Many Adventures of Eaglethorpe Buxton

by Allison, Wesley

  “You are a woman.”

  “No, you are a woman.”

  “No, you are a woman! You are a woman and your real name is…”

  “Shh! Quietly.”

  “You’re real name is Elleena.”

  “And Rupert’s real name is Sally. What is your point?”

  “I have no point other than to say that my story is not so stupid as you would make it out to be,” said I. “I will admit that it would have been better if you hadn’t constantly interjected your editorializing into it.”

  “You don’t have to add everything anybody says,” he said. “But I did like how you made it seem like burning down half the city was a good idea.”

  “It was only seventeen blocks.”

  “Well,” said Ellwood, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek. “I suppose it’s not completely stupid. Why don’t we go have a piece of pie?”

  “I have never turned down a woman offering me pie,” said I, climbing to my feet.

  “No man neither,” said Ellwood.

  “That is true,” said I. “No man neither.”

  To be continued…

  Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Amazons

  Chapter One: Wherein there is a pie where there ought not to be a pie.

  There was a pie. There was a pie sitting on a rock. You may think that you have heard this story before, but I assure you that you have not. There was no steam rising up into the air from this pie. Oh, to be sure there was plenty of steam, because in the muggy, hot, insect-infested, horrible land of Ennedi, it is always steaming. The pie sitting on the rock, in what was just about the only patch of shade available, was quite cool. It might have been the only thing within a hundred miles that was cool. Is there a more welcoming sight? Is there a more welcoming sight for a traveler from a far land, slogging through a fetid, stinking jungle, on a hot humid day, sweating and dehydrated, than the sight of a cool pie on a rock? You don’t have to answer that. I can tell you. There is no more welcoming sight than such a pie. In this place, there were no sights or sounds or smells anywhere near as welcoming. Mosquitoes buzzed thick as a fog. Nearby pools of bubbling tar belched out noxious gasses. The distant call of monkeys mingled with the nearer cry of birds. And I know what you are thinking—birds sound nice. Not these birds. They were the horrible, nasty, squawking kind of birds. Still, there was that pie. It sat on that rock like a diamond ring sitting on a pile of horse manure.

  I should stop and introduce myself. I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famed world traveler and story-teller. Surely you know me from my many famous adventures—Prudence the Possessive Pirate, The Sky Princess, and Night of the Zombies. You may know me as the author of these stories and you may know me as the hero of these stories, because I am not only a great writer of stories, I am also a great hero of stories. But I digress. There was a pie.

  I had been slogging my way through the fetid, which is to say stinking, swamps of Ennedi for more than a week. I was drenched in sweat, both my own and that of my horse Hysteria. I was tired. I was dirty. I was unhappy. She was tired. She was dirty. And Hysteria was unhappy. She was unhappy because she was sweaty and hot, and she was unhappy because she hadn’t had anything but swamp grass to eat in a week, but mostly she was unhappy about having to plod through the mud. Hysteria hates to have anything unusual clinging to her feet, and that mud in the horrible swamps in the awful land of Ennedi was definitely clingy.

  Ennedi is a humid and unpleasant, and invertebrate-rich subcontinent some one thousand miles south of Aerithraine. It isn’t known for much, which is to say that not many people know what is found there, and it isn’t known much, which is to say that not too many people know of it. People aren’t missing much. If one has a fondness for centaurs or mud or pygmies or insects or wild forest women, then Ennedi is the place to visit. If one is looking for mineral wealth, Ennedi is the place for you, though you should expect to go through severe trials and tribulations, which is to say the fighting of monsters, before achieving it.

