What Lies Beneath The Clock Tower: Being An Adventure Of Your Own Choosing

by Margaret Killjoy

  The End

  Nine

  “My good sir goblin,” you begin.

  “Please, call me Yi’ta.”

  “Right then, Yi’ta. I happen to live in the apartment below, and I heard a noise that struck me as quite curious, the opening of some sort of gate, perhaps. And thusly, I ventured to discover its source.”

  Yi’ta grins, revealing a mouth full of yellow-white canine teeth that burst forth from black gums. “Ah, yes. Curiosity… humans are quite curious, I have read. We have a saying, ‘curiosity killed the human.’”

  “Cat.” Another goblin, with patchwork overalls and an uncovered head of short, tufty hair, peeks from around the bell she cling to and corrects Yi’ta. “Curiosity killed the cat. Hubris killed the human.”

  “Right, right.”

  You intercede: “I admit I’m near dying to know what you’re constructing up here.”

  “Of course,” Yi’ta answers, staring at his clipboard and making some notes. “What we have here is a sonalopticloopticamplificator. Nothing special, really, in its construction, but its purpose,” Yi’ta looks up and catches your eye with his own, “its purpose is to free our people.”

  The workgoblin from the bell saunters over and whispers into Yi’ta’s ear. Yi’ta nods, and the workgoblin looks at you once more.

  “We could use your help,” Yi’ta says.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never been much for mechanical construction,” you admit.

  “There are other ways you could help us.”

  “Very well then,” you say, because you certainly had nothing more interesting to do. “How may I be of service?”

  “Three ways, really. You see, we goblins are preparing for revolution. We’ve tried every peaceful method in our power to be free of the gnomes, but to no avail. We could use your help up here: as a human, you would be the perfect messenger for contacting our fellows in the other city towers. Or you could venture below, to the gnomish city of Hak’kal, and beseech them for liberty on our behalf. Finally, if you’d like, we could use another pair of arms to swing a club when, all other options explored, the great goblin army ascends upon the gnomes.”

  “Descends,” you say, attempting to correct the fellow.

  “Pardon?”

  “An army descends upon a foe, not ascends.”

  “No, no, the goblin camps are quite a bit below Hak’kal.”

  To stay above and work as a messenger for the goblins, go to Sixteen.

  To venture below as an ambassador to the gnomes, go to Twelve.

  To forgo subtlety and volunteer to serve in the goblin’s revolutionary army, go to Eighteen.

  Ten

  “Now see here,” you say, holding your cane in a manner most unbefitting a gentleman, “I’ll have none of this. You may not go about constructing any sort of device, machine, contraption, or gadget without written permission from the landlord.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that,” says the goblin at your feet. “Hey Gu’dal,” he shouts towards the rear of the room, “we’ve got breach of etiquette to concern ourselves with.”

  Every goblin pauses in their work for a single moment and stares over at you, some in disbelief, some in anger, others with what appears to be amusement. It suddenly occurs to you that, hallucinations or no, the critters outnumber you remarkably.

  One lanky goblin works her way through the room, wearing a fine suit and tie, her ears hidden under a comically large and narrow top hat, a top hat so tall that it reaches nearly to your waist when it sits atop her head. But any hint of comedy is thrown aside quite soon as she draws a sword from her cane and approaches.

  “Good sir, it is impolite to interrupt the work of gnomes, goblins, or kabouters. In our culture, this simply is not done. If you have objection to our activities, you should have filed it with us before the work began.” Her voice is measured and polite, but the blade, while scarcely longer than a steak knife, seems quite threatening in her hands.

  To fight Gu’dal, and intimidate the other goblins into ceasing their destruction of the clock tower, turn to Fourteen.

  To humbly apologize, go to Eleven.

  Eleven

  “Madam, I meant no offense at all. I’m afraid your customs are… unfamiliar to me,” you say.

