Little Agnes and the Ghosts of Kelpie Wharf

by Stella Drexler

happened!”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Was it the ghosts?”

  “Did the slavers get them?”

  “Will my husband be forced to scrub toilets?”

  “Well, I don't know exactly where and when, but I know nearly where and when.” She drew herself up to her fullest height. “Dregs of Port Enshus, I require the fastest boat in the village. Or, preferably, your most sophisticated aerostat.”

  The people of Port Enshus glanced at each other in confusion. “Aerostat?”

  She rolled her eyes. “A boat will do. Step lively, you lot! I will solve the mystery of your missing men!”

  “Huzzah!”

  “Hooray!”

  “Three cheers for the little girl!”

  “Are you quite sure this is wise?”

  “But you're only a little girl.”

  Agnes glared around at the crowd. “Only a little girl? I'll have you know, I am Agnes Crowley, prodigious progeny of the infamous and venerable Dr Nimrod Crowley. I have battled the wild East End Troubadour Troop; braved the Clockwork Cornucopia; and bested the Malodorous Savage Eutherian Vic smuggled into his casket. I solved the mysteries of the Wailing Phantasmal Debutante and the Ubiquitous Radioactive Elaterid. I am confident I am quite suited to the challenge. Now, dregs! Bring me a boat!”

  “Bring this little girl a ship!”

  They scattered, chattering like monkeys. Agnes beamed smugly around at them as they scrambled to purvey her vessel.

  “Little Agnes! Little Agnes!” The rapscallions motioned her from a small, gleaming wooden jolly boat floating quietly in the water below. She hooted gleefully and leapt over the railing. Water lapped against the glass hull, and small fish peered curiously up at Vic as he lumbered down onto the polished deck. “Welcome aboard the Brass Canary,” Thomas told them proudly. “The fastest ship in Port Enshus!”

  Agnes seized the large, gleaming brass hand-wheel. She didn't know very much about boats, but she checked the domed gauges on the helm as though she could read them perfectly. She lifted her chin. “It is quite acceptable. I shall return with the men post haste. Now, please get off my ship.”

  Thomas opened his mouth to protest. Vic lifted a hand to shove the loquacious rapscallion into the tranquil waves. He spluttered, but Agnes added some coal to the boiler, and the Brass Canary sliced swiftly across the bay. She whooped in delight.

  “This boat is fast!”

  “Compass.”

  “I know how to read a compass!”

  “Foolish.”

  “You shut your face. I know what I'm doing. We'll find these sailors in no time.”

  “Dubious.”

  “Your attitude is becoming increasingly unsupportive. Do you require an adjustment?”

  Vic blanched. “Spot on.”

  She smirked. “That is much better.”

  They did not encounter any ships as they sped over the serene waters. Agnes checked the gauges, hoping they were steering her in the direction in which the Wraith Alloy and Aqueous Spectre had fallen victim to the mysterious circumstances. She glanced out over the water.

  “Land.”

  Agnes blinked in surprise, looking around. Vic was right. A small copse of trees appeared so suddenly on the horizon, she thought perhaps she was imagining them. But, no, the trees were there, forming a wall around the tiny island in the middle of the sparkling blue waters. “Vic! You're right! I think it's an island!”

  “Deserted?”

  “Mm. I don't know.” She checked the gauges in front of her. “But these are the right coordinates. I believe this island might tell us something about what happened to those men.”

  “Imprudent.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “What's a bit of danger? I've got my merry side arm, and I'm keen for some adventure.” She spun the wheel dramatically, steering towards the mysterious island.

  “Oversized beasts.”

  “Come now, Vic, that's nothing more than fiction and fancy. There are no genetically engineered monsters here.”

  The Brass Canary drew gently ashore, and Vic alighted gracelessly on the grey sand. He didn't reach a hand to assist Agnes out of the vessel. He gestured around him. “Pirates?”

  She glanced around the quiet, tranquil island. She could hear birds singing in the distance, but there were no boot prints, no scattered bones or broken bottles, no ruckus to indicate a pirate crew or slaver vessel was anywhere nearby. “I think not. I daresay a cursory investigation will uncover this mystery. Let us be off!”

  The island's vegetation was lush and verdant, but Agnes and her clockwork companion paid it no heed. The Crowleys and their uncanny creations had never formed an appreciation of the beauties of untrodden wilderness. This island was not prey to the aggressive murk that plagued Port Enshus, but the sky was gloomy grey. A thin mist crept along the forest floor, obscuring the once colourful blossoms that now looked shrivelled and withered under the haze.

