Myths and Magic

by Kevin Partner

  “Ah, yes, the Bishop & Actress,” she said, pointing to one of the waypoints on the map. “We know where that is. Yes, I think we can find you.”

  “Good, good, a proper mission for the KFC!” Flaxbottom said, her head bobbing with excitement.

  The trench coat inflated, and she stood up. “Well, I’ll see you both tomorrow. Dress warmly. Tally ho!”

  Brianna and Bill watched as Wing Commander Permanence Flaxbottom departed. Almost exactly as she left, the general hubbub and murmur stepped up a notch and normality, such as it was, returned to the veteran’s club.

  “Well, at least we’ve got the map,” Brianna said.

  “You think we should go?” asked Bill in surprise.

  Brianna laughed. “Of course not! Having the map means we can set out in the opposite direction. I wouldn’t want to accidentally bump into that lunatic.”

  Bill felt oddly deflated. “Oh, I dunno, I like her. And I’d like to know what she plans to show us tomorrow.”

  “We haven’t time for curiosity. We need to be up at first light and get on the road without attracting attention, we can hardly do that in her company, can we?”

  Bill had to admit it, “unobtrusive” was not a word that described Flaxbottom. He sighed. “Oh well, I suppose we’d better go to bed, then. This Angel’s Blood is pretty strong stuff, and I’m ready for some sleep.” He waved at Withers who scowled before, having exhausted all excuses for delay, stalked over to their table.

  “Could I have the keys to our rooms, please?”

  Withers looked puzzled.

  “They’re not locked, this isn’t Montesham you know! Your room is through that door in the north wing,” he said, pointing at a door behind the piano. Then, looking at Brianna, he pointed to the opposite end of the hall. “And yours is in the south wing.”

  Wearing a self-satisfied smile, he made to go then, as if he’d suddenly thought of something, turned back to them. “Oh, and if that crazy woman has invited you to her farm, I suggest you don’t take her up on the offer. I’ve heard some unsettling stories about that place. Her father was a lunatic, too. Thought he could fly!”

  Withers departed, chuckling.

  Bill and Brianna looked at each other for a moment before Bill hauled himself upright. “Right, I’m off to bed. Shall we meet outside? I don’t even want to ask what they’d charge for breakfast, we’ll have to get something on the road.”

  Brianna nodded. “Okay. Be careful tonight and barricade your door. I don’t like it that he’s separated us...”

  “Well, neither do I,” said Bill, momentarily touched.

  “...because it would be easier for whoever’s following us to pick you off without me to protect you,” she finished.

  Bill’s shoulders sagged.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll be careful. Come quickly if you hear me screaming,” he said and sloped off in the direction of the piano.

  Brianna watched his receding back, gave a short “tut” and headed to the other door.

  Withers observed all this and then, once they were safely out of sight, nodded to a man who left his table and slipped into the night.

  Chapter 10

  Bill choked. His eyes flicked open. It was dark as pitch in his room, but he could still see, and smell, the face pressed close to his. Hands were digging into his throat, but he was able to let out a yell before the fingers squeezed harder.

  In a panic, Bill rocked back and forth, trying to push his attacker away but it was no good, the hands were clamped too tightly and the man too strong. He realised, in an instant, that it was the pianist from the night before and lost all hope. Anyone capable of carrying out such crimes against music was clearly merciless.

  There was a banging on the door, and the sound of Brianna’s voice on the other side. Unfortunately, Bill had done rather too good a job of barricading himself in, and the attacker hadn’t entered that way. Stars flew across his vision, and he could feel his strength beginning to depart as his lungs strained for breath. He made one final attempt to push the demon pianist away and screamed as heat swelled in his chest before rushing down his arms and, with a whooshing sound, out of his hands.

  The heat left instantly, leaving no sensation at all except a slight tingling, but the would-be assassin had reeled away, crying out before falling to the floor. The room filled with orange light. Bill came to his senses, rushed to the door and pushed aside the chairs and wardrobe he’d piled behind it.

