‘Hoptoad,’ I said, automatically utilising the Pendrock Persuasion Paradigm, ‘please put the gun down.’ The priest barely twitched.
‘Oh, please. The Arthurians invented the science of Dialectics a thousand years ago. You think I can be swayed by the application of a few bumbling intonements?’
Drakeforth chose this moment to throw a spatula at Hoptoad’s head. I had no time to consider where such an implement may have come from as it hit the elderly monk between the eyes. He cried out and the gun jerked upwards, firing with a roar and blinding flash.
‘Run!’ Drakeforth yelled. So I did. Straight at Hoptoad. I tackled him around the middle and crashed us into a stand of wooden barrels. The gun went skittering sideways across the floor, vanishing under the herb drying racks like an embarrassed crab.
Much like a dog chasing cars, now that I had caught Hoptoad, I was at a loss on what to do next. I gagged on a mouthful of the old man’s hair. His surprisingly tough fist crashed into my head and I saw stars before automatically letting go and curling into a foetal position on the floor.
Through a gap between my elbows I saw Drakeforth leap into the fray, wrapping a handful of Hoptoad’s flowing locks around the monk’s throat and trying to choke the life out of him.
Hoptoad reached over his head and jabbed Drakeforth in the ear with a thumb. Drakeforth’s left leg shot out sideways, nearly putting them both on the floor. The monk jabbed again at a slightly different point. This time Drakeforth’s hands flew up above his head. He kept his grip on Hoptoad’s hair and they both disappeared under the blanket of the monk’s white locks. They grunted and thrashed until eventually Drakeforth crawled out and brushed himself off.
My left cheek throbbed in a way that promised an impressive bruise. A brass band played enthusiastically in my head and the fireworks behind my eyes were a sight to behold.
‘Are you completely insane?’ Drakeforth demanded of the wheezing old man lying at his feet.
‘You shan’t … get away … with this …’ Hoptoad gasped.
‘And you thought you could get away with murdering us?’ I crawled to my feet and felt the world spinning on its axis.
‘Not murder, if for the common good,’ Hoptoad said.
‘Actual common good is all too rare these days,’ Drakeforth replied.
‘You won’t shut us down. You can destroy all that we have created here, but we are protected,’ Hoptoad declared.
Drakeforth’s strength returned with a push up from his conviction. He got to his feet and shook the dirt from his hair.
‘We don’t give a telephonist’s trachea what you silly burghers do out here. We just wanted some banjoed patchouli oil!’ Drakeforth exploded.
‘Really?’ Hoptoad did not look convinced.
‘Absolutely,’ I said and the whole story started to come out in a rush, ‘We tried everywhere in the city, we think that maybe the Godden Energy Corporation has somehow stopped the oil being available. We came here because the police got involved, and the most frightfully sarcastic woman and this creepy little man with an oxyacetylene torch. You see it all started with my great-grand-grandmother’s desk and my toaster.’
My speech would have a greater impact if I hadn’t started crying about halfway through. Whatever else I was going to say was lost in a cloud of blubbering.
‘You’re not agents of Godden, then?’ Hoptoad’s scowl took on a questioning aspect.
‘Not vexing likely,’ Drakeforth said.
Hoptoad made a harrumph sound, ‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble we have had with Godden agents over our herbal oils. But tell me, how exactly did you think we could help you?’
‘We need some patchouli oil. Drakeforth believes that there is a conversation of grave importance recorded in my great-grandmother’s living oak desk,’ I said, wiping my eyes and feeling foolish.
‘And patchouli oil is the only way to extract that which has been preserved in living oak,’ Hoptoad said, nodding.
‘To answer your rhetorical question, yes, we would believe the trouble you have had with the agents of Godden. We’ve experienced quite a bit of it ourselves,’ Drakeforth said.
I almost said, ‘Well I haven’t.’ A few days ago my biggest concern was the inevitable downward spiral of my health and affording car repairs.
‘This is for real, isn’t it?’ I asked instead. ‘There really is a conspiracy and they really do want to stop anyone getting hold of any patchouli oil.’
