6 Fantasy Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Scooting down the alley, I changed my disguise as planned and strolled out on the street, straightening my posture. As I approached the front door, a dark-haired woman in a black dress glided past and rapped once with the heavy brass knocker mounted there. The door opened, and she sailed inside, glancing back over her shoulder but once in my direction.

  Startled, I paused in my tracks as she disappeared from view. For in that single glance, I had recognized the woman. And the mystery of this puzzleventure had magnified a thousandfold.

  What on Earth was Countess Calypso doing here? Why had one of the most notorious evildoers in all of Britain come to the same place at the same time as my own dear Bess?

  Clearly, it was more critical than ever that I get inside.

  Shaking off my startlement, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and moved forward with confident purpose. Taking hold of the knocker, I clapped it twice against the wood of the door and waited.

  A rectangular panel slid open, somewhat below eye level, and two gray eyes peered up at me. "Yes?" The voice was that of an older woman, in her fifties perhaps. "How may I help you?"

  "I've come ta check the coal furnace, Mum." I altered my voice slightly, making it deeper, using an accent I'd picked up among dockhands during my business at the quay.

  The woman turned her head, and I saw she was wearing a gray habit. She was a nun, then. "Sorry, no." She shook her head. "You're not on the schedule."

  I grinned and shrugged. "Guess the boss didn' cross 'is T's this time. 'At's all right. I won' be a tick."

  The nun scowled. "Come back when the proper arrangements have been made." Then, she snapped the sliding panel shut with a vengeance.

  "A bum furnace can be a right killer, Mum!" I leaned close and shouted through the door. "Wouldn' wantcher fine ladies overcome by fumes now, would we?"

  "Move along!" said the nun.

  And that was the end of that.

  Briefly, I thought of revealing my true identity and demanding entrée. A businessman of my stature might be able to bully his way past Sister Push-Off.

  But that, of course, would mean forfeiting the element of surprise. It would give the women time to cover up whatever secrets waited inside. No, that wouldn't do.

  Retreating across the street, I was uncertain what I should do next. I have not found myself at a loss many times in my life, and this was one of those times.

  I could not follow Bess inside. I could not espy her purpose in visiting said institution, side by side with a woman she despised.

  Because I, the great wandering hunter, master of camouflage, stalker of secrets, had not prepared for every eventuality that day.

  *****

  My wife and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan were inside the Female Protection Society for nearly two hours. I waited impatiently in my street sweeper guise, clearing soot from the cobblestones while watching the front door, wondering what in the world they were up to in there.

  Had they come to volunteer, out of the goodness of their hearts, to help women in need? Had they come to make a donation to the shelter? Had they come to visit a friend or relative in dire circumstances? Or did their visit signify some other motivation altogether?

  Whatever their reason for coming there, Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan finally emerged. Chattering amiably, they set off down the street. I followed as closely as I dared, listening hard for any revelatory snippets of conversation, any clue to the business they'd just conducted.

  But they gave me nothing. Just the usual "And then Mrs. So-and-So said this," and "Then Mrs. Such-and-Such did that." The same old womanly cluckery, babbling on and on with no apparent point save the wasting of time. Only now I knew that the shallow surface of their idle twittering concealed depths that were unknown to me.

  It was then I realized that if I wanted answers, if I wished to know their secret, I would have to delve beneath the surface in a way I had never done before. A way that would require incredible courage.

  *****

  A day later, my mistress, Lady Crenshaw, was having the time of her life. The business we were conducting in her bedroom, to my mind, was quite serious, but she simply couldn't stop laughing at my expense.

  I tried my best to ignore her in spite of my compromised position. "Isn't there some way to loosen this...this..."

  "Corset?" The mention of the word set off another gale of laughter from Lady Crenshaw. Clutching the back of a chair, she doubled over, eyes pinched shut as the laughter burst out of her. "You want me to loosen the corset you're wearing?"

  As Lady Crenshaw continued her bout of hilarity, I looked down at the alien garment wrapped tightly about my midsection. I'd seen corsets on women many times, of course--I'm married, after all--but it was quite another thing to be stuffed inside one myself.

