The Title of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 8)

by Ichabod Temperance

  “Ladies and gentle Knights, we are gathered in this open field to settle a question. We are here to establish the one true and greatest wizard of Camelot.”

  “Art thou prepared?”

  “Yes!”

  “To my right, standing well in excess of six feet, and weighing a very respectable weight, well in excess of fourteen stone, he wears the full length star-bedazzled wizard’s robe of a sensuous deep purple. Please give a warm welcome to our challenger in this grudge match, famous the world over he is the one, the only, Merlin the Great!!”

  “Yay!”

  “And to my left, not quite tipping the scale at a disappointing, nine stone, standing below my shoulder and wearing a drab, dun-coloured ensemble of the lower class, is Ichabod.”

  “ . ”

  “The contestants have indicated that they are prepared. I must now ask of thee assembled on this field today.”

  “Art thou prepared?”

  “Yes!”

  “My friends, this battle is to establish who is the greatest wizard of this or any time! I must know! Art thou prepared?”

  “Yes!”

  “My friends, you are on hand for a fight of supreme dominance! This bout will go down in history as the Spellah in Camalottah! Ladies and Gentlemen, tell me, tell me, for I have to know! Art thou prepared?”

  “Yes!”

  “All these hundreds of surrounding Knights, all these thousands of fine ladies, and tens of thousands, courtiers, courtesans, and sycophants that cling to this assembly, I ask you once more! Art thou PREPARED???”

  “Yeeeeessss!”

  “Then, huuuh-let us prepare ourselves to rumble!!!”

  “Yaaaaaay!”

  “As Merlin has stolen the toss, he now goeth into action. What an astounding display of mad gyrations this titan of treachery is granting this enthusiastic and appreciative audience.”

  “Oooo!”

  “A supportive audience on hand gives an involuntary groan of delight as the veteran goes to work with a flashy display of colourful smoke releases.”

  “Eeek!”

  “Hello, what’s this? Art there verily stormclouds forming at the beck and call of Merlin? Great Days in the morning, I think there are! I know there are! The crowd is now frightened and apprehensive as dark, threatening weather pushes against us! It seemeth that the Great Merlin shall deliver on his promise to strike Ichabod down by way of lightning attack!”

  “Nyenh, henh, henh! Let my hatred and anger be represented by this lightning blast! Let the monster known as Ichabod be destroyed forever!”

  wah-KEESH!

  wah-KEESH!

  Wah-KEE-KEE-KEE-KEESH!

  “This is unbelievable! The amount of lightning strikes plunging into Ichabod’s position is indescribable! In all my years as a Knighted commentator, I, Sir Richard Harrisse, have never witnessed such an outrageous mêlée! The gathered masses look on in a combination of horror and fascination. The challenger, Merlin, is showing just why he is the one coming into this bout as the heavy favourite. His long history of careful preparation is certainly on display here this morning. Ichabod did very little to prepare. This bout is naughtte for the faint of heart! Oh, the humanity! Methinks I see the blackened corpse of the boy standing yet, inside his little pretend tower. It stands beneath a crude construction. This framework steeple can do little to protect the little wretch within. It is just a twenty foot pyramid constructed of four poles lashed together. Ichabod’s body is still clearly visible to all. Hmm, that’s odd. He does not seem to actually be getting struck by the lightning’s deadly touch. In fact, methinks he may still be alive, in spite of being struck by dozens of lightning strikes! No, all of the many lightning strikes are being absorbed by the bundle of swords bound to the top of Ichabod’s tower. I believe I can discern a rope, beginning to glow. This must be one of Ichabod’s strange metallic ropes. It extends down the side of the tower and is tightly bound to a twelve foot, steel lance that has been driven ten feet into the Earth. I see now that there is a similar preparation at each corner of the pyramid. Now that the lightning storm has played itself out, I see that Ichabod is standing on a low construct of logs, under his tower. The assembly at hand is flabbergasted to see that the boy still lives! It looks as if he is prepared to speak. Let’s listen in.”