  “It’s not me you need to apologize too. It’s Yi’ta here, and everyone else, really. You’re going to have to apologize to them.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  By twos and threes, each goblin takes leave of their measuring, hammering, tuning, and sawing to shake your hand and accept your apology. For each, you are required to explain the nature of your error, the depths of your sorrow, and the great degree to which you are humbled to be in their presence. With almost two-score of the little folk in the room, nearly a half-hour goes by.

  “Now then,” Yi’ta, the original goblin, says, “you have made your hubris known to us, and we will have no more of your intrusions. We will not be guiding you into our underworld, a world that may have delighted and intrigued you. Tonight you will not be embarking on an adventure that will change your life in a thousand ways. And if you speak of us, in the word either spoken or written, you will hang in this very tower by your entrails.” Yi’ta smiles at you, a mouth full of tiny daggers.

  You take your leave and return to your apartment. Tomorrow, you will begin to look for different housing. It does not pay to insult the goblinkin, it appears.

  The End

  Twelve

  “Good, good,” Yi’ta says. “Although I admit I’m a bit disappointed that we might not get to try out the sonalopticloopticamplificator. But we’ll finish building it nonetheless, and if you fail at your task, we should have another opportunity in about six months. Six months might seem like a long time to you, of course, but we goblins are quite long-lived.”

  “Oh?” you ask, “what is a goblin’s lifespan?”

  “Why, the average goblin will live to be twenty-five, but we have on record goblins living up to the age of 37.” Yi’ta clearly expects you to be impressed, and you decide to feign amazement rather than inform him of your own lifespan. And besides, the life expectancy for a poverty-stricken, depressive absinthe drunk like yourself is surely not much greater than that of a goblin.

  “Anyhow, I think you might do well with company to show you the way to Hak’kal, yes? And I know just the goblin for the task. If there isn’t to be a battle this morning we won’t be needing her services anyhow.” Yi’ta turns to face the workgoblins. “Gu’dal!”

  A tall—well, tall for a goblin—and well-dressed goblin woman saunters up to you. She’s got a thin, stretched look to her that extends up into her skinny top hat. She’s twirling a cane and wearing a tailcoat. And when she speaks, she sounds like a talking bird. “Yi’ta?” she says when she approaches the two of you.

  “If you could, I’d love for you to take…” Yi’ta looks back to you, “What is your name, sir? My manners must be in one of these pockets somewhere, because I obviously can’t find them.”

  “Gregory,” you say.

  “Yes. I’d love for you to take Gregory here down below and show him to the gates to Hak’kal. He’s going to speak on our behalf to the gnomes.”

  “No rebellion tonight?” Gu’dal asks.

  “No, no. We’re going to try again peacefully.”

  Gu’dal looks at you and grimaces. Previously, you had thought the smile of a goblin was disconcerting. “Alright, poltroon-pants. You don’t mind that I call you poltroon-pants, do you?”

  You look at her teeth and decide that yes, poltroon-pants is acceptable.

  “Okay, I’ll take you to the gates. Then you can do your talking. But if you think that talking to gnomes is safer than bashing them with wrenches, you’re in for a bit of a surprise.”

  With no further words, Gu’dal turns and heads down the stairs.

  A bit flustered, you follow. You take one last look at the door of your apartment, an apartment that has
provided you such health and comfort.

  Whatever object had lain upon the floorboards at the base of the steps is gone now, and as you reach the ground floor you realize that there is a goblin-sized doorway set into the side of the stairs. Through it, you see only blackness.

  Gu’dal reaches her hand out to yours as she steps through the portal. You grasp it, and realize it is not as clammy as you thought it might be. She leads you down another flight of stairs in darkness.

  After what feels like twenty minutes, you emerge from the side of a stone hallway that is lit by gas lamps set into sconces along the top. Fortunately, the ceiling is a good foot over your head. Steam pipes of various diameters and metals run the length of the hallway.

