For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3)

by Ichabod Temperance

  The lightning show pauses, and falls completely black before one particularly illuminating jagged streak casts a white light across our plain. The stark, silhouette of the Martian tower standing over its protective berm is burned upon our retinas in the searing flash. The bleak image is chilling.

  “Yes, Mr. Temperance, the tower has risen once again. I can attest to that. If I may add, the tower did seem to be standing taller, dare I say, with more confidence and swagger even, eh hem?”

  “Gee, you know, I guess I thought so too.”

  “There, sir, another brilliant crack of electricity through the stormy atmosphere reveals there is something a bit different. In that fractional second of clear vision, did the tower appear to be closer to the edge of the pit? Moreover, was its positioning slightly off kilter?

  The storm hits us in full force. Wind and rain like a solid wall of water assault us. Our observational abilities are severely hampered by the heavy rain.

  A solid ground strike of lightning plunges into the earth a few miles directly behind the tower from our position. The ground strike is held for a complete two count. In that time, we are given the impression that the tower is changing its position.

  “Um, um, um, did I just see that thing move, Ma’am?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Temperance.”

  We await the next flash of lightning that will confirm our fears, or calm our hearts.

  A flash of lightning provides a fraction of a second’s view. We see what we had hoped we would not. The three legged tower stands at an extreme limit of tilt, with two legs free of its crater.

  Many run at the awful sight. Some of us stay where we are. I do not think any of us fail to flee the apparition because we are especially brave or courageous. In fact, I have the impression that some actually want to run but cannot. I think I am one of these. I am dumbstruck at the unreality of what I am seeing.

  The flashes of lightning come faster and faster. So too does the light show artificially animate the monstrosity. Every blinding envelopment of blackness between blue/white crashing spears of lightning brings the creature one step closer to our position. It is as if the structure is being moved by the process of a series of photographs shown one after another, in order to approximate the illusion of movement.

  It is difficult to get our minds to comprehend that what we are looking at is real. The impossibility of what our eyes are witnessing threatens our sanity.

  Our enemy possesses a vehicle with the ability to walk.

  With its round, flattened, carriage sixty feet in the air, its talent of balance boggles the mind. The three spidery legs that reach to the ground are sketchy in their movements. In the most awkward approximation of walking, the overgrown milk stool careens toward us. With a tangible conscious effort, the machine methodically picks up one leg at a time and tentatively places it forward. Despite its caution, the monster machine ends each step by plunging a sharpened blade deep into the ground as it receives the considerable weight. An ongoing lightning show illuminates its path. Light is also provided by its lavender beam and the fires it causes in front of the lurching menace.

  Clementine has already fled as the structure looms close.

  “Bolt, fetch Clementine and then find us again.”

  Instantly, Bolt is after the runaway horse.

  “This way,” I encourage Miss Plumtartt, snatching her out of the way of the colossal, rambling wreck just as one of its pointed tootsies plunges into the spot where we were just standing.

  “Rather! I say! And now, this way, I should think, Mr. Temperance,” she replies, snatching me along to follow the path of destruction caused by our tottering tower.

  “I would feel a lot better about your safety Ma’am, if you would learn to hang back a little in times of distress.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Temperance. We must stay after Earth’s invader.”

  “I think Earth’s invader is drunk, Ma’am. Either that, or he is a novice at piloting the craft.”

  “I think it is the latter, Mr. Temperance. Our chauffeur is gaining skill and subsequently speed. Our aggressor now easily outpaces us, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt. I sure wish we had Bolt and Clementine back.”

  “Roof!”

  “Mister Bolt, there you are, buddy! You found Clementine and brought her to us! Good boy!”

  “Roof!”

  “I say, our equestrian companion returns sans her wagon. I think she may have had her own adventures in the last few minutes, eh hem?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Here you go, I’ll boost you up.”

  “Very good, now then, I will assist you up, after me.”

  “Golly, Miss Plumtartt, we will be riding awfully close together, Ma’am!”

