of one she’d vowed to love and respect. Then at last in the darkening day there’d come my step at the door. She’d rush to embrace me, tearful and repentant…

  How very sad. Yet she’d be happy at the end. I thanked Mistress Grumble, turned and left for my dread appointment.

  Chapter 4

  Awaiting Blood and Coffee

  I sit waiting, yawning, stomach growling. I came to face a mysterious threat, not have breakfast. And yet priorities change. Where is my killer? Where is the table service? Perhaps I should shout for both, else go to the bar. I dislike doing so; it puts my back to the room, gives strangers the excuse to stand over-close.

  I consider the leather-smocked worker at the counter. Rough faced, with large fists. But he’s already had fair chance at my back, declining to strike. What about the old fellow huddled by the fire? Might hide a pistol under the cloak, a grudge in his heart. Pity, that. The old should be forgiving. I know I will be, when I reach old age past prophecy.

  Bah. No I won’t. I forgive no harm to me or mine. At best I withhold vengeance till I’m entangled in newer quarrel. Which is not forgiving
trespasses, merely failing to note them down for later payment. Bad bookkeeping, nothing spiritual.

  I turn gaze upon a customer at the far side of the room. He sits as I; back to wall. Leather hat drawn low over eyes. Tankard set beside him. Night-worker catching needed sleep? I consider his boots. Expensive. Does that say aught? No. The rapier set beside the tankard speaks louder. A worn leather grip, lacking ornament. Be wary of men whose swords resemble work-tools, advises Major Dark.

  Killers, he meant. Dark sat in this chair teaching all he knew of the breed. Duelists and soldiers, ruffians and madmen. He’d fought every last tribe of Caine, sharing as he could with me the awed tavern boy. Now my turn to sit expounding, the wary expert. The table beside me is scarred as any soldier. I trace finger along different cuts, waiting for the woman at the bar to admit I exist.

  I have known killers of every face, sex and form. Whether ragged alley footpad or elegant assassin, silk clad. Stern soldier singing with the saber swing, or smiling vicar pouring poisoned chamomile tea, for me. The most deadly man I yet have met: Chatterton Espada. An inoffensive creature when not playing bagpipes. Face eternally set in absent bemusement. Tall, thin, and menacing as a sunbeam. But consider how my vampiric in-laws back from the man, fangs sheathed polite.

  After warm honeymoon in cold Scotland, I sailed a melancholy few days with Chatterton. Came an hour when we stood leaning over ship’s rail, brooding upon wind and wave, cloud and sun. The treaty of the taciturn reigned between us. I repented the idiot decision to leave my bride on a lonely shore. Sighing down at sea foam white as bridal lace. While Chatterton sighed upwards, carving clouds to a girl’s face.

  Or so I supposed. His kin gossiped of a phantom for whom he pined, moped, brooded. Some disbelieved in her. I’d seen, and believed. A fetching chit with waves of hair, brows arched in quizzical mock. And ah, well, and… she went winged, when she wished. Bother it. Let us say ‘angel’ and have done. For all my disinclinations towards heavenly fauna. For all my disbelief in Heaven, an’ it come to point.

  Boredom and curiosity led me to break the treaty of silence. I asked Chatterton who the devil was his girl? Surprising him, I believe. People did not oft ask Chatterton personal questions. I prepared for a puzzled look, a sudden knife. But he laughed. For no reason knowable to the sane, I amused the man as none of his proper family did.

  He answered in roundabout path, as cats and fencers will. As his family is want. Giving the words to the clouds, the passing gull. Had I had leaped overboard, he’d have continued confiding to the sea. It was all one to him, to speak within his head or without, explaining his heart to man or cloud or seabird. Such is sorrow’s need. God knows I wished to call out to each passing wave, ask if my own love still stood upon the shore, awaiting my return.

  Chapter 5

  The Fall of the House of Blades

  We Espada began as wandering performers. Sometimes one grand troop of horse and wagon, wending our way from town to town, camping in green field, shadowed wood. More oft we went in separate bands, marching afoot down dusty roads. A’times we’d meet our cousinry at crossroad or town gate. Then would come laughter and embrace, the exchange of tales, the sharing of song. Soon away again, happy to share the world’s roads with hearts akin to ours.

  Circus entertainers, mountebanks, tumblers and market performers. Masters of foot and hand, balance and blade, speed and timing. Never a mastery of slaughter, but of wonder. We used swords and knives as tools for laughter, for measure of excellence. My far-great granduncle would peel an apple in the air with practiced slices of juggled knives. Ah, what harm in that? And yet how quick a knife-edge turns from the apple’s skin to a man’s throat. Lords offered us gold to teach their troops, humble their foes. We cared naught for the gold, but challenge called to our pride. Pride. The worm in every apple.

  Proud of our skills, we ever sought greater mastery. When cousin clans met, displaying their secrets of form and song, spell and mechanical craft, we Espada felt no shame. We only burned the more to be worthy of our wondrous kindred. And yet, and yet, and yet... Envy whispered in our hearts, breathing green words tinged with toxin. Our cousins swam among the waves, flew among the stars, bartered with eldritch beings. What had Clan Espada but the dusty road, the rude crowd?

