The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  In the southern cities one sees children sleeping thus, in alley or doorway. Arms clasped about one another, holding in what warmth and love world’s wind allows. The eldest of our family once lived so, exact as the wind. Wandering pocketless, roofless, nameless. Free as the shadows of clouds moving across the earth. Watching from above, it seemed a cold existence.

  “Going to cut their throats?” asked a voice behind me.

  I turned to consider the speaker. She sat perched upon the next rafter beam. She had not been so a moment before. Well, she wore her wings today, letting them hang behind for unfastened cloak. She swung her legs back, forth, back, watching to see what I would do.”

  Chapter 6

  Of Mice and Clocks

  A customer enters the tavern. Tall and wide, chain shirt, rapier at side. Brass pot helmet. A watchman, you’d think. He looks not left not right, but strides to the counter, thumps meat-hammer fist in demand for service.

  He gets cold stare from the woman washing mugs. She’s a black-clad puritanical, hair bound grim, lips pursed prim. Comically out of place serving drink. Behold the Spirit of Temperance, tending bar. Duty requires she pour a beer? Existence forces us into these contradictions. I myself once served as army doctor to French troops. Scowling, Temperance does her duty. Tankard thumped before the man, she turns glower upon me. I wave polite. In reply she puts two fingers to lips and blows a whistle to make the iron cat jump. Refills scrawny chest with gulps of cloth-thick tavern air, then shouts. “Em!”

  From a room above comes the stamp of a foot. In answer to whistle and shout, no doubt. The woman returns to washing cups. Well. Quality of service has declined in my absence. I feel urge to leap the counter, don the smock hanging by the cellar door where I left it years past. I’ll begin serving rounds as Keeper taught. But no, the smock will be too small. At thirteen I stood tall, with man’s hands and feet. But shoulders sharp as axe edges, chest thin as flour sack starved of flour. Lejean must have felt himself a wolf facing a stretched puppy.

  A clattering from the narrow stairway. Down stomps a woman in print-cloth dress and overlarge man boots. Young, and life-bright as the sunbeams she crosses. The whistle-summoned ‘Em’, one assumes. Brushing fingers through tangle-wild hair, she stamps to the middle of the room, halts before the clock. Put hands on narrow hips.

  “Did the mad thing truly sound?” she asks the room, the dawn. She looks to the prim puritan washing cups at the bar. In answer the woman makes a grimace that could indicate denial, disinterest or dysentery. The girl shakes head, steps closer to the clock, presses nose tip to the glass. She gives it a rap with a knuckle in demand it perform again.

  I consider her, and not as comely girl. Well, not just. Those were strong arms, for all their thin design. A scar upon cheekbone says knife in the language of cuts. The white lines across the hand? Saber, most like. Granted, a fisherman’s daughter shall bear scars to match any duelist. This factory-age has no shortage of drudgery to mark child or man with slice and burn.

  More footsteps above. A second person remains upstairs. Heavy steps, rhythmic as a gear-hearted engine. I glance upwards, failing to picture what action the steps portended. Marching in iron boots, perhaps. The girl sighs, turns circling to consider all the room. Her circle stops at me.

  “Was it the mouse?” she asks.

  I blink, look about. No mice in view. I know right well the vermin stay in the walls till past last call and lamp-snuffing. Then they prowl as lions, seeking the sleeping candle to devour. The girl laughs, claps hands.

  “There’s a mouse who comes weekly, oils wheels, winds springs. Has a little belt of tools, goes through a door in the clock back. You hear him hammering away in there, squeaking his little mousy curses.”

  At this nonsense I smile, shake head. Let the woman hope to amaze strangers with mad talk, but she knows naught of my new life. Marriage has seasoned my brain to beings who argue economics with the moon, dance pavanes with candle flames, profess eternal brotherhood to sea-waves. A clock keeper mouse? Minor stuff.

  She crosses arms defiant. “When he has the thing running then it’s a wonder. Little toy people march out and perform. We get extra custom a’nights, folks wanting to see who pops out the door. Ed favors the dancing dog, whilst I incline to the juggler.”

  The puritan at the bar finds an extra smock, thumps it loud on the counter while glowering at talk of dancing dogs. Time for service, not chatting. The girl cast eye to smock and duty, sighs sullen. Keeper would have boxed my tavern-boy ear for that sigh.

