Xolotl Strikes!

by William Stafford

  I stomped after Miss Pepper.

  “I say, there! Something occurs: you know that villain, don’t you?”

  “Honestly, Mr Mortlake. You really should get more sleep, do you know that? That villain is the man who funded my inventions. Without him, my aircraft would never have gotten off the ground - in any sense of the term.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That dastard.”

  Miss Pepper laughed bitterly. “That’s one word for him,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  The dirt track stretched in both directions, bisecting farmland that extended as far as the eye could see.

  “Do you have any idea where we are or where we’re going?” I had to ask.

  “West, like I told you,” said Miss Pepper. “That’s where we’re headed. As to where we are right now, gee...” She sucked in air. “I can’t say for sure.”

  “Brilliant. Are we anywhere near Boston?”

  “Will you forget about Boston? Your - Cuthbert is in peril.”

  “Madam, I have an obligation-”

  “You have an obligation to your man!”

  “Madam, do not presume-”

  “Oh, blow it out your ass! Look, you know and I know you want to get him back. And I want to clear my name and get my invention the recognition it deserves - that I deserve, goddamn it.”

  “It appears we are bound together then, in a figurative sense.”

  “Well, I don’t like it no more than you do. Come on, then, bucko. This way.”

  “Why not that way?”

  “The sun, dummy! I don’t know where you come from but around here it rises in the east, so therefore, we keep it at our backs in the morning, if we want to go west.”

  “I suppose that’s aviator talk.”

  “It’s just common sense. Now, button your lip and walk in front of me. You’re dressed as a servant; you must act like one.”

  I was appalled. “Madam - I-”

  “That’s quite enough, Hector,” she used my first name with relish. “You will do as I say or you may never see your man alive again.”

  Man alive, indeed!

  * * *

  We made an unpleasant discovery at the side of the track: the body of a man in a chequered shirt and grubby dungarees. The farmer.

  “Your employer really is a murderer,” I observed.

  “No, he’s not,” snapped Miss Pepper. “Not my employer, I mean. I wish I had never met the scoundrel.”

  “But then you would still be struggling with your contraption.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I would have come across another backer.”

  “Madam, how you raise funds is none of my business.”

  “Damn it! I should have held out. I should have approached someone else. Have you never been tempted by the devil, Mr Mortlake?”

  “I can happily say I have never encountered the blighter. And, if I did, I would sit him down to tea and crumpets and advise him not to be such a bad egg.”

  “That should put him in his place,” she muttered. “Look, I want to get my plans and papers back. I can’t apply for a patent without them.”

  “Can’t you just draw up some more?”

  Her face fell. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? But the calculations - I don’t remember them.”

  “Then you must endeavour to rebuild your contraption from scratch.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Have you ever lost a manuscript and had to rewrite a story from scratch? I don’t have the resources to start over. And time is against me now. There’s these two guys out in Ohio. Brothers. They’re not far off making heavier-than-air flight possible.”

  “But you got there first.”

  Her lower lip protruded. “And nobody knows it. And there’ll be no point once those guys get airborne.”

  “I can appreciate your frustration, Miss Pepper; I really can. I once had an idea for a novel about a man who changes his personality by imbibing a potion of his own concoction.”

  “His what now?”

  “His own making. I was mortified when my publisher pointed out that some Johnny-come-lately by the name of Stevenson had already written the thing. And made quite a success of it, thank you very much. But come on, you must admit... it’s not quite the done thing, is it?”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Well... Lady inventors. Aviatrixes or whatever you call yourself. It’s not cricket.”

  “You’re right!” she snarled. “It ain’t cricket. What I know about cricket is it’s the most boring game in the world, played by stuffed shirts and chauvinists. Don’t you talk to me about cricket, Mr Mortlake! I’m going to get back my papers and I’m going to fly and all the world is going to know that a woman did it first.”

  She stormed off ahead. One-Eyed Helen’s skirts hampered her progress somewhat. After a few yards, she stopped.

  “Ain’t you going to follow me, you dumb shmuck? Ain’t you going to save your little boyfriend?”

  I hurried to her side, gesturing for her to keep her voice down. My eyes darted in all directions. There didn’t seem to be anyone for miles around but one can never be too careful.

  We resumed our walking in a charged silence. The track led us between the perimeter fences of two fields. To our right wheat was growing - or barley, or something - while to our left, it was barley - or wheat, or something else. I am no agricultural expert. Whatever it was, was waving prettily in a breeze, rippling like an inviting golden sea... There’s a simile without ducks in it, Miss Pepper, especially for you.

  Inevitably, she was compelled to speak again.

  “You don’t like women very much, do you?”

  An outrageous accusation! I find the other sex perfectly tolerable - on occasion and from a distance.

  I bristled and blustered. “Madam, just because I may take exception to one particular specimen,” I gave her a hard stare, “does not mean I am averse to the entire kit and caboodle.”

  “You take exception to me, then?”

  “I did not say that,” I forced myself not to back away. “But you have embroiled my valet and I in some dangerous business and you shall receive no thanks for that.”

  She shook her incredulous head. “I got you embroiled?”