  Your path slopes slightly in front of you, taking you deeper into the ground. As you walk along the corridor, you notice dozens of nooks and crannies brimming with strange machinery. Some of it—heating apparatus, water-pressure regulators, and ventilation fans—you recognize. But some of it is completely foreign to you: there are light-refracting crystals embedded into steam-engine bits; there are sets of tuning forks that linger on chords, some sonorous, some atonal. Most of it appears to be powered by the steam pipes that line the halls.

  To ask Gu’dal about the machinery, go to Twenty-Two.

  To ask Gu’dal about the city you are approaching, go to Thirty-Two.

  To continue forward unquestioningly, go to Thirty.

  Thirteen

  “Well I suppose I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of pasty sods, now do I?” you say to A’gog. “What’s say I come with you back to Haddlelint and we’ll see what there is for a fellow like me to do.”

  A’gog grabs your hand and takes off at a bounding pace, forcing you to jog to keep up. “So, you any good with a gun?” he asks.

  “Well, er, I can’t say that I’ve too much experience in the matter,” you respond, panting.

  “What about strategy? You humans get into wars all the time, yeah?”

  “Well, not so much myself personally, you understand,” you demur. Demurring is particularly hard, by the way, since you are running at a decent clip and are forced to take several seconds between each word you utter.

  “Whaddya get into then, up in your tower, if it isn’t guns and strategizing?”

  “Poems,” you say, then stop running and lean against the wall of the tunnel. “I write poems. Would you like to hear one?”

  “Oh god no,” A’gog says.

  You prepare to write him off as a philistine, but decide that as a member of another species, he’s not too likely to have a sound enough understanding of human poetry to truly appreciate it. Better that a poem go unsaid than be spoken to unappreciative ears, you figure.

  “We’re almost there. C’mon.” A’gog takes your hand again and leads you down a side tunnel, bounding once more and forcing you to run.

  You enter a great natural cavern, larger than any room you’d thought could exist below the earth.

  The entire space, vertically and horizontally, is laced with ropes and nets, some woven into nests like beehives, others forming intricate and beautiful patterns set against the backdrop of wondrous cave formations. And the air, the ground, even the ceiling of the place is bustling with goblins who crawl and swing and run, who dart to and fro carrying loads several times larger than themselves, who disappear down side tunnels bearing picks or who return, exhausted. Some cook, others play games on the floor, others look drunk. They tinker with devices well beyond your limited experience, and they play instruments that might be mistaken for work machines.

  “Haddlelint, eh?” you say, taken aback, amazed, and quite a bit excited.

  “Biggest town we got left. Kinda small, of course, but it’s home.” A’gog ambles to a faucet set into the stone wall and washes his hands. “I’m going to go get dinner. Might want to introduce yourself to your fans.”

  You turn from the old green man and realize that you’re surrounded by other goblins. But it’s not adoration you see in their eyes: it’s curiosity and malice. Well, maybe not malice, but it’s really hard to be certain when people have pointy yellow teeth and carry pickaxes.

  “Qui est tu?” one of the more pugilistic of the little people demands.

  “Look, I don’t speak French. It’s dreadfully embarrassing, I know. But I’ve only been here less than a year–”

  “Who are you?” the goblin repeats, this time in passable English.

  “Oh, that. The name’s Gregory. And you?” You stick out your hand, which is ignored by the goblin.

  “We’re preparing for war. In less than six hours, we’re going to storm the gates of Hak’kal, the gnomish capital, and lay waste to the city. The gnomes have enslaved us, but we will have both freedom and vengeance. Are you going to help us?”

  To insist that violence and retribution are not the most appropriate responses to the situation, go to Twenty-Six.

  To toss your hat in with the goblins and prepare to join them in their battle, go to Twenty-One.

  Fourteen

  Your cane already raised, you attempt to land a crashing blow upon the skull of the sword-wielding woman, one that might seem heroic were it landed upon a person of your own stature. One that might have at least seemed worthwhile if it had connected at all.

  Deft as housefly, Gu’dal skips to the side of your blow and cuts your hamstring. You collapse, and before you have time to breathe, your lungs are punctured, your cane-hand is cut, and your eyes are destroyed.