  A customer enters, stamping feet. Chain mail, short sword and helmet are in style today. The man gives the room no slightest look. He walks to the bar, takes position. He exchanges no word with any, though he might be brother to the one I labeled ‘watchman’.

  The girl ignores his quiet custom, skips her clopping boots to my corner, grabs chair. Perches elbows upon table, chin upon hands. She considers my person, face forward-thrust to study me as she did the mad clock. I resist drawing knife or blushing. I want breakfast, not flirting nor murder. I lift an imaginary cup to my lips in sign of request for drink. The creature ignores the message, considers the hand, the ringed finger.

  “You’re married,” she declares.

  “I am that,” I agree. The puritan at the bar frowns; at me, the maid or the world. Most like at all.

  “How long wed?” She speaks in hoarse breathless tone, as though she’s been rushing words out all night. Rasping, and more womanly than to expect out such skinny frame.

  Reminder of marriage is a jab with guilt’s dull dagger. Recalling sworn duties of togetherness. Oaths of ‘till death do us part’. For I did not tell my wife that this morning I scouted our prophesied parting. It would have upset her. Truth be told, it upset me. How long since ‘I do’?

  “A bit over a year. Though we spent half that apart. Now back together.”

  Em nods to say ‘glad it be so’. Then lowers eyes to her own hand, in sign ‘here’s a question near my heart’. “Did you long know one another before you wed?”

  Can’t the girl hear my stomach growl for breakfast? And I smell coffee by the bar. But the amazed-kitten eyes beseech. I grudge an answer. “Not at all. We’d met once.” I do not share that we’d met on the roof of my burning house. Surrounded by corpses. Lalena standing naked as bared knife, and as bloody-wet.

  The girl raises her hand, considering the ring thereon. Brass, not gold. A peasant garnet sitting substitute for ruby. No dowered woman’s prize, mere bauble traded for boots at a pawn-shop.

  “Eddie and I marked one another with baby teeth,” she sighs. “Always been Em and Ed. Ed and Em. Tag on the green, skipping rope. Trading blows and kicks, oft enough. Married now.” She looks up to Heaven’s guiding hand or the tavern’s ceiling planks. More steps above, moving back and forth. Her Eddie pacing, no doubt brooding on life and marriage and breakfast.

  “You are fortunate,” I declare. “I’d like to have known my wife all my years. Sometimes I feel it works backwards, and that I have always so known her.”

  She cocks eye to the sincerity of my words, my soul. Then sniffs to say ‘perhaps’. Leans close, confides. “Ed and I used to sleep huddled a’bed together, innocent as fox-kits.” She tries a wistful look, gives it up for grin. “Ha, not now.” She harks to the ceiling. Pace, step, pace.

  I hark to my stomach. Growl, grumble, growl. The aroma of coffee calls, a caffeine-fairy piping across the tavern, beseeching me to follow. I cast a begging look to the Puritanical at the counter. In reply she gifts me a twisted grin, one eye open, one shut. Is she mad? I feel urge to mimic her; but I am not mad. I am hungry and need coffee. The two states differ, if slightly.

  The twin watchmen at the counter ignore the Puritan’s grimaces. They sip slow as if their clay mugs held fine whiskey. At that sight, the ghost of my tavern-boy self grins for coming entertainment. Watchmen off duty do not gently sip cheap beer. I study their backs. No crossbows, no pistols. The sleeper against the wall: surely th
eir confederate. They entered so very determined not to look about.

  “Are you new to the city?” I ask Em. Best she leave before blood-fall.

  She considers. “It’s new to us,” she decides, and stands. “To work now, else we’re back on the cobbles.” She puts hands to hips, shifts identity from wistful newlywed to scowling barmaid. “You wanting coffee and eggs or are you come for drink? You don’t look the early tippler.”

  I hesitate. I should persuade this soap-bubble innocent to flee before sharp things wave. But surely she shares in the sinister plot. This girl is of my wife’s kin or I’m a, a… my mind searches for identity too absurd to accept. A clock-keeper mouse? They have one. King of the Moon, perhaps, else a Frenchman. But I am the spadassin known as Seraph. A wealthy robin-hood noted for his homicides and lectures on labor reform. I’m already more absurd than moon-monarch, clock mouse or Frenchman.