  Long before my day, the clan brought outsiders of special talent and trait into the fold. Out poured noble words and wedding wine celebrating the union of excellence; yet behind the speeches lay the dog breeders’ cold desire to shape life itself to purpose less than the joy of living. At some turn of the road our elders settled in a far cold valley, there to brood upon final excellence. Still sending out our roving bands; but now they sought challenges, not the laugh and gasp of crowds. They returned with scars and bloody tales, sat by the fireside with eyes turned wary and sharp, measuring what threat lurked in their own heart kindred beside them.

  By my birth we lived in barracks; a circus performer’s dream of Sparta. Boys, girls together till we came of age. There lay purpose in that. We were to live as one, breathing a common life, the shared goal of excellence. Our lives began at the starting line for a life-long race. Our love of family, our fear of failing that love, served as carrot and whip to goad us ever on. We burned for our elders’ nod of approval, the admiring grins of our brothers and sisters. Such approval came by no path but surpassing. ‘To journey beyond ourselves’, my grand-uncle Samuel declared. None asked of that journey, what must we leave behind.

  Before the clan diminished, we filled ten long tables of the Great Hall. We sat in rough division by age; the youngest towards the lower tables, the elders at the higher. But that deceived. For the honor and glory of each table lay in challenges met; how many stars were placed beneath one’s name upon the Grand Wall. Inevitable but the oldest dominated. For a youngster to win a place amongst uncles and aunts, mothers and fathers was a glory to make every eye shine with pride. Ah, and with envy.

  Understand; we did not endure cruel training and mad trials out of fear. Nor even the racehorse’s ignorance of any life but stable and course. No, we sat to table and looked left, right, in perfect union with those who would not spare us when we crossed in challenge. No more than we would insult their souls with thought of holding back. The ambition to prove worthy of such company urged us panting across each finish line. Kept us standing at fencing bout’s end, bleeding and triumphant while friend and brother lay in the battle-circle dirt before us.

  Our cousin clans expressed disapproval, even horror. They derided this mad turn to inward challenge. They accused Espada of trading the joy of family for bloody rites of test and fratricide. Our elders scoffed. What price had the cousins paid for their own masteries of shape and dream, time and spell? For those who took beast form, did not always return. Those who wandered dreams, did not always awaken. In our kindred’s warning the elders heard only the high harp-note of jealousy, even fear. No doubt they heard true. Our cousins must have wondered how long till we turned mad gaze outward. For the curse of the Rivalry had not come only to Espada. All the cousin tribes fast lost themselves in similar dreams. Each clan burned to become more than just kindred of common name, strange talent. We wished to be masters that all must respect. To see our cousins’ eyes glow with admiration, with pride. And with fear. I suppose it appealed to our sense of drama. And to theirs. We were all Wind’s children, Flame’s brethren.

  In back of our quiet cottages waited stages and stairs, pits and ladders. At first mere dramatic setting for bouts of fencing, of acrobatics. But as generations moved up the tables, so the challenges grew in mad risk. Stars were no longer won without blood spilt, life wagered. So came spikes and pendulums to dodge, flames to leap and pools to swim, terrible heights to climb. Challenges to reach some narrow spot to duel sister or cousin, brother or uncle. To study the face of one we loved, guessing whether they might slash with knife or send kick to face, plunging us down.

  Deaths and crippling came, and last remorse. Some chose to leave the clan then. Those that st
ayed imagined themselves hammered in magic fire, forged in a determination that would break all previous bounds of mastery. ‘The Tempering’, we called our course. The elders of Clan Espada felt a revelation approached, that must justify all loss.

  And revelation came. By way of blade and boot. For at length the children raised to drink love and blood from one sacred chalice, came to full potential. What did those scarred grand-uncles and life-toughened dams think as their life-blood poured away, spilled by the creations of their red ambition? Did they repent for turning love to challenge? I never saw hint of such regret, not in a single fallen. It was always pride in their dying eyes. Pride that they had raised a brood of masters beyond any the world had seen before.

  The end came as a devouring fire, consuming all emotions but the desire to win the place of final victory. Challenges were no longer to first blood, but to death. Some last glimmer of sanity or shame made the elders send our youngest away, to cousin clans who wondered at these wolf cubs. Then Espada sealed its valley, and set to work to temper itself in flames of duel and death.

  Now there was no more sitting to table in shared peace. Each walked blade in hand, eyeing all with eye trained to catch the moment’s chance. No more sleeping in beds, resting in the presence of brothers, in sisters who shared a common breath. Now sleep came crouched in cellar or upon roof, else perched in tree branches. Alliances were made and broken, and the nights rang with scream and laughter. Flame and cry became the song of the valley. By day’s light, brothers and sisters set themselves to throw one another from fatal heights, else fenced like mad invaders upon doorsteps, across rooftops.

  All rules faded, lost in blood and death. No more sets of ordered bouts. No more stars placed beneath victors’ names. Murder from behind served for challenge. We hunted one another from house to house, walking wary of an arrow from a window, a knife out the shadows. On a rainy night I lay upon the ceiling beam of a barn. From that perch I watched my young cousins Edgar and Emily slip through the door. Whispering, they built a nest of straw. I waited for their breath to say they truly slept.