The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  The tentacle jerked him over the head of Lalena and Princess Many-Names, he vanished into the hall. I leaped a chair, rushing after. A second tentacle now wound about the Princess. I struck with saber. The blade cut, but not deep. I needed an axe. I vowed to carry one henceforth. More tentacles thrashed from out green fire. The silk and satin castle construction rose up, disappeared into the writhing green.

  The pageboy stood blinking at the fuss, gormless as kitten in cannon’s bore. Then reached down to the girl who’d fallen from out the absurd gown. Behold Flower, back to her ragged dress. Holding hands, she and Brick ducked under the table. Tentacles waved in anger, finding they’d captured the rind, not the heart. Rips and shreds of silk and satin filled the air, while snake arms thrashed, searching for the girl herself.

  Lalena and I retreated round the table. All the windows now showed emerald twilight. More abominations outside the windows, reaching within. Trampling my rose bushes. A Chatterton stood holding a Kariel, while Billie River menaced an Edgar with a chair.

  “This way lies retreat,” shouted Father Bright. He stepped towards the impossible door, disappeared within. Doe and the Scalen followed after. I looked about. My dining room glowed eerie as some undersea faery cave. The frog-croaking echoed as a throbbing choir, a host of drums beating below oceanic waves. A second impossible door opened against the farther wall. One pair of Emily and Edgars fled within, then a second. A third door appeared, swung ominously open.

  The dining room table collapsed as tentacles pulled it apart, seeking prey. Out darted Flower and Brick. Lalena scooped up Flower, rushed towards the first impossible door, darted within. I grabbed Brick. Came a scream; I turned to see a tentacle wrap about Kariel. She vanished through the window. Chatterton cursed, leaped after. I tossed Brick through the dark doorway. Lalena shouted.

  I ran to the window, found it impassible. A great horrid face filled it, one glassy eye gazing upon me, thick lips opened to reveal endless lines of teeth. I waved sword. In reply it waved tentacles, burbling in low organ-notes some greeting I failed to return. I backed away, seeking escape.

  The door where Lalena and the others fled? Gone, of course. The second as well, not that I’d rush into a doorway where four or more mad Espada waited. But the third door awaited. I dashed through the room, leapt a chair, ducked a tentacle, arrived just as the man of bronze tick-tocked out from the dark frame. We collided; I bounced back. He raised saber high. I rejoiced. I needed something to fence. One cannot fence tentacled abominations. I parried, not bothering with any riposte to metallic guts. I moved behind him and shoved.

  He/It fell forwards into the room. Tentacles seized him. I leapt into the impossible doorway, ready for multiple Em’s and Ed’s to fall upon me. The door slammed shut behind, leaving me in the usual dark.

  Chapter 14

  The Ambush in the Bed Chamber

  Two years after king’s pardon for slicing my commander’s throat, I found myself a free man at peace, drudging in a slaughter-house, slicing throats.

  Since leaving off war I’d worked as spadassin, which is to say: burglar, smuggler, enforcer, frequent duelist, occasional assassin. With Green and Black as patrons, I found prosperity. A prize welcomed but not sought. What I wanted was purpose. The duties of spadassin were all the same I performed in military service for the extra shilling. And so also the anger I felt, serving as bully-swordsman for a caste of inbred bandit-princes.

  I walked the streets of Londonish measuring the cruelty of ancient social order by counting the ribs of each starving dog. Each ragged child, each bone-weary worker, every servant showing me a face downturned in submission. In return I gave snarl. Just as they expected, not understanding I raged against being this thing of sword, coin and class. When beggars dared hold out a hand in sign they were fellow men in need, I saw a finger pointing in accusation. J’accuse, you favored night-shadow lackey to tyrant lords. Had they spat on my shadow they’d have gained my blessing and double the coin.

  Daily I sat in rich rooms with men who boasted of private parklands stitched from the confiscated crofts of peasants. Factory lords who praised their Lilliputian souls for giving purpose to peasant bodies that must elsewise starve in ditches, to no profit but the crows. Governors who saw Divine Plan in herding the commons in an endless circle of hunger, ignorance and drudgery.