  “Bacon and eggs, si’l vous plais,” I decide. “And coffee will earn you coin and blessing.”

  “Bacon’s old,” she warns.

  “And so also I, by your spring reckoning. Bacon, if it be not yet green as you.”

  She shrugs, taps finger to palm. I sigh for the world’s distrust, tender three silvers. She scoops them, skips away. The chit makes crossing a dirty floor in thumping boots all a dance. No surer sign of Lalena’s kindred, than turning dull world to dramatic stage.

  Or do I underestimate the clay-mortals of the earth? My wife’s kin are masters of form and spell, dance and dream. Still they hold no final ownership over life’s magic. Perhaps young women of regular blood also skip when bride’s ring shines new upon the finger. Perhaps common folk spin mad tales for strangers, when joy catches them sudden on a morning.

  Another customer enters. Again in helmet, chain-shirt, short-sword. Strides to the counter, stands in measured distance from his two brothers. At this the leather-smocked worker looks up from his beer. Canny veteran of city weather, he scents storm. Surveys the room, rests eye upon me. I give slight jerk of chin towards door. He scowls, nods, empties mug, departs the stage.

  I weigh my own exit. All very well for pride to demand dragons. But three swords trumps the ace of spadassins. If the sleeping fellow is their hold-card, best abandon hand, ship and breakfast. But consider: they entered separate. That hints planning. They’ve kept a fellow or three just outside the door.

  As I weigh odds and exits, another man enters. No brother to the swords at the counter. In hobbles an ancient creature, cane serving for more than fashion prop. Tattered black cape, battered top hat, thick glass lenses presenting porthole eyes. Out of place for tavern custom as the mad Puritan serving beer. But he turns his crystal gaze about the room, nods in approval of all he sees. Then approaches my corner, each step deliberate as a man laying bricks of a path. Place foot, place cane, shift; place foot, place cane, shift…

  I rise to aid. But he shakes head to say ‘I must walk this path alone’. So I sit again, appreciating the deliberation of each undersea motion. A slight fall of dust comes from the rafters. I watch it cross a sunbeam, fairy-motes shining, dancing, gone. Well, someone hides in the rafters above. Small of frame. No place for grown man. Excellent. Before they drop down to murder me, I’ll ask them to fetch the book I left.

  I return gaze to the old man, checking progress. Still on the road, so to speak. I push the chair out from the table. Surely he can’t object to that. He nods to say very well. And arrives with a sigh. Pauses, straightens, places cane upon table. Removes cloak, lays it upon chair back. Pauses, then removes hat, revealing pate bald as wave-worn rock. At last comes the folding of brittle body itself, slow and slower into the chair. Each turn and bend a deliberate dance-step. The Waltz of Old Age. Yet mechanical, reminiscent of the manikin from out the clock. Seated, we both take breath. I’m wearied as if I’d shared the journey.

  He reaches into pocket. I ready to knock any pistol from a suddenly firm hand. He catches my wary wisdom, grins teeth piss-yellow. Then tugs forth something bright, pretty and harmless. Lays it upon the table between us. An offering, perhaps; else opening gambit.

  I pick it up. A cut crystal sphere, with broken wire for stem. I laugh in wonder, for I know this bauble. It hung from my hall chandelier, before previous house and previous life burned to the ground.

  Chapter 7

  Of Things Practical and Politic

  I hold the crystal piece in palm, weighing the worth of my life when this bit of glass glittered above the hallway. Each morning I passed beneath it, then out into the day. Greeting the world with the same smile I gifted my shaving mirror. Wherefore not? My life held noble purpose, a fine house and pretty mistress. A small family, a long table of friends. Existence simple and clear as faceted crystal. Alas, and as brittle.

  But in the shattering of that old life I’d met Lalena. And begun anew. Not mere change of habit, house and bed-mate. I, the eternal survivor, surrendered my life sure as leap from burning roof. For better, for worse. An act to make a mirror scream in horror. That self-satisfied, self-serving ass of a reflection.

