"For Queen and country!" Lord Carstairs shouted as he redoubled his efforts. He actually managed to take a step backwards. Yes! I'm winning!
As if enraged by the success, the lightning of the whirlpool struck at the man. The crackling discharge slammed him across the room, crashing him into the wall with bone-cracking force. Momentarily stunned, the lord lost his grip, and the Dutarian tablet was yanked away to tumble and twirl off into the whirlpool of flashing colors.
Using a most ungentlemanly phrase, Lord Carstairs struggled forward after the tablet as it flew towards the black castle. Then from somewhere in the chaos he could hear a faint mocking laugh.
"Coward! Blackguard!" Lord Carstairs roared, brandishing a bruised fist. "Face me here and now!"
The laughter came once more, and the wind vanished as if it had never been. Caught by surprise, Carstairs stumbled forward to find himself all alone in the wreckage-filled room, with only the certainty of total failure for company.
***
Escorted by a full company of armed Swiss Guards, Lord Carstairs was shown off Vatican property, and given a heavy bill for the damages incurred. Weary with defeat, he paid the cashier on his way out and shuffled listlessly through the milling crowds of pilgrims. Heading down the street, Carstairs went to the piazza and found Professor Einstein sitting at a corner table sipping wine and checking a pocket watch. The knowledge that the professor had been sitting about and having a fine afternoon did nothing to improve the lord's sour disposition. Then he glanced at the older man again.
"What happened to your ear, Professor?" Lord Carstairs demanded, exhibiting real concern.
Reaching up gingerly to touch the injured earlobe, Professor Einstein tried to force a joke about getting a gold ring and joining the navy, but the woebegone expression on his friend's face negated any such levity.
"It's not important, lad," Einstein said, gesturing at a chair. "I'll tell you later. Did you get to see the stone?"
"Oh, I got to see it, sure enough," Carstairs snarled, taking the seat. "That is, after I convinced them not to shoot me. But then the map was stolen from my very hands by some kind of, well, a sort of magical tornado."
"Big swirling thing full of color and noise?"
"Quite so, Professor!"
"Damn and blast! A dimensional vortex," Einstein explained, frowning. "Egad, those squid chappies are really pulling out all of the stops!"
Reaching for the wine, Lord Carstairs poured himself a glass, and drained it in a single draft. "And on top of losing the Dutarian map, afterwards I had to explain what happened to several cardinals, all of whom remembered your previous midnight visit to the archives in excruciating detail."
In apology, the professor hastily ordered another bottle of wine. After downing several more glasses, the lord found that some of the edge had been taken off his temper. Carstairs was able to relate the adventure in more detail.
"So they have beaten us," Lord Carstairs finished glumly, slamming aside his empty glass. "I never would have believed it possible. I mean, we're British, for God's sake!"
"Beaten? What nonsense, lad," Professor Einstein snorted, gingerly massaging his sore chest. "We're far from beaten."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Yes, the matter is dire. But we have a single hope remaining. It is a shot in the dark. A fool's gamble! But it just might work," Einstein said, clapping his hands together. "Actually, I've been looking for an excuse to try it for years. Even brought along the proper materials, just in case we came to an impasse, as we surely have. Preparation is all, lad!"
"Better and better," Lord Carstairs acknowledged, feeling a glimmer of hope once more. "What is it?"
"First we need to rent a boat."
"A boat?" Lord Carstairs echoed in surprise. "What kind of a boat?"
"A ship, actually. As large as possible," Einstein said with a glint of mischief twinkling in his eyes. "And then we must place an advertisement in the local newspaper. A full page in the evening edition should do nicely. I wonder if we can get the inside spread on this short a notice?"
"How very interesting," Carstairs said slowly, resting an elbow on the table, and placing his jaw in a palm. "And, pray tell, what precisely is it that we will be advertising? Our own staggering incompetence, or the imminent destruction of the world?"
Slapping the larger man on the shoulder, the professor gave a laugh. "Neither, lad. The advertisement will be a call to gather a brave crew of sailors to join us on a journey to destroy the temple of the Squid God."
