The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  The second card had a name, sequence of numbers and a note declaring ‘this is coin’. I felt urge to bite it, as cynics do to detect false coin. I did not. Instead I made the leap of faith, Stood to the communion line. At the ceremonial ‘Good day, m’lord, and what would you have?’ I froze. The woman’s breasts squeezed over the top of her dress like giant pink muffins in a starving man’s hands.

  “Hypnotic, aren’t they, love?” she asked. “Now what’s your need?”

  “Beer.”

  “Beer ‘tis,” she declared, and pumped yellow foam into a cup thin as paper, clear as dirty glass. Stared at me. What was the counter-sign? Ah, the magic-coin card. I placed it between us, final ace to a game of deadly stakes. Ready to run if any shouted ‘witch!’ But the woman picked it up, performed her rituals. Returned it to me.

  “Next,” she said, in sign the ritual had reached fruition, else that I annoyed.

  I walked away, sipping beer-flavored bubble-water. Lalena and Kariel had moved farther down the path. I followed. My wife’s behind twitched the leather rags this way, that way. Far more hypnotic than the beer-priestess’s muffin breasts. Many a stranger stared entranced. How dared they? How dared she? For all she was once wont to run naked. But this was not foul Londonish by night. We walked today in the holy sunshine of Utopia, among the inheritors of civilization’s fire, for all they knew naught of making beer.

  I sighed. Lalena had not yet forgiven my tryst with her future self. And so she reminded me she was young and desirable now. Else remind herself, the proud thing. That I desired her in later years still meant desiring her, would be a truth she’d catch on to; in those later years.

  A booth offered prizes for placing a knife into a set of circles wide as plates. Looked difficult as setting tea cup to saucer. Knife throwing could not be a practiced art in Utopia. Excellent. I wish for my children a future lacking competence with edge or point, bullet or blade. I wish it for your children too. Let the statues of future heroes show them nobly cradling kittens, else wielding plowshares. Let history and statuary give a rest to guns, swords, knives, cannon, axe and bolt. I stood to the booth, tendered my magic card. The barker surrendered three slivers of steel, dull of point and edge. Juggler’s toys. I placed each in a target center while eyeing my wife.

  She and Kariel now sat upon a bench beneath a tree, enjoying the sun. Kariel held a great cloud of pink stuffing, upon which she nibbled daintily. Bits of sugary pink stuck to her chin. Lalena munched happily at a sausage spiked upon a stick. The passing throng turned to appreciate these creatures. Did the two see me? I wore no disguise. Perhaps they took my work clothes for costume. Perhaps I should seek a booth selling cloaks and masks. Then I would walk in altered gait past my wife. She’d know me at once for the disguise.

  The barker surrendered a felt doll. I thanked him, tendered my magic card again, received more knives. Put them into circles. The barker frowned, placed another doll before me. Passersby noted the pointless ease of this exchange, praising my skill. I felt obliged to tender card, place more knives into circles. Receiving more dolls, a music box, a wooden sword. The barker gritted teeth at his emptying shelves. He took three of my small dolls, exchanged them for one larger doll. It sat before me attempting happy grin. I examined it. What did it represent? A bear, perhaps. Ribbon about its throat. I’d save it for the youngest girl in the hoped-for future; she with hair pale as baby duck fuzz.

  I looked to her future mother again. Lalena now stretched out pale legs, leaning back to enjoy the day. She’d placed sinister black lenses over her eyes of innocent sky. While Kariel sat beside her, wings tucked behind. Legs folded tailor fashion, revealing that beneath her skirt she wore thin red silk covering crotch exact as peel covered a ripe red apple.

  I watched the Fallen Angel and my Forest Savage put arms about each other in fond fashion, grinning at the day. With not a glance my way. While three knives went thwap, thwap, thwap exact into the targets’ centers. Not thrown from me, but the man who’d come up beside me. Chatterton Espada.

  “They’re mocking us, you know,” I told him.

  “Aye,” he sighed. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Chatterton’s agreement came calm; but he sent the blades so deep into the targets only the handles showed. The barker cursed, seeking the strength of anger to pull them forth again.