  It was, in fact, quite worse than I'd imagined. "Just unhook the thing, will you? It's cutting off my..."

  "Circulation?" Lady Crenshaw gave me a look with both eyebrows raised high, just before falling into yet another blast of howling laughter.

  I found myself regretting my decision to approach her for help. Yet of all the women I knew, she was the only one I could imagine giving it in these circumstances. She was the only one I could ask without fear of being turned in to the authorities.

  Even at that, this wasn't easy. I didn't relish becoming a laughing stock for my mistress. I wished her to see me as virile, not effeminate.

  But this work was critical, and there was no other way. If I intended to infiltrate the Female Protection Society, I would have to appear to be a woman. My disguise would have to be good enough to fool the keen-eyed nun at the front door.

  And I would have to be ready in less than two hours. I had first followed Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan to the Female Protection Society a day ago. If they returned there at the same time today, they would arrive in one hour and fifty minutes.

  Time was swiftly running out. "I really must insist that we get on with this." I raised my voice to command her attention.

  Lady Crenshaw's bright blue eyes lighted upon my lower body. "I must say, darling, it's easier to take you seriously..." Fresh laughter escaped between her words. "...when you aren't wearing women's bloomers."

  I planted my hands on my hips and blew out my breath in utter frustration. I didn't have to look in the full-length dressing mirror to know I looked ridiculous.

  For the first time in my life, I was wearing a corset and bloomers. A pair of medium-sized cantaloupes had been stuffed into the top of the corset, simulating breasts. My goatee had been shaved, my eyebrows plucked, and a layer of white powder applied to my face.

  What in God's name was I doing? For a moment, as I stared at my image in the mirror, I entertained second thoughts. I could not escape the feeling that I had somehow gone astray, that I had stepped outside the bounds of rational behavior.

  But the feeling didn't last. The clarity of my mission welled up within me. I knew with great conviction that what I did, I did for sound and irrefutable reasons.

  Gathering up what dignity I had left, I straightened my back and spoke with all the male power at my command. "If you are quite done with your girlish silliness, can we get on with completing this regalia?"

  Lady Crenshaw quivered, barely able to stifle her laughter. "Yes, yes, of course. Let us finish your kit."

  Clearing my throat, I clasped my hands behind me and nodded. "Let's try on the dress, shall we? The blue one?"

  "V-very good." Lady Crenshaw was still quivering. "And then the wig?"

  I raised my bare chin, admiring the lines of my newly shorn face. "I should think so, yes."

  "And then your elephant gun, please," said Lady Crenshaw.

  "Elephant gun? Whatever for?"

  "So you can blow my head off," said Lady Crenshaw, "as I am fairly certain that's the only way you'll keep me from laughing myself to death!" And then, with that, she dissolved once more into uproarious hysterics.

  *****

  I had a strange feeling a
s I strolled along the cobblestone street in my wig and dress. Not just the excitement of disguising oneself, the anticipation of infiltrating a new territory where one isn't supposed to be.

  It was more than that somehow. An extra shiver that came with doing something forbidden, crossing a line I'd never crossed before. The thrill of breaking a taboo that was fundamental to the very concept of my self and the society in which I lived.

  I was dressed as a woman, for heaven's sake. And so far, in the many blocks I'd walked from Lady Crenshaw's apartments, no one had seemed to twig to my deception.

  Women had smiled politely and nodded as I passed. Men had doffed their hats and bowed. Some had cast frankly appraising looks in my direction.

  It was, by far, one of the strangest experiences of my career as a wanderer. For someone who has traveled the globe, crossed into other dimensions, visited other planets, and jumped both backward and forward in time, that was saying something indeed.

  One thought dominated my mind: I was dressed as a woman, and no one could tell the difference.

  Except my companion, of course, but she'd helped me accomplish this masquerade. "I must say, you're cutting a fine figure, darling." Lady Crenshaw, who was walking beside me, elbowed my ribs gently. "You seem to have something of a natural talent for this."