Although temporarily unable to speak, Lord Carstairs generated a facial expression that quite eloquently stated his heart-felt opinion that Professor Felix Einstein had obviously gone absolutely and utterly insane.
Chapter Nine
Thousands of miles away, a lone robed figure stood motionless in a hurricane of wind and thunder, droning forbidden words of arcane power.
He raised both clenched fists as if ready to strike. Bunched muscles stood like knotted rope on his arms. Tendons and veins grew painfully extended on his neck. His flushed face was ablaze with the hideous tattoo of an engorged squid. Its devil eyes overlaid his own, giving the design a horrible semblance of true life. The suckered tentacles seemed to move inside his sweat-drenched skin.
Damp clothes clinging to his shaking frame, the robed man increased the tempo of his chanting, the tongue-twisting words causing the robed crowd of onlookers to fidget in discomfort. Protectively surrounded by the people was a large black cauldron of bubbling red blood. The pungent steam rising from the vessel entwined about itself, angled over, and seeped into the back of the shouting man. The spot of entry glowed like a white-hot wound.
The brick and mortar wall of the basement had been replaced by a horizontal vortex of swirling clouds, the border of which formed a seething oval of energy that filled the cellar in wild bursts of color. Inside the strident matrix was a black castle atop a barren hill. In the distance was another magical vortex with a small object moving about inside.
With a shout, a Squid God worshiper excitedly pointed. Quickly, the others craned their necks and squinted against the crackling pyrotechnics. A glad shout arose as they saw the faint speck arc into the sky over the castle. It was the ancient stone tablet! At the apogee of flight, the Dutarian tablet was transfixed by a bolt of lightning, which exploded it into fragments that disintegrated into dust as they fell away.
A cry of victory rose from the assemblage, and an expression of confidence crept into the features of the droning man.
"Success, Brother Carl!" a woman cried in delight. "You beat the infidel!"
Just then, the cellar door slammed open and in walked the bony High Priest. Rather than wear his ornate robes of station, he had chosen to dress in the simple garb of a shop clerk, yet his mere presence filled the crowd with fearful apprehension.
"Stop, Carl!" the High Priest bellowed, his face distorted with rage. "Cease this at once, or die!"
At the interruption, Carl Smythe slowed his chanting, and the vortex faded away until the wall was composed of simple brick and mortar once more. Gradually, the colored lights dimmed, and the oil lanterns automatically flared into life as a gentle wind swept about the cellar rustling papers. Then all was still. Even the cauldron stopped its ominous bubbling.
"Do not disturb the old man, you probably told them," the High Priest sneered, advancing step by step towards the quaking robed man. "We can handle this ourselves. Who needs him?"
Pushing back the cowl of his robe, Carl turned to face the approaching High Priest. The tattoo had already faded from his skin, and he appeared a normal human being again.
"But, Holy One, I succeeded!" Carl replied confidently. "The ancient map is destroyed! The Englishmen can never find the temple now."
Stepping forward, the priest violently slapped Carl across the face. Worried murmurs came from the attending crowd.
"Fool! Idiot! Poltroon!" the High Priest snarled contemptuously. "You did not 'handle' the situation. You
did nothing but waste some of our precious reserve of magic. You have weakened the Pool of Life specifically created to bring back the Great Lord Squid!"
Wincing in pain, Carl touched his face and the fingers came away covered with blood. "But there was no other way to stop them from getting the map!" he whimpered.
"We couldn't take the Vatican by force, Holy One," somebody said in the crowd. "It is far too heavily guarded."
"Magically and physically," a fat man added.
His eyes barely human in their anger, the High Priest gazed at the cowering Carl. "No? Well, I can think of four other ways the objective could have been reached, without resorting to magic."
Utterly forlorn, Carl hung his head in shame. "I am heartily sorry that I failed you, Holy One. If you wish, I shall remove my mantle of authority and join the ranks of the new believers, there to serve in any way asked."
"Did you really think to get off that easily?" the High Priest demanded in cold fury. "By the Great Lord Squid, you are a fool!"