  Brianna stepped in, took an astonished look at the man smouldering on the floor before running over to the jug beside the bed and emptying its contents on him. He was still smoking so she reached down, grabbed the chamber pot and added that to the man’s woes.

  “Come on, we’d better get out of here. Help me wedge the door closed again and we’ll jump out of the window - that’s obviously how he got in,” she said.

  Bill looked at the man, who was softly weeping. “Shouldn’t we help him?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, he just tried to kill you. He’d have succeeded but for your super-power," she said, as she dragged the wardrobe back into place behind the shut door. “And did you hear what he did to that piano last night?”

  Bill gathered his pack together. It was a fair point, he thought, and headed for the window which was, indeed, now unlocked. Swinging it open, he straddled the frame and leapt, ending up in a pile in the very alleyway he’d wanted to avoid sleeping in. Brianna landed gracefully next to him, helped him up and they headed up the alley.

  “Where are we going?” panted Bill as they paused at the junction with the main road. The Bishop & Actress could be seen to their right in the pre-dawn gloom.

  Brianna turned to him. “To the crazy woman’s place.”

  “What?”

  “Be quiet, we’re supposed to be slipping away!” snapped Brianna. “Yes, suddenly, Flaxbottom seems to be our only ally and, after Withers’ warning last night, it’s the last place they’ll look.”

  "You said that about LOAF."

  She took a final glance up and down before running into the street, keeping to its gloomy edges. Bill was impressed, he could barely see where she was, and she was only 20 yards away. He followed her with considerably less aplomb, hugging the shopfronts as he tried to keep up.

  Brianna gave the Bishop & Actress a wide berth, as if she might catch something depraved simply by passing too close to it. For his part, Bill took a quick look in through the steamed-up bar windows as he drew level, before moving disappointedly on.

  “Right, I think it’s about half a mile down that way,” said Brianna, holding up the crude map Flaxbottom had drawn the previous night. “We’d better run, we’ll have the whole of LOAF after us and, if they catch us, we’ll be toast.”

  She set off at a brisk pace, coat-tails flying in the air behind her.

  Bill groaned, slung his pack onto his shoulder and followed her swiftly receding backside.

  “Oh, you actually turned up!” said Flaxbottom, wearing her trademark puzzled expression. “Jolly whacko!”

  She pulled open the farm gate and let them in, still chatting to herself as they passed.

  “What’s wrong with your neck?” Flaxbottom said.

  Bill explained the events of the night before (leaving out the bit about the explosive hands) and that they wanted to get out of sight as soon as possible. The Wing Commander nodded as if being throttled in the night was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Let’s get inside then,” she said. “It’s lucky for you we met last night, I may be able to help you more than you imagine.”

  Bill looked at Brianna, who rolled her eyes.

  “In the meantime, bacon rolls all round?” Flaxbottom said, as she led them to the dilapidated farmhouse. Aside from being largely made up of rotten beams and gaps, the farmhouse’s main distinguishing feature was the set of concentric rings painted in bright red, blue and white on the front. That, and the freshly whitewashed rocks lining the path, seemed to have been kept in pristine cond
ition. Pity about the rest of the farm.

  There was the distinct smell of chicken in the air. Not a pleasant aroma reminiscent of Sunday afternoon roasts but a rather richer odour of very much alive chickens.

  To the right of the farmhouse was a large barn from which the miasma appeared to emanate - outside hung a sign saying Barracks. Bill hurried along behind Flaxbottom as she entered the farmhouse.

  Surprisingly, it was pretty tidy inside. Bill suspected Flaxbottom kept a small part of the lower floor in regulation order while allowing the rest of the place to slowly disintegrate. The kitchen was pristine, and Bill watched as Flaxbottom expertly flipped thickly-sliced bacon into a long-handled frying pan and held it over the kitchen fire.

  Brianna and Bill sat at the large table in the middle of the kitchen. The sun had now risen on a cloudless day and the room was full of a bright, clear light.