  “Under the circumstances, propriety will not mind you taking a rear seat.”

  “Gee, this riding awfully close together stuff ain’t really all that awful.”

  “I concur, Mr. Temperance.”

  “I kind of wish terrible and dire circumstances would come around more often, now.”

  “Mr. Temperance, there are bits of metal in the roadway. Be careful that Clementine does not harm herself.”

  “Golly, those must be exploded bits of the rail-mounted mortars. I reckon that’s a hint that we ain’t out on a lark no more.”

  “Mr. Temperance, look out into that field. If I am not mistaken, we have caught our foe.”

  “Well how about that, Miss Plumtartt, it looks like our Martian walking buggy is bogged down in the mud.”

  “What a miraculous and unexpected sight. The Martian, for I have decided to go ahead and accept the hypothesis that these are indeed invaders from Mars, and that is how we shall refer to them, appears to be experiencing difficulties. The more he struggles to lift his craft’s legs from the muck, the more stuck he becomes, eh hem?”

  “I think this is a good opportunity to do a little reconnoitering, Ma’am. How about you, Bolt and Miss Clementine stay put, while I give the situation a once over.”

  “We agree, Mr. Temperance, though we all encourage you to exercise caution.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  I creep up on the Terran tethered titan.

  The craft’s legs are sunk several feet into the rain soaked field.

  The operator vainly attempts to dislodge his stuck limbs. All efforts to facilitate release are without reward. The walking machine strains to lift one leg at a time, or in conjunction with the other two. The chapped chauffeur makes frustrated attempts at jumping up out of the bog. These too prove fruitless. The legs of the tripod remain fixed. The sharpened, pointy-tip feet of the vehicle were not built for soft terrain.

  The more the three-legged mechanical spider struggles, the worse off it is. I think the driver figures that out and stops his activity. Quickly creeping up while the engineer is otherwise engaged, I am able to get right up on the vessel. I can now get a better appreciation for the complexities of the conduits, the attention to the attenuators, and the function of the conjunctions. The rods and controlling levers are now there for me to see. The many complex joints of each telescoping leg are beginning to share their secrets with me.

  There is a noise overhead.

  Locks are disengaging from around a circular construct.

  A hatchway is opening!

  Hiding behind a mud-impaled leg, I keep an eye on that hatch.

  Whooshing air announces a change in air pressures as a heavy lid lifts up and into the ship. A light mist escapes with a hiss. Multi-colored, artificial lights wink and blink from unseen control panels within the vessel’s mysterious hold.

  Extending in an automatic manner, a gleaming, metallic ladder stretches out of the opening and all the way to the ground.

  I see a foot on the top rung. It is much like the hands I saw snatch up Mr. Grunt.

  Another three-toed foot descends to the next rung.

  And then another foot extends to the next rung. The first foot is then employed
to take the next, and so on. Three hands make an appearance one after another, in the same manner, and soon, the whole creature is revealed.

  He makes his way to the bottom of the ladder, muttering in a surly manner to himself.

  “Krargle smeagle snarf.”

  Foul and pungent odours from the interplanetary being threaten to overwhelm me. The scent is not unlike that of a liverwurst sandwich sprinkled with sulphur and left out in the summer sun. I steadfastly refuse to allow nausea to take its hold.

  Pausing at the foot of the ladder, he grasps a short rod from his belt. Manipulating a switch, he ignites a powerful beam of light. No flames are in evidence, just an instant, un-natural source of candlepower. This handy illumination device is used to inspect his stuck vehicle. The arm protruding from the top of his head is well positioned for handling the light-rod. He investigates all three limbs of his quagmired vehicle. I keep the stanchion of the tripod’s leg between myself and the Martian as a means of concealment. Mr. Martian has an erratic way of moving around, and I have to move deftly to stay exactly opposite of the stinky fellow. I constantly adjust my position around the leg, lest I get caught out. He is inspecting his carriage, and not looking for me, thank Goodness. So far, so good, I am staying quiet, and able to nimbly move without his seeing me, using the machinery as an obstacle to his vision. He returns to the first leg and gives it a kick. He yelps in pain as this is obviously a painful thing to do. I think the impatient chap regrets his action.