  If you are in the mood for a lovely breast of chicken dinner, you can just forget it. You will not find it. It’s not that there aren’t chickens in abundance. In fact, the chickens here are larger than I’ve seen anywhere else in the world. They simply are not interested in becoming breast of chicken dinners. And as they are nine feet tall and extremely vicious, they usually get their way. If that were not bad enough, it is impossible to find a replacement for chicken on your menu with beef, pork, or mutton; as cows, pigs, and sheep are unknown in Ennedi. The people here eat snake and they eat crocodile. They eat turtles and when they can get them, they eat fish. These fish are not bass in butter or pan-fried trout or beer-battered catfish. Oh, no. They eat three kinds of fish in Ennedi. The most popular is mud fish. The second most popular is muck fish. The least popular is slime fish. I can tell you from experience that the most popular is only slightly less disgusting than the least popular, which is to say the mud fish and the slime fish respectively. Ennedi is not the place for a gourmet, or even someone who is not used to occasionally vomiting in one’s own mouth. And alas, there are very few pies. So when I saw that pie, sitting alone, after slogging through the fetid swamps for more than a week, you can imagine my thoughts.

  I thought, “Who would leave a pie, lying thus?” I thought, “It would be a shame for a pie such as this to go to waste.” And I thought, “I wonder if that pie tastes as good as it looks.”

  I thought, “I wonder if that pie tastes as good as it looks,” because I could not smell the pie over the smells were of mud, swamp, and slime. The pie looked beautiful though. It looked cool and welcoming and delicious.

  I would not steal a pie. I did not steal this pie. Though I have been most unfairly accused of being a thief on one or two or nineteen occasions, I have never been convicted of such a heinous crime, except in Theen where the courts are most unfairly in control of the guilds, and in Breeria which is ruled by a tyrant, and one time in Aerithraine when the witnesses were all liars, and once in Antriador where it’s better not to mention that particular case at all. So as you can see, I am not one to steal a pie. But being concerned that such a pie might melt in the heat, I stepped forward to get a better look that I might aid the owner of the pie in keeping it from being spoiled or from being eaten by some horrible swamp beast. I reached out to touch the edge of the pie. It looked so cool and beckoning. It seemed to be saying, “Eaglethorpe, I am all alone here in the swamp and if I am going to spoil anyway, you ought to eat me before that happens.” But as soon as I touched the pie plate, ropes shot up from all around me, and I was lifted from my feet high into the air, suspended in a great rope net.

  “This is a fine how do you do,” said I.

  Hysteria looked at me from below, rolling her eyes as if to say, “There you go again Eaglethorpe. Although you are heroic and handsome, and were I a human woman, I would doubtlessly be horribly, terribly, and deeply in love with you, you can’t seem to control yourself around a pie.”

  “What do you know about it?” I called down to her.

  Then three women stepped out from behind the high bushes. They each carried a spear and a shield made of animal hides, which is to say the shield was made of animal hides and not the spear, which was made with a stick and a rock, the rock being shaped like a spear head. One was naked except for a loin cloth and a brassiere made of coconuts. The second was naked except for an animal skin g-string. The third was completely naked. All three of their bodies were painted with war paint into frightening yet colorful designs.

  “Our trap has worked,” said the first woman, which is to say the one wearing the most clothing.

  “Having that sorceress cast a spell making this rock to appear as a pie was a good idea,” said the second, which is to say the one intermediately clothed. She picked up the pie and it turned into a large flat stone.

  “Men are so easily fooled,” said the third woman, which is to say the one that was completely naked.

  “I hope you are not Amazons,” said I.r />
  Hysteria whinnied as if to say, “Of course they are Amazons. What other women would be traveling around the swamps of Ennedi, entrapping men with rocks ensorcelled to appear as pies?” Then she turned and trotted away into the high swamp grass.

  Chapter Two: Wherein I astound the reader with my skill by putting the beginning of the story in chapter two after putting the middle of the story in chapter one.

  It was nine days earlier when I arrived in the humid, hot, pestilent land of Ennedi. It had been a long voyage from Aerithraine though and I was anxious to get my feet back on land. Hysteria was at least as happy to be on solid soil as was I. If you think sailing in a damp, tossing, wildly rocking, filthy, barely floating sea vessel for three weeks, with green drinking water, insect-laden food, and no bathing facilities sounds like less than enjoyable voyage, imagine doing the same thing while standing up the whole time.

