The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  As I’d read Master Clive paced, hands clasped behind. Now he stopped, shook head sorrowful as delivering news of national tragedy.

  “Even our beloved Milton is sometimes an ass. He may call them belching engines, but damnable cannon they remain. Improper props wheeled onstage for a biblical play. Absurdity from entirely another time, another world.”

  “I like the idea,” I declared, wobbling. The book weighed heavy, unbalancing me. “Angelic cannon would be fiery and loud as thunder.”

  “Absurd again! Why not issue the Heavenly Hosts pistols, shotguns and muskets and have done?”

  “An angel with a musket would be more fearsome than one with a sword,” I pointed out. “The muskets would win.”

  “The point of poetry,” began Master Clive, and then paused, considered. Began to pace again. At last laughed. “Well, why not? Indeed you are right. An angel with a shotgun would be all a damned holy wonder to behold.”

  “It could be silver plaited,” I added, spinning with the world. “Glorious.”

  * * *

  I thrust open the doors to the dining room. Steeled my soul for the sight of murdered windows. And indeed I beheld all a horror of corpse-glass and funereal glazier’s fees. But worse awaited. A figure slumped at the head of the table. In my chair. An old man, bald head upon skinny arms; battered top hat set nearby. I approached wary of mischief, perhaps a sudden leap of snakes from the hat. Well, the old man was the Glocken, still fast asleep.

  “How is this fellow here?” I asked of all. My voice calm, my inflection merely curious. I wondered if he now rested in my house while also snoring at the tavern. Each dreaming, no doubt. But of what? Of what?

  “Ach, he’ll be wherever he can devil us best,” sighed Lalena. She went up to the ancient, stared awhile. “I’d toss his bones through the window for the game he set you upon, but what good that?” She bent down, gave his smooth pate a kiss-peck. “These old uncles are mischief-makers, and there’s an end.”

  We sat far from the snoring ancient as table-length allowed. Sat to Council of War, though I longed to sit to eggs, bacon and coffee. But evil fates plotted, keeping me from these good things as winds tormented Odysseus, driving him from hearth and home and coffee.

  “Do any need explaining why we are here?” asked Lalena. Gazed upon Billy River, Cousin Zee, Doe, Father Bright, Phineas my alleged valet. An aged fellow I did not know. How long had he been guest in my house? White hair of the Scalen, the sorcerous, serpentine folk of the Scaled tartan. As one, all turned to consider the snoring Glocken.

  “Gossip says the Clockmaker clan make mischief,” said Father Bright, turning to Zee. “Tsk, tut, and fie upon the rogues.”

  Zee and Phineas exchanged knowing looks. They were both Clockmakers. They probably did know.

  Phineas shrugged. “No point in taking our tribe to particular task. Most of the clan lairds do not wish the ‘mad outsider’, as they name my esteemed employer, becoming master. Nor any other. At worst it would lead to war. At best, it’d put fin to fond activities, habits, privileges.”

  “Intentions,” added Zee.

  “Intentions,” agreed Phineas. “Great Uncle has grand plans for the past.”

  I considered shouting that one cannot have plans for the past. I did not. Madness to argue logic with the mad. Besides, I intended to visit last week. Magic doors were my best chance to ensure that the late King signed the Charter. Best keep to point. I put palms flat upon on the table, in sign of laying down all cards.

  “I have no interest in any lordship over the confederacy of lunatics, bedlams and night haunts you call family.”

  This solemn declaration was met with polite smiles. I spied no umbrage. Mere nods to say, ‘Aye, the weather is fine’.

  Billy River folded hands in prayerful mien. Near blond as Lalena, fast menacing as his darker brother Mattie Horse. I counted Billie River the sanest of all the cousinry, vampiric though he be.

  “To be master,” he observed, “my lady’s consort must have five clans affirm his right. To date Gray has the backing of the Sanglair, the support of the Mac Tier. That makes but two.”

  I shook head to clear it of confusion. Perhaps I had not spoken aloud? Best repeat myself.

  “I have no interest in lordship over entire tribes of inbred moonstruck fever-dreaming escapees from a basement of Bedlam.” Aloud this time, I made sure it echoed from the walls. For good measure I added “And cease referring to me as your lady’s consort.”