‘Agents of Godden. Without a doubt,’ Drakeforth replied and Hoptoad nodded in agreement.
‘I still think if we hadn’t run away from the police, I could have explained everything and all of this would have been cleared up straight away.’ In a rational world, this course of action would have made perfect sense. Now that Drakeforth was involved, it seemed almost absurd.
‘I was following you,’ Drakeforth said, the indignation apparent in his voice. ‘You ran out of the house when the police showed and then you drove the getaway vehicle.’
‘Do you ever take responsibility for anything?’ I seethed.
‘I understand free will. You make your choices, I am simply the observer,’ he replied with an irritating calm.
‘That’s quite a personal philosophy, Drakeforth. I would like to point out that my life was relatively straightforward until you started following me.’ I cast about, looking for the spatula or something more adamant to hit him with.
‘We can help you,’ Hoptoad said. ‘If you are who you say you are. We have the patchouli oil you need.’
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Drakeforth said. ‘The Godden Energy Corporation is involved in some grand conspiracy.’
‘How would I know?’ Hoptoad bristled. ‘I’m just trying to live a simple life connecting to a higher power. Instead I have men in suits turning up and asking about patchouli oil production and suggesting, in no uncertain terms, that we should stop growing the Arthur-given plants we depend on.’
‘What do you use it for?’ I asked.
‘Patchouli oil is used for anointing the faithful during our meetings. We also hold a sacred artefact of Saint Detriment. A shard of living oak that holds an exchange between the saint and our lord Arthur himself.’
‘You actually have the voice of Arthur recorded in living oak?’ I felt a chill. ‘Why has no one ever heard of this?’
‘Sacred artefacts are holy items. They are not for public consumption or display.’
‘This conversation between Saint Detriment and Arthur? What do they actually say?’ Drakeforth narrowed his eyes.
‘It’s not really a conversation. We consider it a verbal exchange.’
‘But it’s his actual words? Arthur’s actual words?’ I said, still trying to get my head around this. There was no doubt that someone called Arthur had once lived; many contemporary histories mentioned him and even his tax records were revered in Taxonomy circles.
Hoptoad sighed, ‘We hold the sacred living oak table tennis paddle of Saint Detriment, made in the days when living oak was not the conserved treasure it is today.
‘So this saint of yours and Arthur were discussing the true nature of man’s morality while playing table tennis?’ Drakeforth’s eyes had narrowed to slits.
Hoptoad took a deep breath, ‘The sacred words of our Lord Arthur are thus,’ he intoned. ‘Three-six. My serve. You can’t expect to return a third-ball tight with a smash. A counter-drive is the better stroke against that kind of short backspin.’
‘Does any of what you do in the name of religion make any sense to you at all?’ Drakeforth said.
‘Faith answers all the questions that knowledge poses.’ Hoptoad said with a definite sniff in his voice. Drakeforth gave a frustrated groan and turned on his heel, storming out of the lantern light and back towards the locked door.
‘This should suffice.’ Hoptoad took a bottle labelled ‘Patchouli’ from a shelf, pulled the cork and held it up to my nose. It smelled earthy.
‘Don’t worry, it’s th
e real thing,’ the priest smiled.
‘Thank you. This will be of great help.’
‘However, I cannot let you leave here with patchouli oil. It would be wise for you to bring the desk to us and let it be anointed.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘You are on a quest that Arthur has ordained,’ Hoptoad said.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You will take care of the desk? If we bring it to you? I mean, I’ll get it back, right?’
‘Empathic energy is meant to be natural. Converting it to man’s desires has enslaved us all. Perhaps with Arthur’s guidance we can return to a more natural world.’
‘What could be more natural than empathic energy?’ I frowned at the monk. ‘Just this once, a straight answer, please.’
‘Positive human emotions enhance the effectiveness of the double-e flux. We live in a world of peace because the nations of the world realise that it is more efficient to live in a world without strife and war. You need to ask yourself: what price peace on earth and goodwill to all men?’