  “Easy girl,” I said to her, as I led her down the dirt path from the crude wooden docks to the crude wooden buildings that made up the port town of Something. “We will find you some nice oats and some fresh water.”

  You may think that I inserted the word “Something” because I couldn’t remember the correct name of the port town, but that is not the case. The port town is named “Something.” Bizarre names are fairly common in Lyrria, from where the first civilized settlers to Ennedi originated. I once spent a night at an inn in the small town of East Thumbnail, just outside Antriador. They made a passable brisket at that inn, as I recall. Something that cannot be said of any inn in Something.

  Hysteria nickered as if to say, “You are a fine and a forthright and a good master to think of getting oats for me when you are probably yourself in need of a tall glass of beer.”

  “You are right,” said I. “I am in need of a tall glass of beer.”

  “Eaglethorpe!” came a call from behind me.

  “I turned to find young Percival Thorndyke hurrying toward me, pulling his less than enthusiastic steed, which is to say his horse Susan, behind him.

  I had met young Percival on the voyage. He had left Illustria, as I had, though we had never run into one another while we were there. This surprised neither of us, as Illustria is the largest city in the world. He had confided in me that he had chosen to set sail aboard the S.S. Bucket of Spit because it was the ugliest, ricketiest, and most likely to sink ship that he could find. I had confided in him that I had chosen the same ship because it was the only one that I could afford, my purse having been stolen some days before I left. We had spent much time on the voyage talking and telling stories, though I had yet to hear the story of why Percival Thorndyke would set sail toward someplace as horrible and awful as Ennedi, or why he would choose the an ugly, rickety, and likely to sink ship in which to do so.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  “I am going to find a stable and then a pub or tavern,” said I. “Hysteria has reminded me that I deserve a tall glass of beer.”

  “An excellent idea,” said he. “Do you mind if I come along?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, and we started toward the largest of the thirty or so wooden buildings in Something.

  I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my already sweaty brow.

  “I can’t believe how hot it is,” said I.

  “Yes,” he replied, looking around with a broad grin on his face. “I would wager that people die here of heat stroke every day.”

  “And I can’t believe how many insects there are,” said I, as I slapped a mosquito off the back of my neck.

  He nodded happily and held up his bare arms to show me six or seven of the little suckers, which is to say mosquitoes, digging their proboscises, which is to say their long, pointy, stinger-like mouths, into his skin.

  “At least one of them is bound to carry malaria or the plague, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Everyone knows that disease is carried not by insects but by unhealthy vapors floating on the air,” said I.

  “Oh,” he said, unhappily.

  “Ah, there is a stable,” I said upon spying an example of the aforementioned business.

  This stable was large and in good repair. In fact, it could well have been the best constructed and best maintained building in Something. We walked in through the door, leading our mounts along with us. I didn’t see a proprietor at first, so I called out.

  “Ahoy! We need to stable our horses!”

  “Of course you do,” said a voice from in back.

  Seconds later a large form walked out into the light. It was a centaur—from the waist up a stout human fellow with a clean-shaven face and a pot belly, and from the waist down, a tan horse with a black tail.

  “Why else would you come to a stable if not to stable your horses?”

  “Indeed,” I replied, as I unstrapped my duffle bag and my saddle bags from behind my saddle. “I would like to stable Hysteria here for the night, and I would like her to have a good rub-down and to be fed some fine oats.”

  “And I want the same for Susan,” said Percival.

  “That will be two shillings a horse.”

  “That’s daylight robbery!” I exclaimed.

  “Take it or leave it,” said the Centaur. “This is the only stable in town.”

  “I shall cover you, Eaglethorpe,” said Percival, and whipping out his purse, he placed four shillings in the horse-man’s fat fist.

