For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) (11 page)

“I appreciate your candor and your wonderful tales,” Clarabelle casts a questioning glance over at Bolt. “Though I am still feeling as if I am covered over in itchy fur, and my right leg has an almost uncontrollable urge to scratch behind my right ear utilizing my toes as digging implements.”

Beaming from ear to ear, Clarabelle warms into her story.

“I suppose it’s been about seven years now since the ‘Revelatory Comet’. I was seventeen at the time. Before that, singing had always been a part of my life. I pretty much grew up in the church choir, often being selected for solo parts. In school, I would eagerly pursue any sort of singing chance that was available. In any school performance or production, I was always there, and usually earned a satisfying and challenging role.”

“However, with the Comet’s passing, I immediately knew that I could do far more with my voice than I had ever realized. I could conjure an image of the structures and harmonies. The wavelengths of the auditory vibrations were visualized in my mind as if by magic. Soon, I could selectively vibrate an object, just by the placement of my pitch. I can shatter glass and crystal. I can even select the particular target in mind, as opposed to endangering all fragile objects, but it was not these parlour tricks that helped me to gain fame. It was my admittedly enhanced singing skills that brought me much fame and attention. I was getting some good bookings, but alas, I allowed my own need to show off get me in trouble. It started with a single crystal from the grand chandelier of the Paris opera house. I thought it would be a nice touch, to burst a single crystal at the peak of my aria. It worked! It was so fantastically dramatic! The whole house caught their breath. Several ladies let out a whelp of surprise and fear. Though several people were gouged by descending shards of crystal, no one complained. In fact, it was such a thrilling moment, that those wounded were honoured to be a part of that incredible experience. They thanked me profusely for selecting the one particular crystal that would strike them. Others were miffed at me for not having been selected to have deadly shards of lead crystal rain down upon them.”

“The kind managers of the opera house were very happy with me. I apologized, insisting that I had gotten carried away by being able to perform in such a magnificent palace as their opera house, and that I was very sorry for any property damage done. The two gentlemen exchanged a queer look. They then informed me that, though for the briefest of moments, the two men were outraged at my callous impropriety. However, the occupant of a particular box seat, a gentleman of the most mysterious connections with the theater, let it be known that he was happy with the performance. It is said that the box is always reserved for him on the opening night of all the proud opera house’s shows. Because this gentleman has so much influence in the theater for some reason, they decided to let the issue drop. My protector even sent me a dozen roses, but mysteriously, his card only read, ‘P’.”

“Well, I thought to meself, Clarabelle, if one little crystal worked well for a bit of notoriety, maybe I’ll just turn it on just a wee bit more next time.”

“Oh, if I could only go back and do it again.”

“You see, our next show was in Lichtenstein, at the famous GuberGraüberz Hall. Some of the grandest crowned heads of Europe were in attendance. Prince Pimpzle Pauper, Duchess Poutsy Illtempertz, and even Queen Glarezalotte were there.”

“Word had spread of my performance in Paris and there was much excitement for another historic moment to be made. As I grew closer to the crescendo, I could feel the anticipation growing in the audience. I could make out parasols and umbrellas being brought to hand in readiness of a glass shower.”

At the fireside, Clarabelle drops her head in a moment of embarrassment. She then looks back up, much of her previous enthusiasm dampened.

“I was really in the moment. I knew that I was not going to disappoint my audience.”

“As I hit my final, ultimate note, I held it in a moment of extended bliss. I may have heard the chandelier shattering, but in truth, I was caught up in the musical ecstasy.”

“Eventually, I remember to end the note. Opening my eyes, I am shocked at the damage done. Not only has any glass or crystal in the house shattered, it has mercifully been powderized back into sand. Even opera glasses and monocles, and there are a lot of monocles in Lichtenstein.”

“The entire audience has been blasted up against the back wall. Along with the seating, and it was bolted down.”

“But I think it was how I was able to peel the gold leaf from the balcony and surrounding ornate parapets that really made a lasting impression.”