  I purchased more knives, placed them into circles. Winning a skull that looked real but weighed light as paper. A grim and grinning thing. Might interest the oldest un-named girl in the bed chamber. Solemn child, she’d put it by her bedside to ward her from frivolity. Had it sat there when I visited? Too many toys in that room to remember. Excellent. I’d flood their lives with toys, till they swam through stuffed bears, music boxes and plush horses. Their mother would complain of the clutter. I’d just laugh. Would serve her right.

  A small crowd gathered about, amused by our treasure-pile of prizes, the growing fury of the barker. Till Chatterton threw, and the toss went wild, clanged handle-first, bounced to a shelf, broke a glass owl. The barker laughed in scorn. Chatterton put his remaining knives down before he killed anyone.

  “Hark to that?” he asked. I listened. Crowd sounds, music of lutes, flutes and drums. And a bell, tolling bright and clear as the summer sun.

  “Is it the bell you seek?”

  “It is,” he affirmed. “An Espada would know it across any century.”

  “Well, now it’s rung,” I pointed out. “Does challenge and bloodshed end here?”

  “Is it ever so easy?” he asked, scowling at the wall of slaughtered targets. “No, I must sound it myself in proper tune, if my cousins are to feel at ease with giving over murder.”

  This discussion was followed with interest by the watchers.

  “Excuse me,” asked a woman. She wore a wheeled horse’s behind that joined to her nicely, for all it blocked and knocked at those about her. A lady centaur, I suppose. A child rode upon her back, hands tight to her mane. Eyes bright at sight of our treasure hoard. “Are you two part of the fair?”

  “I’m thinking we are all part of the fair,” declared Chatterton. The first philosophy I’d heard the man utter. He handed a wooden sword to the boy, who waved it in battle fury.

  “Watch my back?” asked Chat. To me, not the child.

  “Honored,” I declared, and scooped up the dolls, the bear, the music box, the plastic skull. Followed him with these treasures held safe. We passed the Fallen Angel and Forest Savage without merest word of greeting, without least glance of love. I heard the angel giggle, the savage sniff.

  I called halt before a great sign. A map of the fair. “Here’s your destination,” I told Chatterton, thumping a doll to the tiny picture of a church. “The Leper’s Chapel. But don’t take the paths. Go through this alley, over what wall you’ll find. Same again twice and you’ve arrived at your bell.”

  “Why not the path?” asked Chatterton. Well, he was a straightforward soul, for all he was a killer.

  “Because Edgar is standing some fifty paces ahead,” I explained. “Face smeared with green paint, black horns upon his head. Has a crossbow, saber and several knives. Emily is twenty steps behind us. No, don’t look. She’s dressed as a tall boy in black silk pants, black lace shirt. Makes a proper Hamlet. Foil at side. One arm seems damaged. Bag over her shoulder holds something heavy. Probably pistol.”

  Chatterton glanced not at his cousins but at me. “You spadassins astonish an honest fellow.”

  “As we should,” I declared. But down deep I didn’t think much of it. Neither disguise had been meant to fool. It was only Em and Ed delighting in costume. They’d weren’t souls for sly hiding, but for mad dancing.

  “Right,” I declared. “Through the alley with you, over the walls, while I distract and delay your cousinry.” Expecting him to argue. But no, he considered the battle map, then nodded approval of the battle plan. Turned and darted away.

  The alley was a dark tunnel between a great stone building and a small, open amphitheatre. I waited at the en
trance, arms full of prizes. Up strode green-faced, black-horned Edgar. Followed by Hamlet, dancing and twirling. Ah, Emily Espada was made for the fair, exact as oyster for oyster shell.

  I should have dropped my prizes. Didn’t wish to. I was proud of them. So I stared out over these treasures, as soldier peering from sheltering rocks and bushes.

  “This fellow again?” wondered Em aloud. “He looks right recovered.” She herself looked pale, eyes shadowed. Dark bruise on her chin. One arm bound in makeshift sling.

  “Hush, love,” said Edgar. Voice hoarse. I knew that accent of pain. He’d taken a blow to throat. Yet he spoke politely past the hurt.

  “Pardon, your lordship. We’ve need to pass.”

  “What the hell is green and has horns?” I demanded.

  He considered. “A bugler, five days dead?”

  Em covered eyes with her good hand, embarrassed. “You great booby, it’s you.”

  Ed put a finger to green painted face, felt at his horns in surprise.

