by Paul Kidd
Snapper raised one brow. “No?”
“Well – after a century and a half, the things are all insanely unstable. Blow you up as soon as look at you! Hell of a bang!”
“Ah.” The shark considered. “So – no messing with scavenged power plants. That would be bad.”
“Decidedly not advisable!”
Over by the campfire, Captain Beau was accepting yet another drink from the hand of one of the more attractive passengers from wagon number three. Snapper and Kitterpokkie watched from afar, then fluffed out their blankets and prepared to sleep. Beside them, Throckmorton snoozed happily, leaves twitching in some strange dream.
Snapper rolled around in her blankets, made sure her sword was beside her, and gave a yawn well stuffed with pointed teeth.
“All righty. Bed time.” The shark stretched. “Did you really blow up a town?”
“People can be such babies! It was only a single building! Well – two of them. Three if you count the shed.” The mantis fluffed out a sack for a pillow. “It was the poison gas that they were all incensed about! But there was a perfectly good breeze blowing. No harm done!”
“Goodnight Kitt. You are a very strange person.”
“Goodnight, friend Snapper. You are quite strange yourself.”
At dawn, a handsome giga-moth was seen cruising off towards the hills. The huge fox-moth hybrids never bothered anything as large as a person, but were quite partial to stealing food. The animal kept well out of rifle range, and seeing no worthwhile morsels, soared off towards the hills to hide from the sun. The wagons pulled out of their defensive circle and continued on their way, finally reaching the first ranch lands sometime before noon.
A slow brown river – really just a creek that flowed even in the summer time – meandered down across the plains. The banks were lined with shady trees – lemon willow, ginger gum and tall grasshopper trees. The air held a tang of herbs and damp grass. The air rang to the cries of crow-cats and honey eaters. Tiny creatures – half blue wren, part hopping mouse – flitted in small groups down in the grass.
The ranch stations were set next to the river – big block-walled places where herd animals were sheltered for the night. The vaqueros were out keeping watch on their herds – cocoplods, horn beasts and fledgling riding budgerigars. The riders lifted long lances and whistled greetings to the caravan. Two men came riding up to greet the wagons, and Snapper rode forward to warn the riders about the presence of Screamers out there in the wilds. A teenager – a rather wild and rangy rat – sped off on a fast mount to bring the news to town.
At midday the caravan rested a while at the crest of a hill, under the shade of ginger gum trees. Kitterpokkie sat atop a stump and carefully set up a home-made camera, photographing the scene. She took further pictures – of Snapper, Onan, Kenda and the outriders, along with Beau filing his claws. The fox-pheasant came bustling over to her side, examining the camera with interest.
“Not an artefact?”
“Absolutely not.” The mantis had the entire camera folded up in a hardwood and leather case, quite proof against the weather. “The lenses are made from reclaimed glass, but all hand ground. The telescope store in Ginger Ford turns ‘em out! Grinds them using the river sludge as an abrasive. Same place that makes spectacles for trade.” The mantis motioned towards Snapper. “Excellent workmen! Always up for a challenge!”
Beau looked at the camera in amazement.
“But… you made a camera? Just… just made one?”
“I did! Silver nitrate and a few other useful things.” The mantis packed her camera away in her shoulder bag. “Science is a marvellous thing.”
“Indeed! Indeed!”
“I shall give you a copy of the photograph once it’s developed.”
It was an excellent place to stop for lunch. The air was refreshing and the views delightful: the brush all over the plains was woven through with countless little flowers. Lunch consisted of damper that had been baked on the morning fires, served with sliced bacon melon, dried fruit and a fine crumbly cheese. Beau came strutting across the grass bearing a steaming billy can of tea. He served tea to Snapper, who sat on a boulder looking down over the plains while Onan indulged in dried apricots, grass tubers and salty crackers.