“A few of the more sporting vocal enthusiasts provided a polite smattering of applause, but these brave aficionados were quickly shot down with a venomous look by Queen Glarezalotte. Her wig had been knocked asunder, her skirts thrown over her head, and several patrons, along with a few members of the orchestra, had landed atop of her royal highness during the furor of the performance.”

“‘Off with her head!’ the angry woman shrieked! I was very nearly executed on the spot. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed long enough to rush me out of the wrecked Hall.”

“In a majestic rage, Queen Glarezalotte banished me from the kingdom and did everything she could to have me black-balled throughout the World.”

Several tongue snicks against the roofs of several mouths around the campfire click in sympathy. A few ‘Mmm. mmm, mmm’s,’ too.

But as is her wont, Clarabelle quickly brightens back up. Her irrepressible exuberance absolutely refuses to be repressed. “That’s all right,” she assures us, “for it was by leaving those snotty stages that I found my good friend, Valuria Englehart, and her WickeThimble Traveling Players.”

“Well, girl, it’s your turn, I thinks,” the singer tells the seamstress.

“Oh, well!” Valuria gives a little gasp as she readies herself to tell her story. “Nothing as exciting as you wonderful people, I’m sure. I am, as I am sure I appear, a simple seamstress. And such was I at the time of the Revelatory Comet’s passing. As you may guess, my simple skills expanded exponentially that fateful summer. I quickly was able to secure a place of employment in the finest dress shop in New York. I can put together the most intricate pattern of dress imaginable with the greatest of ease. I do not mean to brag, but what I had struggled with before, would practically flow from my fingers almost without thought or effort. Pleats and pintucks soon held no challenge for me. Despite the lovely position I held in the dressmaking world, I decided to follow an old dream of mine. The theater has always held a certain allure to me. I am far too shy to actually perform before people, but I dearly wish to be a part of the magic. My skills brought me to the largest producer of plays on New York’s Broadway. The production was thrilled with my talents; however, I found that I did not like the restriction of being able to make costumes only for the roles necessary. I knew that I was capable of even greater costuming creations, but I needed the impetus of need to bring that about.”

“That was when I met Sir Paul Whitmore,” Valuria smiles, looking to the handsome giant.

“Yes,” Sir Paul gives a small snort of amused agreement with the slight woman. “I believe it was a momentous occasion when the small-mindedness of that overly large production brought you and me into contact. Forsooth, as you may follow the trend, my origins parallel those of my lovely friends. I was in a troupe of actors in a small playhouse. My generous size and self-assured presence helped me to land many good roles, and I eagerly studied at the side of my more experienced cast-mates. My friends encouraged me to pursue a career in the theater and I did so with all my heart.”

“That was the state I was in when the ‘Comet’ passed. Veteran actors that I was studying under were now amazed at my performances. I could memorize lines without trying. It seemed I was already the person involved. My varied characterizations would completely embody me. Word spread of my enhanced talent. Soon, a major production company had come to me for work. This was where I met Miss Valuria Englehart. Though it was a great experience to perform in front of large, money-paying audiences, in my heart, I knew that I was holding back. I thirsted for challenging roles to play. Valuria and I decided to leave the production company and strike out on our own. A wagon and a few planks are all that is required to be able to travel and put on shows of our own design.”

“The WickeThimble Traveling Players were born. Sir Paul is a one-man cast. He can play any role with amazing credibility.”

“Would you care to give a small demonstration, good sir?” Valuria asks.

“I should be delighted!” our actor proclaims, leaping to his feat. “What is it you would like to see?”

“Uh, I ain’t really too sure of what to expect, Sir.”

“I say, I find myself at a loss for suggestion.”

Clarabelle calls out, “Show them Abe Lincoln.”

Suddenly, Paul no longer seems to be standing there. Our former president looks out from where he stands. I instinctively salute the great man before I remember that it is an impostor.

“Show us happy,” says Valuria.