  It takes longer than you thought it might to die, suffocating in your own blood.

  The End

  Fifteen

  “Well I really think it’s best to confront problems quite directly. And I suspect that I’m quite a bit larger than one of these gnomish chaps, aren’t I? I’d really like to talk to one of them in person, and I suspect I can talk some sense into it.”

  “Are you that good with words?” A’gog asks.

  “Well, no, not really.” You take off your bowler and scratch your scalp. “But I suppose I’ve not much sense, either, so I thought I might as well try.”

  “I would have preferred you to serve some purpose, but, well, I believe in nothing if not autonomy. Take this tunnel,” A’gog points to your right, “and take your first six lefts, then your fourth right, then the next left. You’ll walk right into the front gates. Can’t miss them.”

  A’gog turns and begins to walk opposite the way that you’ve been directed.

  You shrug, a meaningless gesture since no one is around to see it, then follow A’gog’s directions. An hour’s walk—and no small amount of second-guessing your decision to confront the gnomes—later, you find yourself in an open, natural cavern. You’re dwarfed by two gigantic, inlaid metal doors and are greeted by two creatures that look like nothing so much as half-size deep-sea divers.

  Each of the guards bears a bizarre rifle with slowly spinning crystals along its barrel and wears a brass-and-glass helmet that disguises their face. The gnomes are twice as tall as A’gog was—meaning they might reach your shoulder with their hands outstretched—and they’re both, well, fearsome.

  There’s something frightening about things that are completely alien to your experience, particularly when those things are pointing ornate and indecipherable weapons at your head and chest.

  “Good morrow to you,” you say, remembering your manners.

  “Va te faire foutre,” one of the guards says. You don’t remember the translation of that particular phrase remarkably well, but you’re reasonably certain that it isn’t a term of endearment.

  “Wait. Sit. No movement,” the other guard says, in heavily accented English.

  You decide that decorum require that you follow these instructions, so you sit. The ruder gnome walks over to a voice-horn set into the doorway and speaks into it. Moments later, the gates open and you catch a glimpse of a marvelous underground metropolis filled to overflowing with colored light and fantastical clockwork.

  A gnome march
es out the door, this one wearing a helmet that reveals his face to be rather like that of an angry, pre-pubescent boy. On top of his helmet is a quarter-life-sized statue of himself. He wears a uniform that seems to be a mockery of an aboveground military commander’s, replete with medals, badges, and pins of all sorts—including at least one that you recognize as a campaign pin for a political candidate in aboveground France. You open your mouth to laugh at him—consider yourself rude if you will, but the fellow is quite humorous looking—but then shut it when you remember that you’re in a cavern miles from your home and are surrounded by armed guards.

  “This will be very simple for you. You are to be our guest, for as long or short of a time as you would like.” The officer walks up to where you sit as he speaks, and he sounds gruff but not unfriendly. “But first, a test. A personality test.”

  From under his coat jacket, the officer pulls out a glass bottle of dark liquid. One of the guards rushes forward and offers a snifter, and the officer pours three fingers of what smells quite a bit like brandy into it.

  “I will leave you with this, then go confer with my superiors. If, when I return, you have not drunk a sip of this brandy, you may join us as our guest in Hak’kal for as long as you would like, and all of your drinking and smoking will be utterly without cost. But if you prefer, you may drink this glass now, and although you may stay for some time in our city, no one will be permitted to serve you alcohol.”

  The officer walks away, and you think about his offer. Perhaps these gnomes have a greater sense of social responsibility than the goblin had led you to believe. After all, a man who cannot abstain from drinking for a half an hour would most likely abuse a bottomless glass. But one who can hold themself back perhaps could be trusted with such a responsibility. It’s a curious situation, you decide.

  To drink the brandy because, well, it’s there, go to Twenty-Five.

  To abstain in the hopes of procuring more alcohol—and did he mention something about smoking?—then go to Twenty-Eight.