The hill looked down across several fields of plant animals, vegetables and grains – wandering rubber tree plants and other useful livestock. Some five kilometres or so across the plains, the walls of Spark Town could just be seen. The sturdy ramparts were made of concrete, dotted here and there with watchtowers. Smoke rose from cook fires, and people could be seen riding about the distant paths. It was the most populous settlement of the seven known villages, and by far the most technologically advanced. It was also wonderfully pleasant: even from across the dust-misted plains, the green of tree tops could be seen beyond the walls. The open space about the walls shimmered pink and white from countless millions of little daisies.
Beau looked across the scene, then drew in a great, proprietal breath. He struck an adventurous pose.
“Ah! So we finally approach fair Spark Town.” He greatly admired the pink fields of flowers, and the infinite colours of the crop fields. “You are a native of Spark Town, madam? You have much of the same air of easy competence – wild spirit restrained with dignity. Beauty in the rough!”
“Yeah… You’re an interesting fella.” The shark peered levelly at Beau over the rims of her glasses. “And yeah – I’m from Spark Town. Up on the hill there. Good town. Good place. Good people.” Snapper eyed the fox-pheasant and sucked upon one sharp tooth. “What exactly are you planning to do here?”
“Oh, I’m sure a suitable role will soon become apparent!” The man adjusted the pistols in his belt. “Perhaps the militia needs a supervisory officer? Or a bodyguard and advisor to the local leader?”
“Hmmmm.” The shark wrinkled her snout, then settled her glasses back in place. “Good luck with that. She’s a rhino with a punch on her like a charging bull.”
The water buckets were being brought in from giving the dray beasts their drink. Onan finished his last sugar root and suavely swiped the rind clear from his beak. With the caravan’s last shared meal complete, the wagoners stirred themselves, eager to be safe inside the town’s walls. The rather odd delights of Spark Town’s famous pub beckoned, as well as her renowned eateries and market. She was the jewel of weird-lands civilisation: a shining beacon of merriment.
As the caravan wound its way down towards the town, they passed an expanse of cracked rock lined with thick white veins of lead. A few locals – thick skinned lizard folk – were collecting ore and smelting it in a wonderful clay smelting forge. They were pouring metal into ingot moulds and laughing to one another as they worked. The mining was haphazardly done – the stuff was used only for making bullets, and for soldering a few bits and pieces here and there. But it was useful stuff. Kitterpokkie was most interested. She clambered about the side of a wagon, pointing out the lead-works to Snapper.
“An excellent town site, do you see? Good limestone nearby for making quicklime and cement. Steady water to run generators. And a lead seam! Oh, hooray for a lead seam!”
“Hooray?” The shark was amused. “You like bullets, then?”
“Oh, lead is the most wonderful stuff! For batteries, radiation shielding… You can dissolve it in nitric acid to make nitrous oxide…”
“What?”
“Laughing gas!” Kitterpokkie held onto the wagon with her claw arms and rubbed her hands together in delight. “Yes – I shall see if I can produce lead styphnate. Far better material for percussion caps than silver or mercury. Less wearing on the bore!” She considered the local trees. “It will mean taking a considerable survey of local tree resins in order to produce the required resorcinol. Nothing suitable down south, but with genetic variance so wonderfully rife, something will surely turn up somewhere. All just a matter of looking! That’s the infinite thrill of exploration.”
Narrow trails from farms and
ranches all joined together one by one, making a dirt road that ran beneath an avenue of lemon scented trees. The walls of the little town were rough but sturdy – home made concrete ramparts twelve feet tall, with wooden watch towers every hundred metres. Branches with limbs cut into points had been seated lying face-out beyond the walls, making a formidable obstacle. The settlers of Spark Town had fought the ancestors of the Screamers and the ferals long ago, and took no chances with monsters from the wild.
Outside of the main gates, someone had set up a wooden sign topped by an old cocoplod skull. The sign had been painted in bright, cheerful letters.
“Spark Town.
Scenic centre of the universe!
Population: c.500 Animal,
20 Vegetable, 0 Mineral,
2 Undecided.
No Junk Mail Please.”
There were riflemen up in the towers – all local residents doing militia duty – and two armoured men manning the gates. They all yelled out in welcome as the caravan reached the bridge. A dozen children – canine, avian hybrids, and even a gleeful plant – came boiling out of the gates and ran dancing about the wagons. The caravan passed through the wooden gates, and was immediately surrounded by colour.