‘What do you mean?’ My time at the monastery had helped me understand why Drakeforth railed against organised religion.
‘What is the source of empathic energy? Where do you think it comes from?’ Hoptoad asked.
‘Well … Godden discovered the double-e flux present in living oak and invented the first empathic energy inverter. From there it was a simple matter of hooking it up to something mechanical and developing more efficient systems and machines.’ I gave the obvious answer.
‘We have always been told that empathic energy was first discovered as part of Godden’s experiments with botanical psychiatry. Seeking to measure the emotional responses of plants, he instead discovers a new form of energy,’ Hoptoad said and I nodded; that was what I learned in school.
‘But Godden never studied botany, or psychiatry. He had no interest in plants. He was an engineer. His only interest in plants was researching how to ferment them into grain alcohol and distil unlicensed sunshine for parties. Whatever your friend hopes to learn from your living oak desk, it may be very dangerous. We can keep its secrets safe here.’
‘Thanks for the warning. We’ll be back with the desk as soon as possible.’ I walked ahead of the lantern light, Drakeforth paced outside the locked door.
‘Thanks for waiting,’ I said.
‘Did you get it?’ he replied.
‘Hoptoad says we should bring the desk here. So it can be properly anointed and they can hide it.’
‘What buffoonery. Though I suppose hiding the desk here could be safer than leaving it in your home,’ he said.
‘Only if it is still at home. The GEC could have stolen it already.’
‘We will return to reconnoitre the premises and determine the fate of your family heirloom,’ Drakeforth announced grandly, and with that Hoptoad unlocked the door and we returned to the surface.
Chapter 9
The afternoon sunlight was bright and warming after our sojourn into the underworld. The breeze cleared my head of the cloying stink from the cocktail of drying herbs and extracted oils.
‘I’m going to get dressed. Then we can leave this unregistered asylum,’ Drakeforth announced and strode towards the sermon hall. His swagger made it clear that he did not want to maintain the façade of religious humility any longer. I took my time trailing after him; after all, I had the car keys.
‘Is your friend leaving?’ Buddleia asked, emerging from her carefully cultivated rows of cinnamon.
‘I’m afraid so. Urgent business back in the city. But thank you so much. The monastery is lovely.’
‘Put this on that bruise, it will help the swelling go down. You should report him to the police and leave him in the same breath.’
‘What? Oh, the bruise?’ I touched my red and swelling cheek. ‘No, it wasn’t Drakeforth. I – I walked into a shelving unit down there in the dark.’
‘Uh-huh. I am sorry to see you go; I was looking forward to showing you how we make goosefat marmalade.’
I blanched a little until the sister stroked a soft, white-furred leafy plant. ‘Goosefat,’ she explained.
‘Perhaps next time.’
After I dressed in my civilian clothes, I waved to the few people I made eye contact with on my way out the gate. As we passed under the ancient wall, the stones themselves erupted with the roaring echo of banshees supporting their favourite football team. I ducked, thinking the ancient blocks were collapsing, as a helicopter thudded overhead and settled in the air outside. On the other side of the wall I saw Drakeforth standing next to the car and waving frantically. I ran for it, the egg-folder drumming of the helicopter blades beating in a manic rhythm overhead. With the air pushing down around us we piled into my little Flemetti and powered out of there in a cloud of dust. The helicopter rose from its low-altitude squat and lunged after us. I drove faster than I dared on the narrow road as it twisted through the trees down the hillside. I could see the occasional flash of chrome and black through the foliage as Drakeforth kept a running commentary on my failings as a getaway driver.
‘Go faster! They’ll catch us if you don’t! This isn’t a scenic tour! Change down a gear! Get your revs up! Would you like me to get out and push!?’
I ignored my passenger. The Flemetti was meant for this kind of suicidal driving. She clung to the road like a baby monkey on her mother’s back. The engine purred, oblivious to the panic of the occupants. She loved to be off the leash of city driving. Here she could run free and do what she was built for. I felt a tingling sense of excitement ripple through me too. For the first time ever, things felt important. Really important. The choices I made and the actions I took would define what happened next. I pressed my foot down on the throttle.