  How to capture new life in words? Can’t be done. Perhaps for Em all existence awoke reborn when childhood friend turned to husband and love. For myself, I have stood on a bridge and kissed my lady’s hand, and heard her accept my love when I held naught but that hand and a just-fired pistol. All the life that came thereafter, the clan quarrels and vengeances, every madness of ghost and dream? Mere background stage-thunder to our clasped hands. I fell, and someone caught me. She also falling; and so we grasped the tighter. Where we fell thereafter was into love and wonder. And bed, too.

  Enough. I sit now with a man who means mischief, tendering this souvenir of my old life. I am blind to his motives. But I sit in Major Dark’s chair, hearing his whisper: determine the threat. What did this ancient intend by giving me the trinket? When had I last seen it?

  That night. I’d been on the run, outlawed, betrayed. Reduced to near-beggar, I’d led a pauper army to loot my own rich house. Painful sacrifice of my possessions, but necessary to distract killers while I retrieved papers and money to aid my exile and revenge. A looter had tossed chandelier crystals among the mob, as apples to a pack of orchard-thieving boys. I’d caught this very one. Kept it in pocket till I plunged like Lucifer from the burning roof scarce an hour later. A busy night. Hard to keep track of loose change and trinkets.

  I lift the crystal to an eye, peer through facets into a tavern transformed. Outlines of rainbow turn simple chairs to thrones for storm-princes. The light glows sharp upon the sleeper against the wall; darkens the killers at the bar. They stand ready for war, trading sideways looks. Em argues with the Puritanical, waving arms to conduct the music of her mad words. It’s a scene a thousand years past, preserved within glass. I retreat from the vision, put down the crystal. The better to keep hands free before the foe. Determine the threat.

  The face of the old man shows the wear of years; not with wrinkles but with fading and folding where the fabric of being has given way to time. He wears an old cloth face, and no mending shall long keep the weave from final tearing.

  “You are a Zeit-Teufel,” I declare.

  The ancient face puzzles, then brightens. “Ah. That name. Silly business. No, name me a Glocken. An older label. Less amusing, I grant.” He speaks in faint accent. German, perhaps. He leans back. “The Glocken, as I stand Laird whilst heart ticks. And at last I meet the mad outsider, Ray Mershon.”

  My turn to shake wise sailor-head at the reefs of nomenclature. “Rayne Gray.”

  “Names,” whispers the old voice. “Wreath crowns good for a pose, till the flowers fade. But you are not of our blood. Such as you are issued name at birth. Carry them to the grave, scribbling the letters on headstone for the sum of your life. Yet you wish to be master of the folk nameless as sea-wave, faceless as cloud shadow, the family running free across the earth unbound by chains of ‘who’ and ‘what’.”

  I eye the three killers, the peaceful sleeper. The shadow in the rafters.
No doubt ready to rush upon me, soon as this ancient gives sly signal. No hurry. Those of my wife’s folk do not value names. But they treasure every damned second upon the stage. They have lines to deliver, poses to strike. My murder cannot possibly be scripted before Act 5, after intermission. Time for breakfast, a light lunch.

  Yet perhaps wiser to skip eggs, coffee and death. I weigh spoiling the entire theatre-production. I might thump the old fellow on the head, leap to the narrow stairs where I’ll guard the bend, face the foe one by one. Child’s play. But if they are competent they’ll decline to play. They’ll hold back, throwing knives and bottles. Else fetch a pistol, set the place afire.

  Determine the threat, whispers Dark. Figure why the fellow risks his blood to spill yours. Duelist, hireling, soldier, or madman? Each sort has their peculiar strength, their special weakness.

  “I seek no lordship of your fool family,” I tell the Glocken. “I am a pawn pushed towards the square, no fault of mine. Debate the game with your clan lords and old ones, not with us innocent pieces.”

  He shakes ancient head left, right, left in sorrow to disagree. Of a sudden this frail antique reminds of his cousin clan-lord, the late Laird Mac Tier. A ravening wolf, when not ravening man. The kind who likes his dinner to scurry before it comes to biting.

  “No, Master Pawn, you must accept responsibility for crossing the board. And for each piece removed while so advancing. For you have slain many of my kin, hearts like to my heart. Worse, you have drawn my family into political games of your clay-folk world. Think you the game shall end well for yours, for mine?”

  “Who knows?” I reply. Dull parry, but I fence off balance, not yet seeing where this man will strike.