  “Ach, I forgot. ‘Tis the simple riddles that confound a soul.” He returned to me. “We’ve no further interest in your person. Step aside, knowing all war between us is,” he searched for proper word, “is resolved.”

  I was glad to hear it. Shook head to say they still could not pass. They nodded to say they were not overly surprised.

  “Might have been an ox,” considered Em, drawing foil. “Wearing my green summer dress.”

  “Why would an ox be in your summer dress?” demanded Ed, raising crossbow. Em pondered this question while Ed aimed for my heart. I launched all my prizes upon him in a great avalanche of dolls and toys, holding back only the skull. The great bear-doll took the bolt in its cotton-stuffed heart. Damn the creatures! I’d meant that toy for the duck-fuzzed girl. Of a sudden I hated the sight of these lunatics. I snarled, drew, slashed.

  My attack scarce surprised them. My rage did. Murder counted as no great affront in the Espada ethos. Judging from Chatterton, all strong emotions of the Blade Clan were washed away in a gentle stream of blood, leaving their souls at peace, polite as vicars at tea. From their view, I’d been taken with an incomprehensible fit.

  I near cut Edgar’s throat, but he leap from my snarl. While Em lunged, forcing me to turn aside. Ed threw the crossbow at me. I ducked, leapt to attack. Not at him but at Em. Kicking her legs out from beneath. She cursed, tumbled, dropping the foil. I kicked it half across the fair.

  Edgar’s turn to roar, draw saber. Did I say the Espada lacked strong emotion? But Edgar knew one, at least. The mad creature loved. We had that in common. I’d still run his love through.

  “Drop sword, Espada,” I spat. “Or I-” That was as far as words went before his love rolled beneath my point, slashing with sudden knife. Served me right to underestimate her. I leapt away, found myself clashing blades with Edgar. Instead of pressing attack, he backed towards the amphitheatre. Defending, not seeking my blood. What had he meant by ‘resolved’?

  Emily herself did a wonderful roll to her feet. Alas, but this landed her in the arms of a rainbow-haired forest savage. Lalena grabbed Emily, lifted her high. Shaking the thin creature till the knife fell. Several knives fell. Onlookers rushed to scoop them up, windfall prizes from the fair. Edgar retreated, green-painted face concentrating. Ah, he was noting what targets I preferred. Did I shift weight for a lunge, signal with widened eyes that I intended a slash? What a sensible being I now faced. A creature of thought and reason. What a sad thing, to be insane except at the business of killing.

  Onlookers gathered, as they will. At first shouting in alarm. But when Edgar backed onto the amphitheatre stage a comfortable certainty came that all this seeming murder came with ticket purchase. They filled the seats, choosing sides, commenting upon our form and technique.

  “Go, green!”

  “Is that real blood?”

  “I’ve seen better moves.”

  “Fine,” shouted the Piratical Dandy Bore. “A hundred for the Spada Ropera. Final offer, guy.”

  In excellent form, Edgar’s blade made feint, parry, then whirled past mine, Not bothering to target my chain-mailed torso. He went for the neck. Excellent choice for saber, if predictable. Would have opened my throat to the spine but that I blocked with the prize skull. His strike cut the toy, leaving it stuck to blade. Edgar waved his saber to free it from this mocking symbol of death. Easy to put my point to his green-painted throat. The crowd cheered.

  They’d not clap when I ran him through. They’d scream, shout, run. But Edgar Espada was too deadly to let live. Told myself so. And yet... I didn’t wish to kill in Utopia. Not before folk come to escape cares, thinking they observed a bit of play. Perhaps the young couple with the fussy baby watched now, holding the child high to see the fun.

  I met Edgar’s eyes. Sweat sent the green paint running down his fire-scarred face. He looked a bugler five days dead. Yet grinning same as the skull upon his blade. He marked my hesitation, sent hand wandering towards his back, seeking hidden knife. Aye, he’d kill me if I let him breathe a minute more. Then he’d hunt down Lalena and all her cousins. The dead bugler grin promised it.

  So I would not let him live. A bell was ringing, tolling, sounding about us. My mind went to Macbeth. Hear it not, Espada. For it’s a knell that summons thee to Hell. But Edgar did hear it. He closed eyes, ceased grin, dropped sword. Dropped even the fresh-drawn knife. Fell to knees, covering head with hands to shield it from unmerciful heaven and the sounding of the bell. Nothing to do with me, my sword or Macbeth.

