For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) (21 page)

The two girls face each other. I feel as if I am getting a close up view of a binary star, such is the dazzling beauty of these ladies. Each is so crushingly gorgeous in her own way, that it is hard to follow Miss Nightingale’s words. There is a rushing in my ears and Miss Plumtartt is pointedly snapping her fingers at me.

“Mr. Temperance, please keep your mind on the business at hand.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I’ll start us, Persephone, and don’t feel bad, Icky. I often have that effect on the lads.”

“Patty-cake,”

“Patty-cake.”

“Baker, man.”

“Bake me a cake,”

“As fast as you can.”

“Having performed the accompanying hand movements in our little demonstration for you, we ladies shall position ourselves with Clarabelle in front of Sir Paul and I shall work with Mr. Temperance. Please pass me your prosthetic arm, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Let us give it a go gentlemen, shall we?”

~chorus~

“Patty-cake,”

“Patty-cake.”

“Baker, man.”

“Bake me a cake,”

“As fast as you can.”

“Splendid, gentlemen! Good show! I say! Hear, hear!”

“Not too shabby, boys. Now, Persephone and I have enjoyed, as many girls do, the joys of playing this and similar games with our sisters in school. Here, however, we must give our traditional rhyme a twist and change it from ‘two’ time, to ‘three’.”

“Patty-cake-patty.”

“Cake-Baker-man.”

“Bake me a.”

“Cake as fast.”

“As you can.”

“Subsequent hand movements shall be as follows. Tops to lefts as rights clap each other. Rights to lefts as tops clap each other. Tops to rights as lefts clap each other, and so on. Got it? Good! Begin.”

~clap, clap, clap~

~clap, clap, clap~

~clap, clap, clap~

~clap, clap, clap~

~clap, clap, clap~

“I say, I am quite amazed to find that we do indeed, have it! Miss Nightingale and I shall assist you gentlemen as you march about and work in the different beats.”

“Good, we’ll need your help with the various accompanying ritualistic hand motions.”

“Oh my goodness, y’all. The choreography of our feet for the many dances is maddening and makes no sense. Combined with the ridiculous hand movements and clapping and brain melting counting demands, I feel as if my brains have turned to liquid jelly running out of my ears.”

“You must persevere, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Hunh, the funny thing is, iambic pentameter is one of the easier rhythms of the monsters to learn. It’s strangely familiar somehow…”

Hoppity-hoppity-hop.

Hop-hoppity-hoppity-hop.

Hop, hop. Hop, hop.

Hop, hop. Hop, hop.

Hop-hoppity-hoppity-hop!

“By My Sweet Knickers, I think you’ve got it, lads! I believe the ‘Revelatory Comet’s’ influence upon us lasses and you lads, has given us the ability to master the three legged steps, the six armed clapping routines, and the off kilter asymmetrical rhythms.”

“Wonderful, everybody! You are all doing so well! I am so proud of you!”

“Eek! Look out, Miss Valuria! There’s a Martian trying to eat you!”

“No, Ichabod, don’t be silly. This is the head to your costume. Here you are, I’ll help you put it on. As I place it over your heads, you’ll note that Sir Paul shall gain his vision through the costume’s nostrils, and Ichabod, your ability to see will come from the promised mirror strategically placed for your convenience that allows you to see over Sir Paul’s shoulder and out of the mouth. The third arm extends through the top of the head. Ichabod, if you would please hold it up and feed it through the hole… That’s it, and if you would be so good as to grasp the handle that should be below your chin with your right hand, Ichabod. Yes, that’s right. You will find that the ringlets will allow you to have great control over the monster’s eyes, mouth, and overall facial expression. I shall hold a mirror for your inspection.”

“Okay, Miss Valuria, Ma’am, I’m grasping the five ringlets with the appropriate fingers and thumb. Now I’m looking into the mirror, over my shoulder, through the monster’s mouth, and back at myself via another mirror to see what kind of scary faces I can make with the terrific costume. Yikes! That is really scary! Am I really giving it all that movement?”

“Yes, Ichabod. That is totally you controlling the creature’s features. You will see how the eyebrows are controlled by your first three fingers. Nostril flares come by way of the pinky control ring. Your thumb operates the mouth. The features can be distorted and moved by pulling, pushing, and twisting the handle as a whole.”

“All right, Ichabod. Now you must correspond your facial maneuvers with my singing talents. Are you up to the challenge, boy?”

“Yessir!”

“Stand by, for away we go...”

“Gringle Kronk!”

“Kringle Gronk!”

“Grarg-a-donk-a-donk-a-donk!”

“How was that, ladies? Was he able to follow my expertly delivered vocal alliterations with any semblance of having been constructed by me?”

“He was not too bad, Sir Paul. Here, Valuria. Hold that mirror up so that Sir Paul can see how Ichabod is making him look. Have a go at another one, Sir Paul.”

“Grargle Jauck!”

“Grargle Spauck!”

“Grargle-a-cauck!-a-cauck!-a-cauck!”

“Blast you, Temperance! This is acting! You must learn to emote! Don’t be so damnably shy! You are commanded to be bold in your delivery! Try it again!”