  I chose not to respond to her remark. Her quips could be an annoyance, thought I was glad for her company. Lady Crenshaw had asked to accompany me, saying she was worried I might hurt myself in this disguise. At first, I'd said no, but then had relented on condition of her restraining her laughter. So far, to my surprise, she'd managed to leave out the hilarity in favor of cool detachment.

  Mostly. "You might just be making a more favorable impression than I am." Lady Crenshaw let out a little giggle. "After all, you got that strapping young attorney's calling card back there, didn't you?"

  I sighed. "Simply the power of suggestion, darling. All we did was set the table, and he filled in the blanks."

  "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" She giggled again. "Cheeky!"

  "I only hope I shall be so convincing in there." I gestured with one white-gloved hand at the familiar brick building we were approaching--the Female Protection Society. Three women walked in the front door as I watched, chattering among themselves--none of them my Bess.

  "Just like hiding among the rhinos, dear," said Lady Crenshaw. "Act like you belong here, and hope no one notices the horn's a fake."

  "Ever the font of wisdom." I smiled at a passing businessman in a black suit and bowler, praying he wouldn't recognize me. The both of us were members of the Wanderers' Club. I'd been known to beat him roundly at snooker and darts, and he'd been known to drink me under the table.

  As we drew near the Female Protection Society, two women strode out of a side street ahead of us. Instantly, my heartbeat accelerated, and my palms dampened within my gloves.

  "There they are." Until then, I hadn't been sure they'd return to the same place at the same time two days in a row. "Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. Right on time."

  Lady Crenshaw quickened her pace. "Come along, dear."

  I grabbed at the sleeve of her red velvet jacket. "No, wait! She might recognize me!"

  "The power of context shall set you free. She would never expect to see you here and thus." Lady Crenshaw tossed her head and fluttered her hands. "But if it makes you feel better, I will do the talking."

  The shin-high lace-up black boots I wore clattered on the cobblestones. "Slow down! This petticoat is bunching up between my legs."

  "The things you say, darling." Lady Crenshaw turned and grabbed my elbow. "I do believe you are positively one of our foremost Romantics."

  *****

  Lady Crenshaw and I caught up with Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan just as the panel in the door was sliding open. The nun's familiar gray eyes peered out, darting from one to the other of the four of us in quick succession.

  Then snapping back to fix on me. And linger there as my heart thundered at the prospect of being found out.

  Just then, Bess cleared her throat and spoke. "We've come for the ceremony, Sister. May we enter?"

  The nun's eyes held mine a moment longer, then shifted to Bess. "Has someone told you that patience is a sin?"

  Bess shook her head. "I hadn't heard that, Sister."

  "Because it is a virtue," said the nun, and then the panel in the door snapped shut. "You'd do well to practice it."

  For a moment, I feared she might not admit us...but the door lock cracked open, and the door swung inward.

  Bess entered first, nodding to the nun as she passed. Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan did the same, and Lady Crenshaw crossed the threshold behind her.

  I half expected to be barred from entry, so it came as no surprise when the nun caught my elbow in her iron grip. She frowned up at me with a searching gaze of such intensity, I could have sworn I felt the heat of it stinging my face.

  I held my tongue, lest my voice--which was familiar to her--give me away. Disguising it was the one thing we hadn't practiced...but if the nun asked me a direct question, I would have to improvise.

  Lady Crenshaw chose that moment to intervene. "You see it, too, don't you, Sister?" Interposing herself between me and the nun, she hopped up on her toes and stared at my face. "You're not the first to notice her uncanny resemblance to the Virgin Mary."

  "No, no, no." The nun shook my arm. "It's something else entirely."

  I tensed, preparing to make a fight of it. Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan had already disappeared down the hallway. Perhaps, if I knocked the nun unconscious, I could yet follow my wife and ascertain her secret.

  Fortunately, I was spared the trouble. "It's just...you're so very tall." The nun smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You remind me of my mother."