  I stared down at him, then out at the crowd, as puzzled as they. Lalena dropped Emily to the dirt. She curled into a ball, quivering as though whipped by each separate chime of the sweet tolling bell. Only one soul in all the fair seemed to know for whom the bell rang and why, and yet welcomed it.

  Kariel pulled away her devil’s horns. Threw them aside. Raised her great wings high, and beat them together, shaking feathers free of red glitter, black ribbon. All the fair crowd shouted in alarm, in delight, in wonder. Wings arching above her, Kariel gave a great cry; of joy, of laughter, of bright tears’ release. So loud and clear a sound it must cross all the fair, echoing off the clouds. And yet it was just a girl’s laugh; no more magic than the cry of any maid at the window, spying their true love at the gate. Laughing done, tears done, Kariel raised thin arms, then leaped into the air. Flying fast and low across the wondering fair, seeking her love.

  Chapter 29

  Time’s Fools, and the Edge of Doom

  I held the stage before an audience. Victory laurel across my eyes, enemy curled at my feet. It’d blaspheme Rodomonte, Muse of Political Hectoring not to give a speech. I kicked Edgar’s saber and knife beyond his reach. Sheathed my own sword, doffed hat to the crowd, and gathered ten thousand thoughts upon tax reform, labor rights and universal representation. Should I delve into class equality? How stood Adam Smith’s reputation in the miraculous future?

  “Good people of Utopia, I am a traveler from the far past.” There. It was said. I followed with a sweeping bow. Would the confession bring gasps? Laughter? Cries of ‘witch’? I heard none. Perhaps in Utopia travelers across centuries were common as egg mongers. I wondered how one bought eggs in Utopia.

  “I have journeyed to your advanced time to measure the worth of your lives. How goes your society? How stand your freedoms? What came of our long labor to make a just world?” I shook head. “A fool’s journey. I meant to flatter myself by claiming credit for your sunlight. What vanity, to stare into the window of the future and think it my own handsome mirror.”

  Some onlookers yawned, wandering away. Others remained, either enraptured by my eloquence or hoping Edgar would rise up with a knife. For now he crouched arms over head, sheltering from a bell returned to silence.

  “Fine,” shouted the Piratical Bore. “Two hundred for the ropera. Last chance.”

  I wondered if a blade made centuries past increased in value. One could buy them cheap in Londonish, sell them dear in the fair
s of the future. Perhaps they did. Not the beer, though. That piss-foam never touched an honest tavern keg.

  “But I see the purpose of my presence now,” I declared. A flat lie. I have never seen any purpose in my presence except to breathe and love as long as possible, and then a minute longer. But one doesn’t admit this in speeches. A crowd prefers Duty and Destiny be mated.

  “I know my duty and destiny now. I am not here to claim your virtues nor curse your failings. You are not the mere sum of previous lives. For good and for ill, the sun and shadow of your era is yours alone to judge.” The toy skull grinned up at me from the stage floor. Excellent prop. I retrieved it, addressed the morbid thing.

  “If I bring any word from the dead worth your hearing, it is only this: that you are wise to recall the past exactly as you do today. For the past was a time of monsters and absurdities. Nightmares walked our streets. Pirates ruled our courts.”

  Of a sudden I pointed at the Piratical Bore. The audience considered the man. Dark leather, brigand hat. He crossed arms in outrage. Looking the very picture of a thieving tyrant brought to the dock.

  “Your costumes are correct. The centuries past were a land ruled by brigands, pirates and merchant devils. Remember them just so!” Here I thought it good to give devil-horned Edgar a shove with my boot, sending him tumbling over the edge of the stage. To cheers, I point out. I looked about the audience, spied the drunken bishop who’d spilled beer upon my boots. Drew sword, pointed tip to him.

  “And our priests? They were wolves disdaining an honest howl. They walked in solemn robes, preaching in men’s voices. For all they followed rich jackals and princely crows, blessing their devouring of the poor.”

  The Drunken Bishop rose up. I never saw a guiltier face in my life or my mirror. He pushed his way out the amphitheatre, tripping on his robes. The crowd laughed, whistled, supposing this arranged. Who knew but it was.