New sweat poured down Carl's pale features. "Sir?"
"Kill yourself," the High Priest ordered.
The onlookers started to gasp, but cut the sound off in the middle.
"Have mercy!" Carl begged, kneeling down to grasp the cuff of the High Priest's trousers. "Mercy!"
The High Priest looked down upon the man in marked disdain. "No," he stated, the single word spoken in a tone that broached no further discussion.
Releasing the cuff, Carl slowly stood, but kept his head bowed in shame. "Then please, grant me the boon of adding my blood to the life pool for the Great Squid."
Tilting his head, the High Priest chewed a lip while considering the suggestion. Lifting a hand, he flipped it back and forth while weighing the single failure against a lifetime of obedience. "Granted," he said at last.
A cheer rose from the robed crowd and tears of happiness mixed with the sweat on Carl's face. "Oh, thank you. Thank you!" he gushed happily. "Blessings of the Great Squid upon you!"
Impatiently, the High Priest waved the fellow away. "Cease that blubbering and go kill yourself."
"At once, your holiness!" Carl chortled in glee. Rushing over to the cauldron, the man drew a knife from inside the sleeves of his robes and calmly slit his wrists. Hot blood spurted out to splash into the reeking cauldron.
Led by the High Priest, the crowd began to chant a prayer as Carl grew pale. When the blood ceased to flow, he toppled to the floor in a dead heap.
"Death for life," the High Priest shouted. "Life for death!"
The crowd took up the chant until a pounding came from the ceiling.
"What's going on down there!" a woman's voice demanded.
Extending a bony finger, the High Priest pointed at one of the Squid God worshipers. Stepping into the middle of the cellar, the man cleared his throat. "Ahem, terribly sorry about that, Mrs. Smiggins. We, ah, the cat tipped over a lamp!"
"The rules say no pets, Mr. Wicker!" the voice beyond the ceiling rasped angrily.
The man called Wicker glanced about in confusion, then rallied. "Oh, it's not a real cat, Mrs. Smiggins. I meant the fellow in the cat costume!"
"The rules say no costume parties, Mr. Wicker!"
"It's not a party, Mrs. Smiggins," he said desperately. "We're practicing a skit."
If it was possible, the stern voice grew even colder. "And the rules, Mr. Wicker, most explicitly state, no actors or other livestock."
Stepping to his side, a woman whispered into Wicker's ear.
"Oh, they're not professional actors!" he shouted with a chuckle. "That would be disgusting! Our church group is just putting on a skit - for the orphanage!"
There was a pause. "Very well!" the woman barked. "But this is the last time I shall tolerate any noise!" There came the sound of heavy footsteps, closely followed by a slamming door.
Everyone in the cellar gave a sigh of relief.
"Cor' blimey," Wicker exhaled, slumping his shoulders. "What a nasty old witch."
"If only she were," another man sighed.
"S'truth! If the old biddy is such a problem, brother, why don't we just kill her?" a woman asked, pulling a dagger from her sleeve and testing the point on a thumb.
"Because this spot is our fixed locale of power," the patently annoyed High Priest answered. "Killing the legal owner of this land would taint the pool of power, and it would take us many weeks to tap into the dimension of magic again. Time we can not spare."
The Squid God worshipers got long faces at that, and shuffled their shoes on the ground.
"However," the High Priest added after a moment, "when the time is right, Mrs. Smiggins will be the first to die."
"Hallelujah!" everybody whispered in chorus.
***
Bursting through the front door of the London Explorers Club, a panting telegram boy delivered an envelope to a liveried page. The page tipped the errand boy a penny, placed the telegram on a silver tray, and primly carried it down the main corridor and into the smoking room: a quiet haven of gun cabinets, chess boards, and humidors.
Clustered about a poker table, several of the senior members puffed cigars while they studied a complex diagram depicting a complicated winch hoisting an ark-shaped object. In the background could faintly be heard the steady hammering of a busy work crew building the new, waterproof wing of the club.
Appearing from nowhere, Jeeves Sinclair intercepted the page at the doorway and accepted the telegram. Minutely adjusting the formal black suit of his butler's uniform, Jeeves walked to the men at the poker table and politely coughed twice to announce his presence.