  Agnes paused in a small, murky clearing, scowling around at the dense fauna. Vic stumbled into her, muttering irritably under his breath. She propped her hands up on her hips. “I don't see any sailors around here, Vic.”

  He made a curious rumbling sound in response, but when she turned to look sharply at him, he looked as mystified by the noise as she.

  “What was that?”

  “Quake.”

  “I know it was a quake! But what caused it?” Her dark amber eyes lit with acuity. “The sailors.”

  Vic peered at her with a leer that clearly communicated his doubt.

  “Whatever caused that tremor, it wasn't nature. There's something here on this island, Vic, and we are going to discover it.”

  He lifted his shoulders in the undead approximation of a sigh, for his uncanny body no longer drew breath.

  Agnes listened closely, but there was no further trembling from the forest floor. She sighed in disappointment, and they edged closer to shore.

  Behind her, Vic chattered relentlessly in several different voices that sounded nothing like this own.

  Agnes spun to him, scowling. “What was that?”

  He lifted his hands in bemusement.

  She narrowed her eyes. “That's it.” She dropped to the dank floor, mindless of the pretty day red day dress her father had insisted she wear to the exposition. She fumbled at her belt for a small, brass trumpet that she pressed to her ear. The other end of the trumpet narrowed to a long, rubber hose terminating at a large, concave disc, with which she scanned the ground, listening for the ceaseless chatter.

  There it was. She could hear dozens of voices, all of them talking rubbish. She followed the sound with her trumpet, Vic trundling behind her, stumbling over the exposed roots and fallen branches. The sound came to a sudden crescendo, and she looked keenly around for an entrance into the underground cocktail party.

  She could see none. She walked several more paces, but the noises dampened suddenly. She cursed most unlike a lady of breeding. She returned to the spot she had heard the voices most clearly, but a second inspection yielded no greater insights regarding the entrance.

  Suddenly, a high-pitched cackle rent the thick, eerie quiet above ground.

  Vic let out a quiet grunt heavy with alarm.

  Agnes spun towards the sound in time to see an uncannily tall man with skin as ivory pale as porcelain bounding towards them in unnaturally high leaps. His face, long and pointed like a devil's, was flat and almost featureless, though large eyes burned red out of the slight indentations of his eye sockets. His mouth was a ragged, gaping slash with sharp, pointed teeth. The creature wore naught but a ratty, torn black shirt and trousers.

  “What is that?” Agnes demanded, fumbling for her tool belt.

  “Terror of London!” Vic squeaked.

  She turned a scathing glare upon her companion. “Certainly he isn't either! Don't be ridiculous.”

  But the creature certainly looked like the sprightly maste
r of menace, the thing of nightmares, tall tales and legends told in the darkest hours of night. It leapt several metres into the air, landing mere feet before them, and Agnes scowled imperiously at him.

  He lifted his long, clawed fingers, giggling shrilly as he dashed towards them. Agnes drew a small, bulbous brass and glass pistol from her belt and fired.

  The eldritch beast spun in mid-air and collapsed unceremoniously to the forest floor. Agnes huffed in disappointment, peering at the pistol. “Papa said it was set to disintegrate.” She bent over the creature, drawing several lengths of copper chains from her belt, which she used to bind him up with a discomfited expression. “He barely looks charred.”

  “Stun.”

  “Well, that is just unacceptable. How could Papa lie to me like that?”

  “Besides the point.”

  “I think it's precisely the point, Vic! If this Spring-Heeled Jack creature is one of the voices we heard underground, a flimsy stun gun isn't going to be of much help, is it?” She prodded the creature with her boot. “I am most disappointed by this turn of events.”

  “Monsters?”

  She stomped her foot. “Not the monsters! The monsters are brilliant. I hope there's scores more. If there are monsters, what has become of the sailors?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Vic, that is tremendously demoralizing. Do shut up.” She glanced around. “But how are we to find them?”

  “Footprints.”

  “Vic, sometimes I astonish myself with my cleverness.”

  “Me.”

  “Who created you, anyway? Come!”

  Agnes tucked the ear trumpet back into her tool belt. She did not holster her pistol, despite its unexpectedly dissatisfactory designation. She narrowed her eyes, searching for