  “Oh my Goodness, it looks like I’m still alive, y’all. That was right neighborly of you, Mr. Merlin, to let me know how you was planing to strike me down dead. I did not think you would be able to do real magic and call forth a lightning storm, but I took you at your word and borrowed a lesson from a personal hero of mine. A feller named Ben Franklin. He figured out a way of protecting barns and silos and such by means of a lightning rod. I’m glad I was able to use his simple but effective protection against you, Mr. Merlin. Now, you and me seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I can see how you might be threatened by my inventions, but I reckon we can just say that’s water under the bridge now. What do you say, don’t you want to be friends?”

  “Bah, you worm! How dare you survive my onslaughtte of supernatural power! I will never bow to a low-born cur as thee.”

  “You ain’t shown yourself to be the nicest of peoples, Mr. Merlin, so I’m glad I did what I done. Last night, while you were making arrangements for this demonstration, moving all your occultish apparatti from your tower back yonder and setting it up in this field, I was making preparations too, and not just this towered lightning rod. Over in my workshops I have been making up a bunch of dynamite, that is an explosive, and by that I mean, a small, concentrated area, that wants to suddenly, be a big, open area. While you and your little druid horde in their hooded cloaks were hustling equipment down out of the top of the tower, I was able to just put on a hooded cloak of my own and waltz right in! Everybody was so busy, that nobody noticed an extra druid! All the activity was upstairs so nobody noticed me sneaking off to the basement. I carried about fifty pounds of dynamite that I had hid up under my hoody robe into the cellar of that there tower. I didn’t think that would be quite enough for the job I wanted to do so I went back for another load. Then I wanted to be extra sure, so I went back for another fifty pounds of high grade dynamite. Then I went back a couple of more times so I was able to pack lots and lots of explosives into the basement over there. That was when I noticed that a lot of the ingredients you use for making your coloured smoke are kept down there. That’s good because they should just increase the potential of my preparations.”

  “Mr. Merlin sir, I have just one question for you.”

  “I refuse to acknowledge you! Bah, all right, what is it?”

  “Is there anybody in that there castle/tower of yours?”

  “No, all of my retainers are here. Bah.”

  “There ain’t no cooks, ner cleaning crew in there is there?”

  “Bah. No.”

  “Last chance. Are you sure you don’t want to say you’re sorry for being mean and trying to blow me up in a lightning storm?”

  “No! Bah.”

  “All right then, Mr. Merlin, sir, I reckon you got this coming. I draw everyone’s attention to this wooden box with a handle sticking out the top. The box has a couple of projections at the bottom that I can place my feet on so that when I draw the handle upward, the main body of the box stays in place on the ground. The sharp, upward pull of this plunging rod is now placed so that it is prepared to engage the generator’s spinning gears. Please note how I attach these two wires to the couplings along the side of this box. When I shove this plunger down, it is going to spin up an electric charge that will fire off my dynamite. Last chance, Mr. Merlin. Do you want to say you are sorry? Will you promise to behave?”

  “Never!”

  “Good, because you are a big meanie head! This is for smashing up that sweet little Miss Vanessa RedBird, you big jerk!”

  ~plunge~

  wuh-BOOOOOM!

  “What a display of technical prowess, Ladies and Knights! The underdog, Ichabod, has completely destroyed Merlin�
�s castle! The base of the stone tower bloomed outward in a sudden bulge of orange flame while at the same time the roof of the citadel belched a massive fireball straight up into the sky!”

  kuh-booge

  kuh-booge

  kuh-booge

  “Floor by floor, the tower of Merlin collapses into itself. Ichabod has won! Merlin is ruined! His castle lies in smoking destruction! The King is about to speak!”

  “I, Arthur, have proclaimed it before, and so too do I say it again.”

  “Ichabod, thou art the man!”

  Chapter 7

  A Day at the Jousts

  “Oooooh, Ichabod, thou art so manly in thy great victory. Let me soothe thee with my tender caresses to ease thee after so arduous a battle.”

  “Oooooh, Ichabod, forsooth, surely thee prefers the joyous sensations that my company may bring and naughtte the substandard and slovenly manners of a low wench as that, yard-hen?”