  “You are gracious to acknowledge it.”

  “Listen, Mister. I saved your ass. I unembroiled you or disembroiled you or whatever the fancy pants word for it is. You were already involved. Your boyf - your valet knew the boy in the box, didn’t he?”

  Ah.

  I conceded she had a point.

  “Like it or don’t but we’re in this together, Mortlake. We can help each other rescue what we need and then go our separate ways. Let’s not make things tougher than they already are by being snide and crotchety.”

  “Very well.” I bowed.

  “And you can cut the sarcasm too!”

  “With pleasure.”

  “I’m serious, Mortlake!”

  We continued on. At length, the track opened out onto a lane, and the lane gave out onto a road and, about five miles along the road, we came to a small settlement by no means large enough to be deemed a town and nothing like the picturesque country hamlets that dear England does so prettily.

  A haphazard group of shacks and shabby business premises lined the road. There was a ‘feed store’ and a ‘general mercantile’ and heaven knows what else. Honestly, what these people do to the English language on a widespread and daily basis is enough to curdle one’s milk of human kindness. There was also a hostelry, which, Miss Pepper informed me, was called a ‘road house’. It made me pine for a good old English pub in the Cotswolds perhaps or even the wilds of Oxfordshire.

  “Quit daydreaming!” she swatted at me with the back of her hand. “We’ll stop
here for a bit for refreshments. Use the rest room.”

  “Madam, this is not time for lying down.”

  “I mean, the bathroom.”

  “Aren’t we already in enough hot water?”

  She growled. She actually growled. It reminded me of dog-headed Tommy. I pointed out that even here in Hicksville, Sticks County, it might not be seemly for a - a - woman to be seen in a bar.

  “Hogwash!” she scorned, and then her expression changed. “I’ve got another idea. You go in and get the drinks: there’s something I want to check out.”

  I pointed out that I had no cash and my chequebook was in a hotel room in New York City.

  Shaking her fiery locks yet again, she stepped toward me and without warning delved her fingers into the pocket of my - that is to say, Cuthbert’s - waistcoat. She withdrew a leather object: Cuthbert’s coin purse. She slapped it into my hand and without another word, disappeared around the rear of the unsavoury tavern. I was dumbfounded.

  It occurred to me to see how well off for funds we were. I opened the purse. American banknotes and coins are alien to me. The currency is like toy money but the people readily accept it as though it is worth something. There was not enough to, say, finance a flying machine, but there was ample for a round of drinks and a spot of luncheon - although what manner of fare might be served in an establishment as squalid as this, I hesitated to imagine.

  Chapter Nine

  All heads turned when I crossed the threshold, affording me a clear look at the other clientele. Unlike them, I have better manners than to stare at strangers. I strode wilfully to the counter - little more than a long table in a corner, separating the patrons from shelves that housed a range of bottles. I felt their eyes on me - the patrons’, not the bottles’ - but, being an Englishman, I did not allow their scrutiny to faze me. Let them stare. Cuthbert’s livery still made me the best-dressed man in the place. It is a source of pride for me to have my valet as the most dapper manservant you might ever behold.

  I counted three other patrons. An elderly cove with a long, wispy beard, sans teeth. A pair of farmhands playing cards. An empty keg formed their card table. Behind the bar, a portly fellow who favoured the plaid and denim attire that seemed to be all the rage in these parts.

  No one spoke. The barman’s raised eyebrow was my prompt.

  “Whisky,” I said with confidence. Even a sorry shack like this would have heard of that restorative elixir.

  Wordlessly, he reached for a bottle and pulled out the cork with his crooked teeth. He poured a meagre measure but withheld the greasy glass until I placed a dollar bill on the counter. I tossed back the amber liquid as though it was nothing and enjoyed the burn as its fire coursed down my throat on its way to warm my belly. I nodded to the barkeep for a refill and asked to see the menu.

  I found myself surrounded by laughter.

  “You French, boy?” said one of the card players.

  “Not at all,” I was quick to refute that allegation.

  “You British?” said the barman. “Long way from home, ain’t you?”

  “Just a bit,” I agreed. “Now about luncheon...”

  I was aware that hostility levels had risen. These people couldn’t still be smarting about the War of Independence could they? And didn’t they win that one? Big mistake if you ask me. If anything, they should have their underwear bunched up about that more recent spat, in which they fought against each other. Wouldn’t have happened if they’d remained part of the Empire.

  A fourth man stepped from a back room. He was smartly dressed - enough to knock me into second place. His suit was broad-chequered, the breeches tapering to cream-coloured socks. He sported a floppy, flat cap and a pair of goggles hung around his throat.

  A motorist!

  I recognised the type at once. We are a rare breed. I pined for my dear Bessie, waiting in a shed back in Blighty. Bessie is a Benz, one of the first to tootle the thoroughfares of England. There aren’t many like her around. She can match any horse for speed. And there’s none of that awful shovelling business - although I will admit my roses have fared badly since Bessie came into my life.

  I itched to ask the motorist what he drove but he spoke first, mistaking me for a butler.

  “You there,” he clapped me on the shoulder. “Carry my bags out to the motor and there’s a nickel in it for you.”