“Smeagle fleag!”

“Fleagle smeag!”

“Smeagle-fleag!-a-fleag!-a-fleag!”

“Hmm. Passable. But passable is not good enough! Let me see, how did another of their songs go? Oh yes, I remember now. Ready? begin.”

“Kitka bitt!”

“Bitka kitt!”

“Kitka, kitka, bitt! bitt! bitt!”

“Bitt! Bitt! Bitt!”

“Bitt! Bitt! Bitt!”

“By Jove, I must give you and your enthusiasm credit, dear boy. You have made great strides today. ‘Greatness knows itself’ saith the Bard, and I graciously admit being the bearer of an inordinate amount of performing arts skills. Obviously some of my own incalculable talent has strayed to this molting cur. By the Beard of Shakespeare’s Ghost, this will be the performance of a lifetime!”

---

“You must listen closely to the beats and voices. When possible, mark their choreography to better be able to emulate your Martian brothers.”

“They ain’t my brothers.”

“Yes, they
are,
Ichabod! You must
think,
Martian. You must
feel
, Martian. You must
be
, Martian.”

“Gee, being an actor is tougher than I thought.”

“Valuria thinks that with a couple of days’ worth of practice, we might be ready to attempt our caper.”

“Is it me, or do the savages sound more grumpy tonight?”

“I was going to comment on the same thing, They are rather surly in their festivities.”

“Gosh, I think they’re getting hungry. . . . Y’all’s silence conveys that you agree with me.”

---

“Ever since this morning when the Martian camp pulled out, this spider/worm contraption has been dragging itself along over smooshed forest, as is its way, but the walkers and the fliers took off and have not been seen again, since.”

“The troopers are reminding us not to fall behind. That crawler is moving faster. We are having to trot to keep up, now.”

“Those walkers and fliers were not wasting time. Hey Icky, any idea where they got off to?”

“Well, Miss Clarabelle, the next big city in that direction is Baltimore. At the speed they were moving, they could have been there and possibly back, by now. Well hey, looky yonder, there they are. Uh, oh, each machine has its tentacles extended... Oh no.”

“Do not look my friends; t’is not a happy sight. Each tentacle clutches a struggling victim in its steely grasp. These poor people are deposited unceremoniously into the crawler’s bloated abdomen.”

We are saddened and disheartened by this terrible tragedy.

“I hate to say it folks, but it looks like we need to step up our timetable. I propose that Sir Paul and I need to go in tonight.”

My friends nod in silent agreement.

The Sicilian Slice.

MARTIAN GO HOME! YOU-AH NO GOOD FOR THE BUSINESS!

By Gamsy Longlegetti

So! You thinka you gots it bad, hunh? No! Stupido! You should be in Paris. Oh, those bigga machines they make-ah me the very angries. You betcha! The way they havva wrecked the Louvre, and the Arc de Triumphe. Bah! The majestic city is inna the pitiful little rubbles. It’ta makas me wants to make with the boo hooin’ I can tells you. Butta it’s a the strangest of the things. Yousa knowsa the contraptioni? The whatsis that is as if it issa chronologically displaced and temporally anomalous from a future not yet arrived? The toy tower thingy? Oh! The Eiffel Tower. Thissa they dont’ta destroys. Thissa they’za takes apart with the dismantleinga, henh?

My reporterette senses, they are making with the tingling, yes? So! I myself havva crawled throughah the steaming piles of ashe to bringa the eyewitness reporta! Do they builda the statue to their horrible likeness? No! Do they make somethinga nice? No! Do they make somethinga big and scary and looksa very dangerous? Yes! Like-ah the buggie, but not so cute. Itsa gotta too many legses. Too many grabbsie clawsies I thinks too. I thinks this reporterette has a seen enough and am now scrambling away before I end up as the main course in this Martian’s idea of fine cuisine!

The Marvelous Melbourne Shuffle

MARTIANS COMMANDEER SHIPPING!

By Priscilla Perkibitz.

Krikey! In spite of the courageous goolarongs of our brave diggers and cut lunch commandos, the lovely couple on our windswept beach, in particular the interplanetary bunyip from the Great Aussie Find All and the Cock-eyed Canetoad outta the banana bender bayou have tringered the rourous. He don’t wanta wetto the sandle holders the yellow git.

For further insight, we now visit Australia’s favorite son, her flower of manhood, Super Secret Agent James Murray:

Krikey! It’s a fair binny we’ll be up to our nudderberries in troubaworryfears at days end. The three legged mechanical hoons will soon be ready for nooner snackers. It’s London to a brick that our own lovely Adelaide is where they intend to slake that awful quafful. But just between you and me my little jiggly journo, tall, strikingly handsome and brilliant over here has a cogzital. Me lads are working hard to help lay a traps for our extra-terran touries.”

Krig Narr Bruph.

(Daily Red Planet.)

ZARK KRIVBEN BLEGH!!!

(MARS DEFEATS EARTH!!!)

Qp G. Xievnpwwl Caucklurgrr.