No one had told the newcomers that the little town was beautiful.
The inside of the town walls were covered with climbing wisteria flowers – a spectacular carpet of green and purple. Flowers seemed to soar into the air at every side, filling the view with colour. More climbing plants grew about the eccentric buildings of the town: leschenaultia, bush peas, golden tassels and boronia. Some were plant animals, and occasionally snapped at passing flies. The streets and yards were shaded with pagoda trees, or with mutant palms that dangled great clumps of lush red berries.
Broad dirt streets were lined with bright little alleyways. There were buildings made from limestone blocks, wooden planks or old cargo pods. There were blacksmiths, gunsmiths, saddlers and tailors, and numerous houses with a front room selling handicrafts. People came out to wave to the caravan, calling up to the passengers. Budgerigars and beetle-horses pranced in a corral, raising a hellish, deafening row. ‘Boks’ ran through the streets, the little chicken-creatures flapping and clattering their scales, tails and wings. The streets were a delightful slice of chaos.
Beau rode his borrowed budgerigar at the fore of the caravan. He essayed a majestic caracole, trying to make the bird pose nobly for the locals. Instead, the bird took off at a gallop, racing wildly through the streets. Holding on for his life, Beau still somehow managed to carry it off, looking as though he were leading the charge towards the pub. Snapper gave a sigh and waved to Tammin the caravan chief, riding closer so she could call up to him through the noise.
“We got you in!”
“You did! Thank you! See you in the pub?”
“You will!”
“We owe you drinks.” The scaly man waved down. “Tonight!”
The man turned and called back down along the line of wagons.
“All passengers! This is our last stop! Crew – we’ll settle up wages at the pub tonight after we unload. We’re standing you dinner and a round of drinks!”
Wagoners and guard all cheered. The wagons began to turn up the hill towards the “Dancing Dugite” – the town’s justly famous pub. The place had been built inside the shell of a huge old warehouse all overgrown with purple snapping vines. It stood at the highest point of town, surrounded by a wonderfully comfortable beer garden. The dusty wagons made their way up into the parking yard. Stiff, weary passengers levered themselves down from wagons. Some marvelled at the eccentric pub, while others headed off towards lodgings or old friends.
The guard Kenda jerked a nod towards Snapper. He had a stiff, coolly militant demeanour, and his clothing was cared-for and exact. The man looked at the pub with an air of calculation, then took his mount to the stables. Behind him, the girls from wagon number three all began fussing and arguing over cases, bags and bales.
Snapper idled up through the dust to find Kitterpokkie looking somewhat wanly at the streets. She had only her shoulder bag and extremely eccentric gun. Beside her, Throckmorton hovered mid-air, gazing about himself in indecision. His luggage – a yoyo, a crossbow and a little parcel of goods bound up in a huge red and white polka dotted handkerchief – was carried beneath him. Snapper took the two creatures under her wing, leading them away from the chaos and off towards a street lined with immense black and red sunflowers.
“Come on, let’s get you settled.”
The plant looked about, hopefully wagging his wings.
“Throckmorton too?”
“Yeah, you’re house trained. Come on, we’ll go to the Boneyard.”
Kitterpokkie set her shoulder bag to rights. “The Boneyard?”
“Uncle Toby’s home for cantankerous prospectors. You’ll love it!”
From behind the pub, a dirt lane lead off towards a dell, winding past houses with ramshackle verandas and little garden plots. Flame trees spread shade above the road, screening out the slanting golden rays of the sun. A few boks strutted the streets. In a workshop, someone was making leather saddles. The workman called out and waved as Snapper walked past.
She led Onan along, scritching the weary cockatoo behind his head. Kitterpokkie and Throckmorton travelled alongside them, eyes wide and necks craning to take in the quiet sights. Snapper pointed to the little shops that fronted to the lane.