  I’ve gotten me a pretty good look at him by now. Standing about five foot nothing and weighing in at about three-hundred pounds, this three toed, three fingered, three legged, three armed visitor does have one normal feature. A single mouth, but this is lined with ravenous fangs and rests below the most disturbing feature of this green-skinned, inter-stellar pickle. That would be his three eyes. Though it is a pretty odd thing that he uses the third leg to sit back on, and the third arm protruding from the top of his head enjoys a 360 degree rotation.

  “Ouch,” I cry, as I investigate a wire that turns out to be busy conducting electricity. Sometimes I am too curious for my own good. This is one of those times.

  “Flargle!” shouts my quarry, as he realizes my imprudent presence and I become his quarry.

  The Martian transfers the rod-light back to his head hand and draws what appears to be a pistol. I think he has gotten wise to my hiding about the legs of his transport. His efforts at finding me out become more intensified. My efforts at remaining elusive become more harried. After two successful darts from one stanchion to another, I am finally forced to make a break for it as he is surely about to catch me.

  “Farfle Fuegin!” I hear him curse, indicating he has spotted my tactical withdrawal.

  The open field provides no cover. I am zig-zagging and moving with as unpredictable a flight path as possible to foil my foe’s murderous intent. Strange crackling noises accompany the firing of the weapon and ear-splitting retorts are combined with the emerald blossoms of powerful blasts exploding around me. Hurried along by the green rays concussive assault, I high-tail it from that field in a flurry of tracks in my desperate getaway. Martian curses pursue me long after the ray-gun blasts have subsided.

  Chapter Five · The Monster

  that Ate Birmingham.

  “My word, Mr. Temperance, this was a bustling city a day and a half ago. Now it is a ghost town.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Birmingham is more deserted than a schoolhouse in July.”

  “The Eldermen of this city must have made a decision to evacuate ahead of the war-walker. The electric trolleys are not running and there is not a soul anywhere.”

  “Everybody that owns a horse or steamer has fled this city. I hear a ruckus up ahead. I think everyone that is left in town is piled up at the train station.”

  “These are desperate times, Mr. Temperance. I advise that we keep Clementine hidden, lest she become loot.”

  “Gosh, I reckon that’s good thinking, Ma’am. You stay here with Clementine and Bolt, and I’ll go see how things are sittin’.”

  It is late afternoon when I near the overwhelmed station. The last train available is ready to pull out. The sleek, modern, engines of the fancy passenger lines are long gone. All the freight locomotives and cars are gone, too. This appears to be the last locomotive available. This old girl should be in a museum. It is sad to see the desperation that this last dreg of Birmingham’s hapless community puts into this obsolete train engine. She is attempting to pull a motley assortment of boxcars, flatcars and bucketcars. Each of these is piled dangerously high with panicked, human cargo.

  The little engine is straining, but cannot get going. The train weighs too much for the old girl. She was never built to haul this big of a load.

  I need to see what assistance I might render. My hometown is in trouble and I want to do what I can to help.

  I run up to the back of the train and push. It does not feel like this train is gonna budge, but I feel I need to try anyway.

  “Look at that boy pushing on the train, y’all.”

  “You gonna push that train to Atlanta, boy?”

  “Put your back into it, sonny.”

  “Ha, ha!”

  “Careful, kid, you’re gonna split a gut.”

  “Ha, ha!”

  “You’re face is turning purple, boy.”

  “Ha, ha!”

  “Stupid runt.”

  “Ha, ha! Hey, what are you doing?”

  “I’m gonna go help.”

  “Ha! You can’t push a train!”