  He pulled out his wallet and laid several banknotes on the counter. The barman snatched them up jealously, as though he didn’t trust me. I was about to correct the presumptuous motorist when I heard the unmistakable sound of a rubber-headed horn honking outside like an impatient goose.

  Miss Pepper! It had to be her!

  The motorist looked stricken. He pulled out a pair of rubber gloves that extended to the elbows.

  “That sounds like my Petunia!” He strode toward the exit. Or would have, had I not taken it upon myself to slide one of his suitcases into his path. He was suddenly inverted in mid-air before landing on his shoulder blades on the floor. The impact knocked both wind and swearwords out of him. I darted from the building. There was Miss Pepper behind the wheel of a fine-looking carriage with four large wheels but nary a horse. The internal combustion engine puttered and popped.

  “Come on!” she urged. I did not need telling twice. I leapt into the backseat - Miss Pepper pulled away before I was fully installed. I fell over. When I righted myself, I saw the vehicle’s owner burst from the road house and give chase. We were trundling along at quite a lick but he was soon able to catch up. A minute later, he was running alongside us.

  “Lady, you better stop right now!” One hand held onto his cap.

  “Shan’t!” said Miss Pepper.

  I looked back; the bar man and his patrons were standing on the porch, enjoying the spectacle. The motorist held onto the side of his car with one hand and his headwear with the other.

  “This is grand theft automobile,” he pointed out. I doubted there was such a crime on the statute books. It was theft; I granted him that. If only I could explain about Cuthbert, I am sure the fellow would understand. I could furnish a promissory note, offering to reimburse him for the use of his vehicle.

  He was not to be put off. Miss Pepper swatted at his fingers, removing a hand from the steering wheel to do so. My heart leapt to my throat and I tasted sour whisky making its comeback.

  “Hands on the wheel, Miss Pepper!” I admonished her between bounces. “And eyes on the road!”

  The fellow was attempting to climb aboard. He cocked a leg over the side and damned near kicked me in the face.

  “Look here!” I cried, seizing his foot. The fellow kept coming. A dog appeared from somewhere and decided to join in the fun, running alongside the car and nipping at the man’s other leg.

  “Can you not go faster?” I urged Miss Pepper.

  She stamped on the accelerator; the owner was almost jolted into the air but he held on doggedly. Meanwhile, at his ankle, the dog held on manfully.

  “This is disgraceful!” the man declared, between cries of pain and assorted colourful outbursts.

  “Let go!” said Miss Pepper, trying to prise his fingers from the door. The fellow’s foot was writhing in my grasp like a python. I tried to heave it from the car. I suppose I would have made a similar effort, should any blister try to commandeer my Bessie, so I had perfect empathy with the man.

  “Perhaps we should stop and talk about this,” I suggested.

  Miss Pepper’s remark was lost as bumps in the road surface made her words unintelligible. The man was being brushed by low-hanging branches. His cap was dislodged but the dog was not.

  “Get out of my car!” he grunted through gritted teeth. Bouncing on one leg, he was hopping mad!

  Neither pothole nor sudden swerve could get him off. I decided instead to help him in. Confused, he resisted at
first and gave me a couple of sharp kicks to the breastbone. As Miss Pepper took a corner a little too sharply, he was thrown into the back, bringing the dog with him. He was in the process of putting himself the right way up when we bounced over the crest of a hill and, picking up speed, made our descent.

  “The brakes, woman!” the driver cried.

  “They ain’t working!” cried Miss Pepper, stamping her foot repeatedly on the pedal.

  The man, the dog and I clung together as the air whipped our faces. We were accelerating at an alarming rate. Five miles per hour, ten, fifteen... Surely the human body could not withstand such celerity. I feared we would disintegrate at any second. Oh, I have ridden in trains many a time and oft, but that’s different. You’re not actually out in the open air, exposed to the elements and feeling the brunt of the wind against your face and person.

  “Stop! Stop!” the man cried.

  The dog whined in terror.

  “I can’t!” said Miss Pepper, hunched over the wheel. The countryside flew past. We were nearing the bottom of the incline. In the valley before us, another settlement. We looked likely to collide with the first building we came to. Miss Pepper yanked the steering wheel violently to the left, taking us off the road and across a field. We came to rest in a haystack but not before shoving it several yards across the ground.

  The man climbed out first to inspect the damage to his precious vehicle. The dog sprang after him.

  “You shall pay for this,” he vowed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Miss Pepper. “Send me an invoice.”

  “You shall give me your name and address,” said the man.

  “Unlikely,” said Miss Pepper. She started the engine again. I was amazed. My Bessie has to be cranked by hand before she will show signs of life. This amazing automobile could be operated entirely from the driving seat. I was agog. I longed to ask the fellow all about it and if he would be so kind as to let me have a turn.

  That was about as likely as Miss Pepper furnishing her contact details.

  She pushed a lever and the car began to move. Backwards! I was thrown forward. I could not believe it was happening. My own Bessie could only ever propel herself in one direction; if I wanted to go backwards, I had to drive in a circle. How I coveted this car!