  Suddenly Flaxbottom ejaculated. “Good day for flying, what?”

  “What?” responded Bill.

  “Flying, good day for it, what?”

  Bill felt that he was losing the battle to keep a rational grip on the conversation. “What about flying?” He said, fighting the temptation to add a “what?”.

  Flaxbottom chuckled. “This is an aerodrome, you know. Anyway, take these and we’ll head out.”

  Handing each of them a bun the size (and weight, it seemed) of a doorstep, she headed through the back kitchen door.

  To their surprise, Bill and Brianna found themselves in a delightful kitchen garden with well-ordered raised beds of herbs and spices. Flaxbottom, however, was heading at speed to the barn and, by the time Bill arrived, chewing industriously on his butty, she was unlocking and opening the huge doors.

  “Welcome to the headquarters of the Killdare Flying Corps,” she said, apparently not noticing the tidal wave of chicken-related smells that rolled out as the doors opened wide.

  As he went in, Bill tried to cope by breathing only through his mouth but gave up almost instantly as, it turned out, the taste of the smell of chicken shit is worse than the aroma itself. He dropped his bun and choked back a retch.

  “Sorry it’s a bit whiffy,” said Flaxbottom, noticing their green pallor and pained expressions. “I leave the windows open during the day, but I have to lock up overnight and some of the chickens get a bit nervous, I’m afraid, especially the trainees.”

  To their dismay, Flaxbottom walked down the centre of the barn, explaining how she organised the chickens by “readiness to serve”. Rows of chicken houses ran up either side, each with a colour coded sign outside - the first, Bill noticed, said “Nuggets”. He was trying to hold his breath, but Brianna was getting some relief from having wrapped the collar of her coat around her face.

  “I imagine I get used to it, the smell of chickens,” Flaxbottom was saying. “Ah, here we are. This squadron is fully trained and ready to do their duty.”

  The Wing Commander had stopped beside the last chicken house on the right which proudly displayed a gold painted sign saying “Wings”.

  “Sadly,” she continued, “in peacetime they’ve been confined mainly to messages of minor importance and the occasional crop spraying.”

  Bill rubbed his sore throat absentmindedly. He had no idea what crop spraying might be but decided to let it pass, the day had been weird enough already. He looked at the chickens in this particular hen house and found them to be similar to all the others although he had to admit, they did look beefier. And, if it wasn’t a crazy notion, he’d swear they were lining up as if on parade. The woman was getting to him.

  Flaxbottom reached the end of the barn and opened the small door set in the centre of the wall. She turned to them. “Now this is my pride and joy. And, perhaps, the answer to your problems.”

  Bill reached the door first and saw that it opened onto a workshop attached to the barn. Mercifully, there were no chickens in here and several of the small windows were open. Rarely had the smell of oil and grease seemed so fragrant.

  In the centre of the room was a device the like of which neither Bill nor Brianna had seen before. It looked like a box kite but many times the size and it had wings. And seats.

  Briana was the first to crack. “What the hell is this?”

  “Well, it has many names,” responded Flaxbottom with pride, oblivious to the cynicism in Brianna’s voice. “Officially, it’s called a flying machine, but I tend to call her Amelia.”

  “You mean, it actually flies?” said Bill, having only just recovered the power of speech.

  The Wing Commander’s guffaw echoed around the barn. “Well it wouldn’t be much of a flying machine if it didn’t, would it?”

  Bill approached the machine and nervously touched the nearest wing which ran across the back of the box section at a right angle. The wing seemed to be covered in a silky substance and it felt as if the whole structure weighed next to nothing as it trembled under his touch.

  Flaxbottom watched him closely. “Marvellous, isn’t it? You feel as though you could pick the whole machine up and carry it.”

  Bill nodded.

  “It’s amazing,” he said, somehow sensing that Brianna’s eyes were on the roll again. “What’s it made of.”