  “Hey, what are y’all doing? Y’all can’t push a train. Y’all too? Y’all look silly, pushing on that train. It ain’t never gonna move. Y’all may as well give up. What are y’all doing? Don’t tell me that you are going to go over there and push too, are you? Y’all are just ridiculous, pushing on the back of that train like that. Hunh? Are y’all gonna push on that train too? Gee, now there is a good sized throng of people pushing on that train. Gosh, maybe there is a chance it will start moving. Hey, I’m gonna help, too!”

  “Push!”

  “It ain’t moving!”

  “Come on, push!”

  “It ain’t gonna move!”

  “Come on, I think we can do it!”

  “I don’t think we can do it!”

  “I think we can do it!”

  “I don’t think we can do it!”

  “I think we can!”

  “I think we can’t!”

  “Can!”

  “Can’t!”

  “Can!”

  “Can’t!”

  “I think we can. I think we can. I think we can. I think we can. I think we can! I think we can! I know we can! I know we can! Push, y’all, push!”

  “It ain’t moving!”

  “Push!”

  “It ain’t moving!”

  “Push!”

  “It bidged!”

  “Push!”

  “It budged!”

  “Push! Push! Push!”

  It is all we can do to move just a few feet, but little by little, we can tell that we are increasing speed. A cheer goes up as we feel the little engine take the train under its own power.

  Some prudently minded railroad men come in behind the departing train with pry bars. The tracks leading West were destroyed by our adversary. The tracks leading North and South are disrupted by these brave men, in an effort to protect rail traffic in those directions from the coming threat. It only remains to disrupt the tracks behind this last train from Birmingham. This sad, pitiful old train looks like it’s gonna be the last train from Birmingham forever. A melancholy resignation descends over these last few occupants of an abandoned city.

  I spot Sheriff Woodley. He is normally a dapper fellow, but his hard work at seeing to the hasty evacuation of this city has taken its toll on his fashionable attire. He leads the efforts in disrupting the rails to protect the departing train.

  “Ichabod! You’re alive!” My friend’s haggard ex
pression briefly regains its customary happy glow. “I was afraid that you were among the Tuscaloosa casualties. I am relieved to see it is not so, but you need to get yourself and that pretty little girl of yours outta town, boy.”

  “I’d like to do what I can to help here, first, sir.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything foolish, Ichabod. I know how headstrong you can be. You be careful, son.”

  “Yessir, I’ll behave.”

  I instantly feel bad. I don’t like to fib, and I have a feeling that misbehavior and being less than perfectly careful might be necessary in the near future.

  A woman’s shriek cuts through the dusk’s twilight. Her cry comes from the roof of the last boxcar. Her fellow roofmates take up the scream, pointing to the South-West.

  We look in that direction. Over the warehouse districts and the fashionable homes of Southside Birmingham, we can make out in the last few of the Sun’s dying rays, something moving. The stacked double pie plate bodied craft is headed East on the far side of Red Mountain, in the Shades Valley. The leviathan stops. Its legs extend to even greater heights. The fuselage is now teetering high above the mountain that separates it from the city of Birmingham. The metal monster pauses to have a look and then lowers from its extended height.

  The mechanical craft soon reappears as it climbs atop Red Mountain. The alien war machine stands impossibly high, towering over a hapless city. The Martian walker pauses atop the mountain, on the Southern boundary of Birmingham. Facing North, over the defenseless valley, its manner of standing grants it an aura of invincibility. The long, steel legs of many segments are planted wide. One could almost imagine the thing thrusting out its chest in a confident pose. The compartment on top of the three walking legs reminds me of an Olympians discus. This disc pans back and forth, taking in the amazing scene before it. A great American city spreads out before its terrible gaze. Though many of this community have fled already, there are still a number of citizens in residence. They are unable to withhold their screams at the terrible sight. The monster stands on the hill, high above the city and looks to the great steam plant. This tremendous steam plant provides huge amounts of energies for this industrious valley’s mining and steel works.