  “Nay, the consort has three backings,” declared Father Bright, ignoring thunder and echo. “Forget not, he has the Harlequins.”

  “As a man might have a madhouse!”

  Bright nodded, admitting the point. I scowled, preferring he’d take offense. Mere weeks before he’d plotted the destruction of my mind and marriage. Today he sat in my house as guest? Absurd, by all standards of sanity. But the rule of sanity among the family was smoke from fever-fired minds, wafting with the night wind. I frowned upon his clerical collar, his kilt of yellow and black. Behold a high priest for mad japesters.

  “Are you actually ordained in any church that does not meet by moon light, chanting children’s skipping rhymes?”

  Bright’s turn to fold hands prayerfully. “Master Gray, I attended Free Seminary in Carrickfergus. You will hear the holy brethren referred to as ‘heather priests’, but if we consider the sanctity of the apostolic succession in northern climes since Saint Columba, -”

  A chorus of groans and curses swirled about the table.

  “For the sake of God and Satan alike,” howled Billy River. “Would you set him to drag us down his holy trail of ecclesiastic dust? Are you mad?”

  “I am not,” I affirmed. “Exactly why I cannot hold office over your familial asylum.”

  Mistress Grumble cleared her throat at the dining room doorway. She blushed, not meeting my eye. Why? Did she think I sat here sans culottes?

  “Excuse me, sir, but there is a carriage outside.”

  “With who within?”

  “A young lady of, of exquisite clothing. Never seen anything like.”

  “Is she aflame?”

  “Not noticeably, no.”

  “Well then, show her in. No doubt she is the mysterious interruption these proceedings always endure.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And Grumble? Tell what staff remain that they’d best absent themselves from the house today.” I considered. “Flee to Magister Green’s for the night. He shall put you up.”

  The Grumble opened mouth for circumspect debate. Hesitated, considering the smiling company seated. Gazed a bit upon the sleeping Glocken. Nodded and departed.

  Billy River puffed lips, blew out a ‘pah’ in continuation of the worth of Harlequin backing.

  “I am doubting the other clans will count any vote from our Decoursey cousins, for all their recovered voice. Too much blood and mischief has passed ‘neath that bridge.”

  Bridges. I recalled the Harlequin attack upon a country bridge, as Lalena and I gazed at the water, wondering what we might become, one to another. Yet from Bright’s point of view it was he that forgave, sitting in peace with those who exiled his folk. Had not his tribe come to the aid of my rally for the Charter? What a wonder to see his japesters dancing among clashing citizens till all dropped club and knife, surrendering to dreams…

  “No, the Harlequin backing shall count,” I declared. “Your kin will accept it.”

  Since calling this council, Lalena had sat composed, eyes closed, hands in lap. Remaining quiet, letting her kin run down the road awhile before seizing reins. Now she opened eyes.

  “How so?” she asked.

  “We feuded and laughed, each of us all the world to each,” I quoted from the clan’s tale of lost glory. “Your tribes will snatch at chance to weep for the return of their prodigal cousins. Far too dramatic a scene to keep cool heads.” I stopped, considered my words. “Not that I hold interest in title to a race of whirlwinds, weather-cocks and will-o-
the-wisps.”

  There came Gaelic muttering. The ancient Scalen cocked white-haired head to the consort.

  “Well. So you have learned a bit of the nature of your in-laws. Excellent. But recall. Peers we were each to each, and cared nothing for princes waiting at the door. The least of our blood was royalty in the measure of our love. All others, plaything people.”

  Now his turn to fold hands, pious as saint’s statue. Was this some secret signal among the mad? More like a favorite dramatic gesture.

  “Take it not as insult, Master Gray. But you are not real to us. You but serve as game-piece twixt the old ones of our blood, and the newer clans.”

  “Exactly,” I returned. “And so the matter stands between you and Fulgurous.” I waited to see him jump at mention of Fulgurous, the family bugbear. Alas, the Scalen but smiled. He recited in sing-song whisper.