  “Oooooh, Ichabod, tarry naughtte with these damaged damsels. Thou surely desires one of purity and innocence, naughtte the over-used likes of these virtue-less wenches.”

  “Back off, you slattern tarts, the boy, I mean, the Great Wizard Ichabod, is mine to carouse with as I please!”

  “Hsss! Thou would be wise to retreateth, skanketh one. Withdraw forthwith lest thine eyes find themselves upon mine fingertips.”

  “I shall have him!”

  “No, he is mine!”

  “No, no, it will be I that possess Ichabod!”

  “Hrr-Rearll!”

  “Ichabod, get out of there! Those maidens have transformed into maddened furies! This way! Flee for your life!”

  “Gosh, thanks, Spyke, I was almost collaterally damaged!”

  “This big tournament held in your honour is meant to celebrate your victory, not inflict untimely death upon you.”

  “That’s what I thought, but there has been one love-hungry bunny/maiden after another trying to run me down. Let’s get back to a more public area. I don’t think that first little ol’ gal really had anything back here behind the wagons to show me no how.”

  “Thou may feel free to throw any surplus maidens in mine direction, oh, Ichabod, who art the man.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Spyke.”

  “Merry!”

  “You know, all them pretty little gals and all the general excess in over-abundant joyous affection that is so poignantly illustrated all around me by these frolicking, carousing, couplings got me lonesome for my girl back home. I sure do wish I could find a way back to my one true love, Miss Persephone Plumtartt.”

  “What you need is some other kind of distraction than pleasing womanly affections, eh? How about a sausage of questionable origin on a stick. It’s a favourite in carnival fare.”

  “Sure, I’ll eat most anything. I don’t think I ever met a food I didn’t like.”

  “Here you go, oh, he who art knownest as the man, have some air spun sugar beet squeezings on a straw. This big gray swirl of sticky goodness that so resembles a hornet’s nest is affectionately known as a ‘woolly whirly’.”

  “Nyum, nyum. Thanks, Spykey.”

  “And of course no visit to the Fairre is complete without a special edition souvenir keepsake tankard of ail.”

  “You mean ‘ale’.”

  “Depends on how much you drink.”

  “Great Balls of Fire, there’s a feller spitting out great balls of fire!”

  “Oh, come on, Icks, that’s got to be a staple item at any carnival in any time period.”

  “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that, Spyke. Say, them there clowns are a dangerous looking bunch, ain’t they?”

  “If they attack, go for the juggler.”

  ~groan~ “Over thirteen hunnerd years in the past, and that joke still comes off stale.”

  “Apologies, Icks, I could not resist.”

  “How about over there where the big crowds are?”

  “Enh? You seen one joust, you’ve seen ‘em all. Kind of tacky, if you ask me. Oh, everybody says they are there to see the artful execution of honourable and gallant combat, but the dirty little secret is that everybody comes to see the carnage.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Only noble men of rank may enter in courtly jousts! It is for men of great breeding to go and beat each other to bits. A man of low-rank has no right to engage in these games. That would be attempted murder. Here, it is just stalwart bucks, feeling their oats and wanting to exorcise a few inner tensions and exuberances.”

  “I meant dangerous.”

  “Oh, the expected broken rib or two when speared by the end of a lance on two thunderous chargers running in opposite directions.”

  “Ooo, that’s got to hurt.”

  “Then there’s the landing.”

  “Ooof, yeah, I forgot about that. Getting jousted is sort of a double whammy, hunh? I can just imagine all the air being driven from my lungs and not being able to breathe after a heavy landing. Of course, not being able to breathe might be preferable if one just received a couple of broken ribs from the lance.”

  “Then there is the inevitable hothead that refuses to yield, even though he is clearly beaten. It is a disgusting spectacle, but the Royals and the extended Court seem to enjoy it.”

  “Why do the Knights engage in such dangerous play?”

  “Maidens, Icky, maidens! Are you kidding? Look at them all. Their pointy hats seemest to extend with their sympathies to their chosen hero. They flutter away in a manner that is most unseeming, methinks, but then again, I kind of likes it. These snotty damsels will not even look twice at a noble bloke if he does not wear the required amount of scar tissue. ”

  “Yessir, I reckon that there is a timeless truth. Chicks dig scars.”