  Inevitably, I joined those championing a concept to break the shackles of miserable poor and unhappy rich alike. Advocates of a New Magna Carta. A contract for all the kingdom, ensuring the rights of the commons as the first Charter had enshrined the privileges of barons. I penned letters, diatribes, satiric essays. Anonymous tracts, pseudonymous attacks; modest proposals and sly rebuttals. Words by turn loud and sly, fiery or cold. Words, words, words.

  A fool’s game of pen against pen. Pointless as debating mirrors, fencing shadows. Came a day I piled my pages of dry wit into the dry fountain of the dry courtyard of my dry house. Set spark to the shit-pile; a spark the words themselves could never strike. The stone lion grinned, half open jaws gnashing upon the smoke. He didn’t think much of those essays either.

  I studied the ink and ash, and asked myself what I truly knew of work, of poverty, of injustice? Of what a man needed to live as man, not beast? Best live poor awhile, follow a daily laborer’s life. I suppose this decision was inevitable, too.

  I sat with friends, sipping the same wines, declaring determination to taste a different life. They were amused, as friends would be. I asked what common-man’s work had the greatest social worth, the least appeal. Green suggested watchman, but that sat too close to striker. Dealer proposed a bakery. Too floury. More wine poured, and Black grinned, suggested butchery in his brave new slaughterhouse.

  It seemed a natural fit. I knew every sinew binding together man or horse, every bone and muscle found in corpse debris left by axe or cannon fire. Hell, I’d dined for days on raw rats fresh fattened on human corpses. Not my usual fare, you understand. But I knew death, blood, bones, skin. Moreover, my soul was tempered to the sight of finality stilling the eyes of man or beast.

  Or so I told the wine cup. But no; war does not train a man for industrial butchery. Nor does hunting. I doubt even surgery or barbering prepares the stomach for such work. I was sick each day for the first week. Only shame drove me back.

  The smell itself composed one circle of hell. Animal fear-piss, animal fear-shit, animal entrails, fresh hot animal-blood, old blackening animal-blood. Smoke, tallow, meat, mold and rot… a vapor-soup thick and sticky as Hell’s boiling pitch. Flies swarmed about like to damned souls. They settled on face and head and shoulder, weighing one down, buzzing tiny screams.

  Each day begins with a pause at the factory door. A shudder, then the dive into miasma. Find position, raise mallet, ready knife. Drovers lead a cow before me, bind it fast. It rolls eyes, drools, calling out for herd or mother or God. One wants to comfort the creature, tell it all will yet be well. At first. A few hours in, and one admits the only kindness is silence and swift end. Down comes the mallet. One must strike sure as hammer upon nail. Else one must strike again, and that is the unforgivable sin.

  After the crunch, the gasp; I stoop, slice throat. The corpse is dragged to the flaying rooms, the butcher’s hooks. Stand, face the next beast in line, meet animal eyes that poetics and politics equate with those of beggars. Inevitable but I begin outlining the Charter in hammer blows, in knife slices.

  “What concerns all, shall be the decision of all,” I shout, and down comes the mallet. “Should not every soul have voice in the rule of this kingdom?” I ask the trembling corpse. Slicing the throat, freeing the liquid life.

  “No more debtors’ prisons! No more press gangs! Down with the work houses! Put end to the clearances of honest farmers!” Strike, stoop, slice. “Do not women labor well as men in the sowing? Shall they not also reap equal share of the harvest?” Straighten back, shake away flies, wipe sweat, meet the eyes of the next in line.

  When the march of victims ends I
find myself standing hammer raised, puzzled for lack of purpose. Sweat-wet, blood-drenched, fly-swarmed, voice hoarse. Staring about, wondering at this cessation of death. Coming to myself, I find all the slaughter house considering me. Wary of the lunatic waving red knife, holding bloody mallet. And yet… in their faces I mark the first human interest in labor reform I’ve yet sparked.

  * * *

  I stood back to wall, sword ready, listening for killers in the dark. A frequent occurrence in my life. No voice, no step, no breath. No killers but myself. I put ear to the door beside me, expecting the sound of smashing furniture, the burble of abominations. Caught mere rush of breath, beat of heart. Tested the handle; tugged, pushed. It moved no more than had it been painted upon the stone wall.

  I knew I stood alone, but waited awhile upon principal. The Espada were no ordinary opponents, even in single existences. How had there been two of each? Surely the same trick of magic doors placing Lalena upon the roof with me, and within the house smashing windows.