(By B. Zerkergrrl Killzalotte)

Klug blegh phlatte ni ugh iggie snarf der phlew phlew ni Queeksteer Zarskisk! Blegh klug ni kreagle phlew phlew varger blim hauxnif clurn snar fleagle phartte puit. Rar! Rar!

(Puny humans fail to mount any practical resistance to Imperial Martian might! Their weak and pathetic attempts make us as a collective species laugh in hurtful derision. Ha! Ha!)

Neef Zarkisk boom ni zausage nnbzkitz ni blegh ploog. Triddie me scupperz ik Zarsk ki ernhutchderg per rarger-rarger grruveebeighbeigh. Briadkrumbz jin jrr breid miin bitt-bitt uvvin, grund maudderz hoose vigo brugh. Marr jer rineez eyuck ee Queeksteer ni Zarsk! Rar! Rar!

(Our advanced weaponry is incomprehensible to their primitive minds. Fortunately, our race is not hampered by namby-pamby softheartedness as delectable humanity is. Those walking blood sticks would probably have some goody-goody, ultimate directive, reminding them to not disturb the delicate eco-balance on a planet. This makes the spread of Imperial forces all the easier for us! Ha! Ha!)

Aiyee kauhnnaught beezzst leevink ayn eightzen dwholding. Kraunck schauffs Bittsmeagle Zarsk rhytee-tighdzy, ijllephszy-hlloozy, beengo, bhuhngho, bhauhngo une eirveenck. Biyh whun, ghettewhunne, bitt Zarsk gyzeelyunz une brrjillyunzseervd.

(Long has our superior race toiled for this momentous occasion. Our brave Hematovore brothers have secured a delicious food source for our insatiable appetites. Our thirsty for blood brethren shall soon multiply and continue to build their arsenal of occupation.)

“Mr. Temperance? Mr. Temperance? Oh, where are you, Mr. Temperance?”

“Hey, I’m over here, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Temperance, yes, there you are.”

“Yes Ma’am. I reckon I’m just about to go off with Sir Paul in our Martian suit, Ma’am.”

“Yes, well, I wanted to speak with you before you left, you see.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Yes, well, you see, I wish you to instruct you to not be injured or killed in any way.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I want to remind you, in the strongest terms, to be careful.”

Yes, Ma’am.”

“That is, I mean, I wish you to be very careful.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Very, very, careful, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You’ll not do anything brash?”

“No Ma’am.”

“Nor foolhardy.”

“No Ma’am.”

“Oh, well, well, well, oh, you must promise me that you will return unharmed!”

Miss Plumtartt’s bright blue, beautiful eyes brim with tears that are magically restrained by surface tension alone. I’ve never seen the stalwart young lady so moved. She is always a pillar of strength to me. It is I that so often succumb to my emotions whereas my brave Miss Plumtartt always has the tenacity and wherewithal I have come to rely upon. This time, however, it is up to me to be the one to have courage for the both of us.

“Why good heavens, Miss Plumtartt, you may depend upon my unwavering talents to carry me through any exploits my unwelcome opponents may throw at me.”

“Oh, Mr. ... Blast it! ... Ichabod! You simply must come back to me!”

“Upon my word, I’ll come back, Miss Plumtartt. What’s more, I intend to be able to address you by your first name. Perhaps more than that, seeing as I have grown so fond of you.”

“
Fond
of me! Blast you, Ichabod Temperance! If you want to live to fight those Martians, you had better declare your feelings for me this very instant!”

“Yes, Ma’am. I reckon I have been kind of modest in furthering our romantic relationship.”

“I concur with your reckoning.”

“Yes, Ma’am, and since this might be the last human contact I ever have, and maybe to bolster my courage, I think maybe you could give me a little hug for luck.”

“Hold me, Mr. Temperance!”

“Yes, Ma’am. I am so lucky to be holding the girl of my dreams at a time like this. You sure do feel nice, all squeezed up against me. You smell really nice, too. Especially right here at the nape of your neck. The fragrance has given me the courage to move forward past your ear, and your cheek to find your mouth.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you fool, my Mr. Temperance.”

“Mmmmmmm....”

Planet Earth fades away.

The sensation that my sweetheart and I have been transformed into sparkly rockets overtakes me. Like two projectiles from Francis Scott Key’s awkwardly phrased poem, we are like two infernally propelled ordnances that have been lashed together and fired simultaneously into a fiery, spinning release, corkscrewing into the sky. All the fireworks that went to waste on our country’s Centennial birthday, now go off in our heads and around us. I feel safe in speaking on Miss Plumtartt’s regard on that.

No, I pledge to amend that last thought.

Reluctantly, we break our moment of tender intimacy.

“I state freely and openly, under no duress whatsoever, do declare that I love you, with all my heart, all my soul, all that I am, and all that I ever will be.”

“Mr. Temperance!”

“Come here, Miss Plumtartt! I’m gonna pick you up and spin you around in the air a few times!”

“Mr. Temperance!”

“I’m gonna give these rascals a Birminghamster nibblin’ they ain’t soon gonna forget, and then I’m gonna return for my own, one, true love. I love you and I’m coming back to you, my Persephone.”