  Relieved, I smiled and shrugged. The nun gave my elbow one last squeeze before releasing her grip.

  "People thought she was an awful woman," said the nun. "But she wasn't at all what they expected."

  "How unlike Henrietta here," said Lady Crenshaw as she drew me away. "She is exactly what you'd expect her to be."

  *****

  Lady Crenshaw and I hurried down the plastered hallway in the direction Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan had gone. I'd lost sight of the both of them, though I suspected Lady Crenshaw had some idea of where they'd gone.

  We passed door after door along the hall, many of them closed. Open doorways revealed tiny, candlelit rooms, little more than convent-style cells, each with one bed, one chair, and one woman. The women, glancing up as we rushed past, looked utterly lost and forlorn. Were they the victims of cruel circumstance, cruel men, or their own cruel natures? I had no way of knowing.

  The hall hooked right at its far end, and Lady Crenshaw led me around the corner. More doors lined this leg, all of them closed but for one which was in the process of falling shut. Lady Crenshaw bolted ahead, moving remarkably fast for all the crinoline piled around her legs, and caught the door before it could meet the jamb.

  Holding it open, she made a little bow and waved for me to enter. "After you, milady."

  "Jolly good." I headed for the reddish light streaming out of the opening. "Bit of a role reversal, wouldn't you say?"

  "Not if you judge a book by its cover," said Lady Crenshaw.

  *****

  The red light was pouring up from below, from a spiral stone staircase descending into the earth. I hesitated at the top, wondering what awaited us at the bottom...and then I started down. Lady Crenshaw followed behind me.

  The smell of incense wafted up as I hobbled down the steps, clumsy in the high heels of the boots I was wearing. I kept one hand on the iron railing along the stone wall at all times, bracing myself in case my balance faltered.

  It turned out to be a long way down. I counted twenty steps, then thirty, then forty, screwing ever downward into the underground. Always, the red light grew brighter, the incense stronger as we descended...and a clamor of voices rose to greet us,
the sound of a crowd. Strange music also swirled up from below, a swell of skirling pipes and fiddles and instruments I couldn't identify.

  By the time we reached the bottom, I'd counted ninety-nine steps. Thus ensconced in the bowels of the earth, I stepped forward, casting my eyes over the startling scene before me.

  How many times had I set foot in utterly strange settings far removed from everything I knew and held dear? How many times had my heart shuddered in my chest as I gazed upon a bizarre tableau that cast a queer new light on all my assumptions about the universe?

  Yet here I was again.

  Lady Crenshaw and I stood on an elevated rim at the edge of a vast cavern hewn from the rock. The bowl-like floor of the cavern was filled with an enormous crowd of people, stretching from wall to wall.

  All of them, from what I could see, were women...women of all shapes and sizes and colors and nationalities. Women dressed in every style of feminine garb I could imagine, from the corseted dresses of London and Western Europe to the sarongs of India, from the kimonos of Japan to the fur coats of the Eskimos, from the bowlers and serapes of South America to the buckskins and feathers of the American Indians. It was a veritable international army of women, all of them suffused with the crimson light that had drawn us from above.

  I could not hope to count them all in that moment, but I estimated that there were thousands, tens of thousands, all encircling a distant dais in the center of the cavern. All watching a single figure on that dais, a woman, all listening to her voice as it echoed throughout the vast space.

  At first I thought she might be Countess Calypso, but no. I couldn't be sure if she was anyone I'd ever known. I couldn't understand a word she said, either. She was speaking some kind of foreign language, one I didn't recognize. That alone amazed me, because I'd thought I'd known every language on Earth.

  Not that the women in the cavern seemed to have any trouble understanding. As the woman on the dais shouted rapid-fire jumbles of alien words, the crowd around her clapped and cheered and shouted back at her using the same language.

  Bess was no exception. I saw her up ahead at the edge of the crowd, alongside Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. As I watched, Bess clapped her hands overhead and called out in response to what the woman on the dais was saying. I shuddered, unaccustomed to hearing the words of an alien language emerging from my own dear wife's ruby lips.