  “Featherwood, in the main,” said Flaxbottom. “My father discovered it on an expedition to Awimbaway - the natives there used it to fashion spears with a killing range of over a mile. It’s incredibly light, you see, but as dense as normal wood so when it hits something it has all the momentum of a sharpened stake. In fact, it was by building Amelia Mark 1 that he was able to escape, although in that case he jumped off a very high mountain and glided home. It was I who discovered the Poultry Modified Transportation System which enables powered flight.”

  Bill couldn’t help himself. “Wow! That’s so cool! So, could we fly to Upper Bottom, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, I’d have to make some calculations and increase the engine’s CCs.”

  “CCs?” asked Bill.

  “What?” Flaxbottom said, distractedly. “Oh, Chicken Count. The more we have, the greater the speed and lift - these counter the extra weight of yourselves and me.”

  Brianna went to stand next to Bill, feeling the soft silk and wearing an expression that, to the casual observer, might be mistaken for deep, considered, thought but which Bill recognised as signalling the moments before a bomb is dropped. “You have flown this successfully then?”

  “Of course!” hooted Flaxbottom. “I’ve had dozens of flights. Most of them successful.”

  Brianna wasn’t finished. “And the furthest distance you’ve actually flown?”

  Flaxbottom froze.

  “Ah, well of course I’ve not had reason to go far,” she muttered.

  “So, how far have you travelled?” Brianna asked, with the calm patience of a circling shark.

  “Far enough to demonstrate the principle,” blustered Flaxbottom. “I mean, I didn’t want to go far and attract attention until I was certain everything was working perfectly. You’ve seen how the people treat me here, they think I’m some sort of crazy woman.”

  Brianna put on a predatory smile.

  “Fancy that,” she said. “Tell me, have you ever flown over the border of your farm.”

  Flaxbottom slumped and shook her head.

  “So that’s, what, a mile? And it’s around 80 miles from here to Fitzmichael county? As the crow flies, at least. I’m not sure how many chicken miles that equates to.”

  Wing Commander Flaxbottom nodded, sadly. “But, as I said, the principle is proven. She’s ready, the chickens are ready, I’m ready, for our first real mission.”

  Brianna turned to Bill. “Come on, we’re off. I’ll take my chances on the road.”

  “No.” Bill said, surprised to hear his mouth express his thought without passing it through the Health & Safety Committee first.

  “What?”

  Looking from the incandescent face of his friend to Flaxbottom’s hopeful expression, he made his choice
.

  “I don’t want to spend the best part of the next week on the road, constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s me they’re trying to kill, not you,” he said, “and besides, I want to see if Amelia can actually fly.”

  Brianna glowered at him but said nothing. Flaxbottom, on the other hand, practically exploded with excitement.

  “Simply spiffing! I’ll ready the crew,” she said, before heading back through the door to the main barn, resulting in another wave of nauseating stench.

  “You don’t have to come, you know,” Bill said to the still silent Brianna. “I mean, I’d like you to, of course, but I’d understand if this is a bit too risky, even for you.”

  Brianna’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you think. I’d just prefer to meet danger on the ground where I have a chance of fighting back, rather than up in the air where all I can do is fall like a brick.”

  “Well, I don’t imagine she’ll fly very high,” Bill said.

  “High enough to kill us.”

  The door to the main shed swung open again and Wing Commander Flaxbottom entered followed by several dozen chickens drawn up in two ranks.

  “Quick march!” she barked, and the poultry platoon accelerated past her, drawing up alongside the flying machine and, yes indeed, saluting.

  “Wow, you really have got them trained well,” Bill said.

  Flaxbottom beamed. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet!”

  Then, turning to the chickens she shouted: “Squadron, assemble!”

  The birds scattered and returned carrying two cylindrical objects. They then expertly attached them to the legs of the aircraft, one on each side ready for Flaxbottom to tighten leather straps fixing them in place.

  “Right, let’s get her outside,” Flaxbottom said, heading for the door and swinging it open. Bill and a somewhat less enthusiastic Brianna pushed Amelia through the door into the bright autumn sunshine.