  “Lord Dragon is dust, his fire cold ash. The shadow of his wings returned to the dark between stars. The old ones hold to no purpose, Master Rayne. Oh, they’ll rush in to a gray life on a dull day. Circling about with moon-wise words, luring souls into the heartbeat of their dance. And for that moment all the world seems magic, and you the very center of meaning. Yet cold dawn finds you alone, weary of leaping and capering. You call for your heart friends and realize they’ve long wandered away. Forgetting your face entirely, and all the songs they sang. If ever you meet again, they shall gravely inquire who are thou, and what thy purpose?”

  At these words came a vision: my home gone silent, hearth cold, bed empty. My wife moved on to newer madness. All the colorful circus at this table vanished, leaving me with a scratched ring, a memory of love and ghosts… The old fellow grinned.

  I turned to Lalena, met her gaze. My silence asking of her a question. Her silence giving me full answer. Upon which reply I laughed, the vision vanished. The Scalen scowled. Meanwhile the table ignored us, focused upon the newcomer taking possession of the door.

  More exactly, the wall of cloth taking the doorway as a platoon might fill a breech in the bulwarks. For a great gothic dress now entered the room, a stately castle of silk and stitched pearl, trains and pleats of satin. From high atop this courtier’s fortress a young girl’s face peered, solemn moons for eyes. Hair bound in curls and coils till weight of locks must threaten slender neck.

  In marched the silken, rustling castle, while all sitting observed silent. Slow as frigate on a gentle-winded day did she change course to parallel the table. At length this progress revealed a page in silk livery following behind, carrying tail and train. Dandelion-tangle for hair, lips pursed in concentration to match the glacial solemn march.

  Flower, and the boy Brick. Or whatever fool names they used today. The girl struggled to look behind, but this required she bend overmuch starched cloth. She settled for clearing a throat. At which cue Brick dropped the embroidered train, put arms to side smart as tin soldier fresh-painted. Announced to the room in voice high as the cry of adolescent oboe.

  “I present Princess Theona Briana Rhianna Anna Thumpkintorpe.” The princess coughed. The page looked worried. “Ah, all stand?”

  We only sat, blinking. Exchanged glances, uncertain what response was sane or proper. The tiny face atop the silken castle watched, curious to see what we would do. The page made a hopeful hand wave, stood on tiptoe to encourage us.

  At which sign I rose. Others hesitated, in scoff or deliberation. I considered drawing sword as request for compliance. ‘Twas my house, and by God they’d show respect to my guests. But no need for such threat. Lalena stood. At once all the table followed suit. Well, she was Lady of the Clan. I, mere consort. Bah.

  The deferential page relaxed to see us rise. Began searching about the floor for where he’d dropped the ends of train. The face atop the tower of silk nodded, pleased.

  “I bring you messages three,” she announced. We waited. She stood silent, enjoying the dramatic wait. We sat again, waiting yet more. At length the wind blew through the broken windows, setting curtains to rustle. At which poetic cue Princess Of-Many-Names declaimed.

  “Firstly. Neither the Sea People nor the Folk of Fire, not the Clan of the Oaks nor the Tartan of Clouds, no single tribe of storm nor wave nor wood will ever cast vote for Rayne Gray to be master of the clans. Some want no lord; others fear change must lead to strife.”

  Disappointing. Not that I wanted the job. Still I’d thought the Sea Folk held high opinion of me. No concept of the others. Perhaps the ‘Folk of Fire’, if Uncle Hatta and his flaming hats counted. Seemed a decent sort, if mad. I’d bought one of his water hats.

  “Secondly,” announced Princess Theona Briana Rhianna Anna Thumpkintorpe. “If Chatterton Espada does not find and ring the bell from his ancestor’s hall, his cousins Edgar and Emily will use the Clockmaker pathways to fall upon most every man-jack and lady-soul here. As, as…” She weighed images. “- as weasels upon a duck’s brood.”

  “Damnation,” said Billie River.

  “Why must Chatterton ring a damned bell to prevent our murder?” I asked the council of war. I saw smiles, shrugs, pitying looks for the outsider who lacked the true blood’s knowledge of magic theatre. Princess Many-Names made no answer. No, she turned, began solemn sail towards the exit. All waited for her to gift us the third, last message. At length, at length, she halted to so do.

  “Thirdly. Several abominations are about to rise up hereabouts. You’d best be ready for them.”

  “Damnation again,” said Billie River. As I said, the sanest of his people.