We shot out of the trees at the bottom of the mountain road and skidded sideways into the wide black band of the highway. There was no question of not going back to the city directly. The helicopter buzzing overhead could follow us anywhere. Beyond the point where we returned home, and possibly had a cup of tea, my planning became more speculative.
We hurtled down the road, zipping in and out of traffic, the polite throat clearing of car-horns sounding behind us.
‘They’re still coming!’ Drakeforth said, twisting around and trying to see out of the car’s low windows.
‘They might just be going in the same direction as us,’ I replied, cutting in between a truck and a family in a Sleeka station wagon.
‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’ Drakeforth replied. After a while his sarcasm lost its impact, mostly because everything he said sounded sarcastic.
We hurtled on down the road, cars blurring around us. I felt excitement building deep in my chest. If I was going to die anyway, then what better way to pass? Also, I thought savagely, removing Vole Drakeforth from the gene pool might earn me some kind of posthumous medal. I glanced over at him. Drakeforth was grinning.
‘What’s got you so amused?’ I said, my eyes cutting back to the road.
‘We are having an adventure. An actual life-and-death adventure. It’s got everything! A mysterious message, a hidden treasure, an evil villain, a stalwart hero with a beautiful sidekick, car chases, gun-fights and daring escapes.’
‘You’re not that beautiful,’ I said.
His snort was drowned out by the sudden thud of the helicopter rotors roaring louder as the aircraft dropped down in front of the car, turning under the whirring blades until the craft’s nose pointed straight at me. Cars and trucks swerved off the road, brake lights flashing. I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, her petite backside flicking out sideways. I steered into it and straightened up. The helicopter had come close enough to the road to allow a squad of goons in black overalls to jump down and stop traffic.
‘Reverse!’ Drakeforth yelled. I looked back at the traffic building up behind us. Their headlights glowing in the late afternoon sunshine like a jungle full of angry lemurs. We were already trapped.
‘Go r
ound!’ Drakeforth yelled again. I gunned the engine and twisted the wheel. We cut around a four-door Sobato and missed taking out the fender wing of a classic Dakata Vroom by inches. Ahead the road got tangled. Cars had pulled aside, assuming some kind of emergency had brought the helicopter down in their midst. Other cars had tried to follow suit, and now found themselves angle-parked across the lanes. The polite coughs of their horns echoed around us. I drove forward as far as I could, the Flemetti’s engine growling at the restraint being imposed on her. After another twenty feet we rolled to a halt.
‘Get out,’ Drakeforth ordered. I just looked at him. ‘Go on, run for it!’ He pushed on my arm. I stood, or rather sat, my ground. Where, exactly, was I going to go?
The men and women in black jumpsuits were bearing down on us, pacifier truncheons held tight against their chests. The ring near the truncheons’ electrically charged tips glowed blue, indicating they were ready to deliver a stunning blow. I tried to open my door, but there wasn’t room with the cars packed in around us, and the guard on Drakeforth’s side was too close. We were trapped while curious drivers climbed out of their cars and asked each other stupid questions.
A moment later the more casual end of a pacifier baton tapped on my window. I wound it down and smiled up at a grim-faced young man.
‘Good evening, is there some kind of problem?’ I asked.
‘Miss Charlotte Pudding?’ he said.
‘Never heard of her!’ Drakeforth barked from the other side of the car.
‘Mr Vole Drakeforth?’ the agent of Godden said, ducking down to stare into the car’s low-slung and classically styled interior.
‘Never heard of him,’ I declared.
The agent straightened up and made a waving gesture at his colleagues. They in turn waved towards the helicopter, which lifted off the ground and moved out of the stalled flow of traffic.
‘Please turn off your car engine and remain exactly where you are,’ the young agent said.
‘Under whose authority?’ Drakeforth demanded.
Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1) Page 8