“This is Travellers Row! Places here you can get your saddlery, boots, belts and holsters… The rabbits over there, they make lanterns and camp stoves and canteens. We sell them a lot of salvaged sheet metal.” She pointed further off to the north, down another lane. “Way over on the north side, that’s Spark Lane – that’s where the gunsmiths are. The armourers, blade smiths, cartridge makers. The foundry is over by the number two tower. They melt steel, brass, bronze if they can get the tin. They can melt up plastic, too, if we bring the right kind in. Onan and I found a whole mess of that stuff about a year ago. Makes great sword handles and gun handles, if you don’t mind the colour pink…”
“Excellent! Excellent!” Kitterpokkie was quite pleased with the level of enterprise being shown. “And what of chemical manufactories?”
“Waaay back at the far west gate. There’s a fire break between them and the rest of the place. Plus the wind blows to the west. But they do percussion caps, propellants, gunpowder, fireworks… alcohol distillation.”
“Can they distil ether?”
“I… have no idea. I guess so.” The shark waved at windmills here and there. “Got us a little civic power grid, though. Lights us at night. There’s a refrigerator at the Dugite – and another at the house. Pieced it together myself. The pub makes ice cream!”
This was a level of community convenience utterly unheard of by the mantis! Kitterpokkie was wonderfully enthused.
“This is the place to be! Oh my, yes – this is the place!”
The street had a lazy, welcoming air. It led around a corner to an eccentric old house well dusted with wisteria flowers.
A pleasantly strange mutant climbing plant formed an arch across an old pair of broken columns. Beneath the arch, the way opened out into a wonderfully broad, sleepy yard. Rows of vegetables grew against a crumbled old brick wall, and an old stable housed a beetle-horse and a fine blue budgerigar. Another part of the stable housed tables used for cleaning, sorting and occasionally restoring artefacts. A huge old tree – part plant, and part animal – shaded the house beyond, spreading cool leaves patterned like moth wings. There was a wood-fired bath house, a water tank and a windmill that powered a generator. The house itself was an eclectic, rambling thing made from cargo containers, mud brick, and several original old brick walls.
Onan knew the way. The huge cockatoo trotted ahead, making a great raucous croak to announce his arrival. A man called out through an open window, summoning the bird.
“Hey boy! Hey Onan. There you are!”
“Salty cracker!”
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“Here you go! The bird bath’s full. New seed bell in the yard.” There was a stir at a curtain, and a grey-furred, crusty old face appeared – canine, with far too much hair. The man’s eyes lit up as he saw Snapper come trudging into the yard. “Aha! There you are! I’ll put the kettle on.”
A second figure came strolling out from the stables – a tall old man, clearly a crow or raven, dressed in mauve clothing festooned with tools. He removed a pair of reading glasses, and wagged them towards Snapper.
“Ah! There you are, Jemima! You were off before we could do your poetry lessons! We shall make them up later. Never mind, never mind!”
Kitterpokkie made a quizzical tilt of her head.
“Jemima?”
The raven pointed his glasses at Snapper. “Jemima Haversham Greyfin! Named after her mother, bless her pointed teeth!” The raven was terribly well spoken. “Now what about these guests, Jemima? I believe we have yet to be introduced.”
Snapper kicked her boot against the dust, looking distinctly out of sorts.
“Samuels, this is Kitterpokkie – a bit of a scientist. And Throckmorton – a great scout. They’re both from down south.”
The old dog came bustling out of the house, wiping his hands on a piece of old towel. Even with an apron on, the old man still carried a hefty scatter gun in a sheath down one leg. He and Snapper hugged each other. The old dog ruffled her long hair in loving fondness.
“How was it?”
“Got a tale to tell you, mate! Things went pear-shaped.”
“Well, get settled and tell us all about it!” The old dog came forward to enthusiastically shake Kitterpokkie by the hand.
“Uncle Toby! Pleased to meet you.” Toby shook Throckmorton’s tentacle. “So who have we here? Guests?”
“Yeah!” Snapper ushered Throckmorton and Kitt forward under the eaves. “Throckmorton and Kitterpokkie. Some great guys I met out on the trail.”