  “It’s this trespassing through the paths of time,” sighed the Scalen. “It draws the pesky abominations.” He glared at Phineas and Zee, reproving their clockmaker souls.

  “I thought the Sea Folk made some fool bargain with the creatures,” remarked Doe. “So that the mad things think they’re family.”

  “Ach, they do. But it was the Scalen did the bargaining,” piped a high voice. The boy Brick, marching slow, clearly feeling he had time to join in the council. “For exchange of darkest arts.”

  As one all the table turned towards the Scalen. The man crossed arms to say he’d not discuss it. “We’d best leave now,” he declared. I sighed to see that all those gathered now wished to discuss the matter. But the Princess cleared throat in signal to her page, they continued their stately exit march. Before they reached the doorway several things happened. None of them instantaneous. But all at the same moment, as though the conductor waved baton to all a readied orchestra of mad events.

  First was shouting and scuffling outside the broken windows to the east. Then the same to the west. Second was a knocking from behind me. Third was a glow of green fire in the doorway towards which Princess Many-Names made her stately exit. Last was the dust-wheezing voice of the Glocken.

  Focused on the Princess, we had not noted him awaken, stretch his ancient body, stand cane-propped. “As I was saying, Mister Mershon,” he yawned. “You need but dare visit the future you have worked to create. Return, and you shall have the backing of the Clockmaker clan, for all the posthumous glory it shall give…”

  I turned to puzzle at the knocking. For the wall behind me had no door. Till now. There stood a great oak-portal marked with the familiar bronze lock. Someone on the far side knocked, slow and steady as heartbeat.

  While I considered answering, through the broken western window tumbled Chatterton Espada and his cousin Edgar. Chatterton held saber, useless in corps à corps. He dropped it, freeing hands to grapple. I rose, sword drawn, but did not take a step before through the shattered eastern windows came two more combatants. Emily Espada, holding pistol. She looked about, aimed at Chatterton. Then fell, tackled by a brown-haired creature in yellow dress. Kariel, Chat’s lost angel. Emily threw her off, but Kariel yanked Em’s hair. She screeched, dropped gun, grabbed for Kariel’s own locks.

  The greenish glow in the hall just beyond Princess Many-Names brightened. Snake-like tentacles began to wave within the emerald shadow-fire. A bubbling speech of frog croaks
filled the air. The Princess began backing her silken castle in retreat. I stepped to aid her.

  But now the impossible door behind me burst open. Out leapt Chatterton, bloody saber raised. He whirled to face some following threat. And from the dark came Edgar, sword in one hand, knife in the other. The two slashed, stepped, circled. I turned to the Chatterton and Edgar by the broken window. Still grappling. Edgar held the upper hand there, in fact had both hands about Chatterton’s neck. But my practiced eye said Chatterton was winning the fencing match. Edgar retreated, knocking a candelabrum to slow Chatterton’s advance. If Edgar set my house afire I vowed to kill every last repetition of his soul.

  “As well,” said the Glocken, continuing his aged promenade, tapping floor with cane in time to thought, “when we consider that the family quarrels are ignited by questions of status, we see that –”

  Billy River rushed to aid the Chatterton purpling in Edgar’s throttle. Lalena was up, chair overturned. She tugged the train of Princess Many-Names, pulling her from the waving green tentacles. I turned back to the tangle of Emily and Kariel. Kariel now grasped the pistol, but could not free her arm to aim. Em held knife raised, eyes round and mad as my Lalena’s in bed pleasure or blood lust.

  I kicked the knife. Emily screeched. No, she did not. Well, not that Emily. For another Emily poked head through broken window, eyes wide in fear. Green flickering light behind her. Well, a second abomination. In my rose bushes, of course.

  The earlier Emily and the present Kariel ceased struggle to consider this new Em, who strove to hold on to the window frame. Around her wound a rope of octopi arm. Kariel shook head for world’s folly, reached the pistol to this second Em. She grabbed it, losing grasp of the window frame, disappeared into green fire and trampled roses. There followed a screech, the bang of a pistol.

  “For lordship is more than conquest, more than prize won,” declaimed the Glocken. A tentacle from out the hall shot across the room, wrapped about his waist. He brushed at it with his cane. “Mastery comes from desire, Mister Mershon. It comes from wakened love. You have not our heart, can feel naught but –“