Removing his cigar to tap the ash into a crystal bowl, Colonel Pierpont glanced up from the diagram. "What is it, Jeeves?"
With uncharacteristic boldness, the butler walked into the room, apparently impervious to the dense clouds of tobacco smoke. "Telegram, sir," he announced.
"For whom?" Dr. Thompkins asked, recapping a whiskey bottle on the shelf behind the mahogany bar counter.
Examining the outside of the envelope, Jeeves blinked in surprise, and then did it again. "Why, it appears to be for me, sir," he muttered, sounding embarrassed. "How very strange."
"For you?" Colonel Pierpont asked, putting the cigar back into place. It was always faintly disturbing to realize that the staff had lives outside of their work.
Extracting a tiny folding knife from his vest, Jeeves began to slit open the telegram envelope. "If I may, sir?"
"Certainly, by all means," Lord Danvers gestured magnanimously. Courtesy cost nothing, as his dear mother used to say, while a good servant was priceless.
Pocketing the envelope, the butler remained impassive as he read the brief message twice.
"Deuced strange, our butler receiving a telegram," Baron Edgewaters muttered, stroking his Royal British Marine moustache. "Smacks of socialism to me."
"Oh, be quiet," another man chided, doodling notes on the diagram with an engineer's pencil. "Everything smacks of socialism to you. Including my billiard playing."
"Quite!" Baron Edgewaters laughed. "Quite so!"
"Is it bad news?" Dr. Thompkins slurped, his red nose lodged comfortably inside a glass tumbler filled with good amber whiskey.
With exaggerated care, Jeeves folded the telegram and tucked it into the same pocket as the envelope before replying. "I am afraid so, sir. I must ask for a leave of absence."
A murmur filled the smoking room and the explorers crowded around closer.
Removing his pince-nez, Colonel Pierpont polished the lenses on a sleeve. "For how long?"
"Indefinitely, sir," Jeeves answered.
Finished with the spectacular ablutions, the colonel slipped his glasses back on again. "Indeed. May I ask why?"
"It's my aged mother," the butler said sadly. "She's had a remission and is on her sick bed."
Sympathetically, the colonel nodded. "I understand. When do you wish this leave to be effective?"
"Immediately, sir."
This time,
anguished cries sounded from the members present. The London Explorers Club without Jeeves? But that would be like cricket with no wicket! Why, Jeeves Sinclair had been a part of the club for as long as anybody could remember!
"Egad, man!" Lord Danvers cried, coming as close as he ever had to dropping a full glass of whiskey. "But whatever shall we do without you?"
"With your consent, I shall have a temporary replacement sent over from Buckingham Palace," Jeeves replied, closing the lid on a humidor that was not in use by anybody. "I have a cousin there: Carl Smythe. You should find him most satisfactory."
"By the way, what is lunch today?" General MacAdams creaked from a chair by the fireplace. The old man was almost completely covered with a thick military blanket. "Soup again? Or more of that damned curry?"
"Prime rib in wine sauce," Jeeves announced softly. "And cook's special treacle pudding."
The general smiled vaguely, "The kind with the little butterscotch fishies?"
Using a handkerchief, the butler wiped some drool off the wrinkled chin and tucked a stray bit of blanket back under the aged military officer. "Just so, sir. Lots and lots of little fishies."
"Excellent," General MacAdams whispered, falling promptly to sleep.
Arising from his chair, Sir Lovejoy waddled forward. "I say, must you really leave so hastily?"
Primly proper, Jeeves brushed a speck of lint off the velvet collar of his black morning coat. As always, he was the perfect picture of the ultimate butler. "The summons was urgent, sir. I fear that I must be gone within the hour."
"So be it," the knight said. Then after a brief pause, Sir Lovejoy impetuously offered his hand to the servant and they shook. "Best of luck, old top."
Turning to leave, Jeeves found himself waylaid by an endless series of glad-handing and well wishing.
THAT DARN SQUID GOD Page 11