  “Aye.”

  “Let’s get to where we can watch the action! I want to see some of this tournament jousting.”

  “Whateverest thou say, oh Icky, who art the man. Odd’s bodkins, one cannot take a step without trodding upon some rutting nobles. There are courtesans everywhere you look with enough malicious gossip flying between wagging tongues to floateth yon castle upon.”

  “Hey Spyke, there’s Guenevere and Launcelot. He is enjoying a cream custard.”

  “Seemeth it so, Icks, forsuch as Guenevere desires a portion of Launcelot’s sweet stuff, forsooth doth she naughtte lick a dripped drop from the pommel of Launcelot’s sword?”

  “Oh my Goodness, look at all the pageantry! There are bright banners all over the place; funny striped fabric tents with flags and proud heralds. The tunics, and unfortunate tights that the men wear, and the voluminous gowns of the pointy hat damsels everywhere are so colourful that I doubt my overloaded senses.”

  “Get over it, Ichabod. There, did you hear that long, straight, horn fanfare? That is to announce that the next bout is about to begin.”

  “Look at the horsies! I know they are big, charger, war-horses, but that shining armour they wear makes them look even more super-huge!”

  “Dost thou see? That is why I do not like horses.”

  “Look at the repetitive square fringe with gilt flocking running along the edge of the horses skirt that goes all the way around. It almost hides the horses legs and hooves. When they run, they appear to be hovering over the ground!”

  “Verily, yep.”

  “The feathery plumes coming off the horsie and the knights helmets are sure enough splendorific! How do they induce those techni-colours?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My Goodness, look at how each knight bears a shield with his own family crest proudly emblazoned upon it.”

  “Sure Icks, for though each knight wears custom made armour with fanciful animal shapes built into the helmet’s visor, it is the crest of the shield that allows the spectators to know one competitor from another.”

  “I suppose it would be kind of tacky to wear numbers on the back of one’s shining armour.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who’s up, Spyk
e?”

  “That’ll be him over to our right; a great, horrible, burly earl in a maroon and black ensemble. Can you make out his coat of arms, Icky?”

  “Three little pigs on a brick house.”

  “Ah, that would be Sir Brutus Sourmash.”

  “His opponent is a handsome young man. His colours are red and green; his crest is a sword atop a tree.”

  “That would be Sir Dirk Oakenshaft. The ladies are all about him. They call him ‘Sir Woody’. Sir Brutus has a deep grudge against Sir Dirk for foraging through his forests, thus spoiling his game.”

  “They are set up opposite of one another on a big field, a couple of hundred yards apart. Now they are off! Oh my Goodness, Spyke, they are charging right at each other with them big ol’ lances! They are going to collide!”

  ~thunk~

  “Oh! They did collide! Sir Dirk is down! The women are going crazy! Oh no! Sir Dirk is not giving up the battle! His pride is such that he cannot bear to lose to so base a character as Sir Brutus! What’s this? Hundreds of damsels are swarming the field to shield Sir Dirk. Oh thank Goodness! Sir Dirk is going to yield the field of battle, rather than risk any harm coming to his many feminine admirers.”

  “Next we have Sir Geoffrey McBadMuffin, versus Sir Peter O’Pyke.”

  “Ooo, Sir Peter had a painful landing.”

  “These jousting bouts sure are exci-ouch! Something just poked me in the back! Hey, it was this here dagger being clutched in the hand of Mr. Merlin! You just tried to stab me! If I had not been wearing a chain link undershirt like Spyke advised me to, you could have seriously hurt me!”

  “What? Who? Me? No, I’ve never seen this dagger in my hand before in my life. I must have mistaken you for someone else I was trying to murder.”

  “I just betcha you were gonna stick me and then slip away in the crowd. Shame on you, Mr. Merlin. Now I beat you fair and square, so you best just swaller that pill and behave.”

  “Bah, go back to you foolish jousts, you silly ingrate.”

  “Yessir. Who’s up, Spykey?”

  “Next is Sir Tiberius McKirk versus Sir Gunther GravenHurlle.”