  “I shall repay you at the closest tavern,” said I, and then turning to the centaur, I asked, “Where is the closest tavern?”

  “Two doors down is the inn. They have a taproom.”

  “My thanks,” said I, as Percival and I bid farewell to Hysteria and Susan and made our way back out the door.

  Chapter Three: Wherein I learn of the true horribleness of Ennedi.

  We found the inn easily enough, as it was only two doors down. The bottom floor was devoted to service as a taproom, outfitted relatively comfortably with tables and chairs. Behind a large but rickety bar, the barkeep was busy wiping down copper cups.

  “Two tall glasses of beer,” said I, tossing my duffle and saddlebags down next to my feet.

  He drew two beers from the tap, but they were poured into copper cups rather than glasses. I later learned that unlike Illustria, where glass is easy to obtain, in Ennedi, what small amount of glass there is available is dedicated to windows. I took a long drink of the beer. I would not say that I am a connoisseur of beer, though I have consumed many a stein, mug, or tureen in Lyrria, Goth, Lythia, Brest, Theen, and of course in Aerithraine, which could well be called the beer capital of the world. This beer wasn’t all that cool, but was sudsy and good nonetheless.

  “Your neighbor the centaur is rather grumpy,” I told the barkeep.

  “Wouldn’t you be, if you were him?” he replied.

  “Why? It can’t be so bad being a centaur?”

  “I’m sure being a centaur isn’t so bad,” said the barkeep. “That’s not Hercule’s problem though. His problem is he’s a gelding.”

  “A what now?”

  “Come now, Eaglethorpe,” said Percival. “You’ve lived around horses all your life. You know what a gelding is. A gelding is a horse that’s been castrated.”

  “I know what a gelding is as far as horses, but this… um, stable master…”

  “Hercule,” offered the barkeep.

  “Hercule… he’s a centaur, which is to say a man, or at least a half man.”

  “But he’s also a half horse,” said Percival. “And the horse half contains the parts in question.”

  “But he’s a half man,” said I.

  “But he’s a half horse,” repeated Percival. “I’ve actually heard of this before with regards to centaurs. The herd stallion maintains his bloodline by siring all the mares and by keeping his offspring as the leaders. The offspring of any others, such as former herd stallions or defeated rivals, are made geldings and are usually sent off to interact with humans.”

  “Who could do such a thing to an
intelligent being?” I asked.

  “You mean besides the herd stallions?” asked the barkeep. “Well, the Amazons for one.”

  “Amazons?”

  “That’s right. You see, the few little towns along the coastline, like Something, are the only outposts of civilization on the continent. The rest of it is divided between the centaurs on the many great grasslands; the pygmies, tiny little folk who live in the forests; and the Amazons, fierce woman warriors who chiefly dwell in the swamplands. If you wander into the centaur lands, you’ll not likely be castrated unless you are another centaur.”

  “That’s lucky,” said I.

  “The humans, they just kill.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Percival with a grin.

  “The Amazons divide the men they capture into two groups. The unattractive ones are castrated and sold as slaves.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said I.

  “The handsome men are taken back to the Amazon cities where the women make love to them for days on end.”

  “That’s much better,” said I.

  “Then they kill them.”

  “That is interesting,” said Percival.

  “What about the pygmies?” I asked.

  “If the pygmies capture you, they will likely castrate you, kill you, and eat you, not necessarily in that order.”

  “What a horrible place this is,” said I. “I can’t imagine what possessed me to come here.”

  “They say there is gold just south of here,” said Percival. “They say it’s just lying on the ground, waiting to be picked up.”

  “That’s right,” said I. “I did forget that was the reason.”

  “My balls!” shouted someone right behind me.

  I dropped my beer and jumped out of my seat. My feet slipped out from under me, and as I was protectively cupping my crotch with both hands at the time, I smacked my head into the bar as I fell.