  Perhaps I might find a path taking me back an hour. Then we’d put two Rayne Gray’s into the melee. Hell, take the afternoon and circle about enough, I’d summon all an army of my selves to settle every abomination, Glocken and Espada. Glorious.

  I frowned. Would the other Grays take me for monarch? Follow my lead? ‘Course not. I knew myself. The lot would quarrel, issue commands, put on airs, wander to the kitchen seeking breakfast… be kissing my wife! I was not having that.

  Where were Edgar and Emily, times two? They’d rushed through but half a minute before me. Perhaps they’d darted immediately into another door. But if this hall traveled time, clocks upon this side ticked in different dance to the tocks outside. Perhaps the mad Espadas stood here a month ago. Perhaps when next I saw them, they’d be ancient as the Glocken. Served them right.

  I extracted candle and tinder box, religiously kept in my pockets for exactly this inevitable stranding in dark halls. Struck spark, sheltered flame, held it high. Behold: a geometric point of light on an infinite line of dark. No mad Espadas. No clockwork killers. Alas, no Lalena or my mad house guests. And no point in pretending I had choices. Forwards or back, it came to following the path till destiny and magic theatre offered me a door.

  I stepped through, sword raised. Moonlight shone down through a great glass window upon an ornate stair landing. For one moment I stood lost; then recognized moon and glass and landing. The west wing of my rebuilt house. Excellent. Now to find Lalena, and perhaps Zee. We’d make a systematic attack upon Time’s halls. Journey to last week, put the King’s signature to the Charter. Then scoop up Chatterton, get him to sound the bell to call halt to his tribe’s murderous game. That done, Lalena and I would tour the next century, satisfying the Glocken’s demand for his support. And then a glorious breakfast.

  Hmm. Perhaps that last task first. I turned towards the path to the kitchen. Someone cleared throat, I turned again. Upon the top step waited a child. White dress, hair tangling with the moon’s touch. She sat eyes closed, hands folded in lap, posing a porcelain face to the moonlight. For a moment I thought her Flower. But the creature was too small. Near doll-sized. Slowly she opened eyes, focused upon me.

  “Voila l'homme,” she declared. “At length you keep promise, messieur.”

  Did I know this creature? She evoked shivers. Familiar ones. Yes, I knew her. The possessed doll with whom I’d sat to tea and dust on my honeymoon. An eerie personage, denizen of a haunted castle. And yet inspiring polite conversation, even courtly play. Like Lalena, if my wife were mad demonic doll. I lowered sword peaceably, if neglecting to sheath. Bowed.

  “I have fought monsters and madmen through halls of fire, blood and magical hours only to arrive here, my lady.” Perfectly true, for all I had not crossed those dangers to see her.

  She clapped hands delighted. Stood. Graceful motions, not truly human. Behold a puppet dancing to a master puppeteer. Insight came, as it does by moonlight.

  “You are a Zeit-Teufel, are you not, fraulein?”

  In reply she gave a curtsy, delicate as daffodil bending to spring wind.

  “And now you shall accompany me,” she declared.

  “Alas, desole, my regrets, mais non, mademoiselle.”

  She put hands to lips, smothering laugh. Quite like Lalena.

  “Busy, ever busy. You have tasks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And how shall you complete them, messieur, when you lack the key to the Hall of Time?”

  I searched about, expecting a dark doorway hovering in the air behind. Not a one did. Still, I was home. Did I need further magic? Home... I stared about, realizing why the house had taken a moment to know.

  A throw rug I did not recall. It looked worn. The floor itself looked worn, though carpenters laid these boards scarce a year past. Cracks in a window pane caught moonlight exact as spider’s web. I sniffed. The air of the house tasted wrong. No more paint and polish of rebuilding. Now I caught scent-layers of soaps and candles, hearth smokes and cooking smells. Dusty rugs, potted flowers. And a dog smell. I had no dog.

  “What is the date?” I asked the porcelain girl. And if my voice shook? Well, it had been a busy day, however many past circles about the sun that day began.

  “Late, messieur. For busy Rayne Gray, quite late.”

  “And how do I return to the Hall of Time?”