“My word, Sir Paul’s face is as the beaming Sun in its joyous state. His engaging happiness is a radiance of joy.”

“Show us anger,” calls out Clarabelle.

In a terrifying display, Paul’s face and bearing take on all the attributes of that emotional state. [More than that, he somehow
becomes
anger - the very living embodiment of the emotion.] We are all relieved when he concludes this portrayal.

“Do Persephone,” cheers Valuria.

Somehow, Sir Paul is able to soften his features. His bearing slightly shifts, and in a clear, feminine, aristocratic British accent, this remarkable resemblance to my dearest sweetheart replies, “My dear Mr. Temperance, just how long must I wait for you to get up your courage to further our amorous relationship, eh hem? Indeed, this intolerable state cannot exist much longer before I must fling myself at the irresistible Sir Paul.”

“Oh, please don’t, Miss Plumtartt,” I cry, before I realize that I just fell for Sir Paul’s incredible theatrical prowess.

Everyone laughs uproariously at my faux pas. I feel my face flush with embarrassment at my friends’ good-natured merriment, and I can’t help but laugh myself, also.

“How charming!” Miss Plumtartt cries. “Can you perform a portrayal of our Mr. Bolt?”

Sir Paul’s eyebrows are held in such a way that they appear repositioned. I could almost swear that his ears elongate and grow furrier. Sir Paul’s lower face implies that it is actually a snouty muzzle. I do not know how he does it, but somehow, Sir Paul is able to give off the impression that he is actually a small little dog, looking at us with a frank and open expression.

We all give a small round of applause on this one.

“But our dear Miss Englehart does not give herself credit.” Sir Paul sweeps a hand towards our little Valuria. “Her costuming creations are a wonder in themselves, you see, for she works a magic into them. Behold!”

Pulling a robe-like piece of wardrobe seemingly from out of thin air, Sir Paul easily wraps himself in its fabrics.

He wears the raiments of Henry VIII. Donning a wig and hat, he speaks as the infamous king.

“Wheh-erh, ahre my slip-ahz. I requires more mutton. And wheh-arh, is my Queen? Catherine? Anne? Jane? Anne? Catherine? Katharine? Wheh-erh, ahre you my love?” inquires the massive monarch.

Sir Paul takes a step and turns, and as he does, his costume changes with him. Here now stands Anne of Cleves! For in an incredible display, the garment, wig and hat have transformed into those of the Queen. She answers her husband.

“Your Queen ist here vhere she alvays eez mein Lor-duh. I uhlvays have zee double helpings uhv zee mutton for youze, mein leibchein.”

“Incredible! I exclaim. “What on Earth was that! I cannot believe my eyes!”

“Well,” Valuria scrunches up her shoulders in momentary delight. “Sir Paul’s acting ability allows him to play many roles. He needed a costumer who was on par with his skill as an actor. Somehow, I got the idea of working in tiny gears and levers embedded in the material and structured in such a way as to bring about a shift in position. A small shift can create a large illusion, if worked out correctly. The lay of the fabric combined with clever turnstiles, provides a range of options. Our two skill sets have foregone traditional theatrical productions, in order to focus on our own fulfillment and gratification.”

“At first though, we were able to make a fine living at it,” Valuria tells in her bright and happy way. “We had a mildly successful run on a riverboat tour along the Missouri River. We played at Sioux City, Omaha, and Kansas City.” Miss Englehart’s expression changes. The excitement and merriment drop from her voice as she continues. “But that was also when the trouble started.” Our Valuria looks down, suddenly unsure of herself.

“To be honest,” Sir Paul cuts in, “your costumes were a big hit. There were, of course, a few small-minded people who thought we were employing some sort of witchcraft. Very often people would faint, or even run away. Most audiences realize that the fantastic costuming is one fabulous facet of our troupe, and come for that aspect alone, perhaps. Verily, though, on the whole, it was my admittedly adept ability to reach out and affect our audiences by means of a moving theatrical performance, that has damaged our reputation.”