  For reply, she reached to pocket, pulled forth a great bronze key. Tapped it thoughtfully, setting it to chime. I sheathed sword, bowed.

  “Still capturing and constraining the unwary traveler, mademoiselle?”

  “’Tis a vice,” she admitted. Turned, departed down the hall. Captured and constrained, I had no choice but to follow. Down dark corridor, up a short flight to rooms empty in my memory. Her white ghost-form wafted beyond me. I considered leaping upon her, grabbing the key. I was not so brave, or not so foolish. We came to a half open door, the doll-creature floated within.

  I paused, determined not to fall into a trap of family theatre. Nor walk into some magic ambuscade where I’d be condemned to sit a century sipping dust from ancient tea-cups. But I needed that key. Or supposed I did. I had no idea of the rules. So I drew sword again, took breath, entered the ominous chamber.

  Large, lit by one lamp burning low. Window curtains drawn back, welcoming the moon’s wavering light. Three beds. A floor piled with clothes, books, toys. I didn’t recall the Porcelain Doll having so untidy a chamber. But on the floor sat her child’s tea-party table. A rose placed in a crystal vase; red as red as red. Same chipped cups set in place. In the sugar bowl lay the green bronze key. Bait to the trap, no doubt.

  I heard low breathing within the room. Eyed the closet door, all but shut. I stepped towards the tea pot, sword ready. Reached down for the enticing key. From the nearer bed a figure stirred, struggling out from tangled blanket. No supernatural porcelain child, but a real one. Tussle-haired, yawning. Eyes blinking, then widening to see me.

  “Papa!” she shrieked, and leaped from the bed.

  I stepped back, tripped over a doll, fell on my ass. The girl rushed arms out. I did not strike. I held sword high and out of reach, as though it were a torch and she a thing of paper.

  She was not porcelain nor paper, but warm girl wrapping arms tight. Now the second bed erupted. Out fell a smaller child, staggering sleepy. From the third bed slipped a taller girl. Darker of hair than these others. Darker of skin. My mother’s gift, no doubt.

  Chapter 15

  Go and Live with the Cats

  “Once upon a time,” I began. Excellent beginning. What followed? No idea. I searched the room for inspiration “Once there was…” What? What was there once? No point asking me. My wits were overthrown. I sat tailor fashion beside the toy tea set. The smallest child curled in my lap. She shook head in pity for my ancient brain. Whispered something. I bent low to catch a helpful ‘meow’.

  “Why are you shaking?” asked the middle-sized girl. Eight, perhaps. She lounged on the floor, my knee a pillow
for her head. Hair might be red by sun’s light. Quietest of the three, and reminding most of their mother. “Are you cold?”

  No, not cold. I cleared throat, kept voice calm.

  “There was a village beside a mountain,” I decided. “Atop the mountain was an old castle. Within the castle lived… cats. Big cats and little cats, fat cats and thin cats.” I paused to consider all the spinning Earth’s possible cats. Red and blue ones? No, too fantastical.

  “The cats had a, a captain. They called him… Papa Gato. He walked on two legs, wore a belt and a feather in his hat. Often he went away on long adventures.”

  “Like you?” asked the oldest. Ten years, I guessed. Skin a rich red-brown, hair black and glossy as the mane of an undertaker’s favorite mare. She sat cross-legged upon her bed, my sword across her lap. Tapping the blade to play accompanying song of rings and tings.

  “Like Papa,” agreed the youngest, curled against my stomach. Five? She kept yawning, eyelids drifting shut... then shooting open again. Behold a watchman determined not to sleep. Blue eyes, day’s gift to night’s child. And my child. Yet I didn’t know her name. How would I ask? And what could names matter? By their mother’s blood they were Wind’s children, Flame’s brethren… But of my blood as well. Yes, I trembled.

  “What adventures?” asked the middle child.

  I considered. “Papa Gato went off to fight… pirate rat princes. Who kidnapped kittens and put them to work in rat factories.”

  This was met with cold silence. Too political, probably. I hurried on.

  “At the bottom of the mountain lay a poor little village. Now, it was a custom of the villagers that when a girl quarreled with her parents or grew tired of chores or idiot boys, then she might stamp her foot and shout ‘I shall go live with the cats!’ And then she’d run up the path to the mountain top, and knock on the door of the castle.”