For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) (22 page)

“They enjoy a merry time, do they naughtte, Ichabod?”

~gulp.~
“Yessir.”

“The happy invaders celebrate their victories with festive activities about their eerie emerald artificial camp fires. These are casting wild shadows, eh, Ichabod?”

“Yessir, Sir Paul, Sir.”

“These shadows that dance across the foreign ships, so alien in our eyes, are huge, but do naughtte be afraid, chum; rather, we must partake of their bloodthirsty joy.”

“Gee!”

“You must be as gleeful as they, Ichabod. Rejoice in their stomping and clapping. We must raise our own voices in cheery, rasping song to ring out across this broken, Maryland landscape.”

“Flashes of light slipping between the off-beat dancing monsters give fleeting images of the shameful destruction of the belly-crawling craft. A tumble of white birch trails the awful mechanical legged-slug. Broken and smashed trees are everywhere littering the landscape with their wasted botanical goodness.”

“You and I shall put this rampage to an end. Come, we must edge a bit closer.”

“Yessir.”

“It ain’t easy to sneak around in a three-legged suit, is it, Sir Paul?”

“No, it ai... er, t’is naughtte an easy thing, indeed. We have now run out of shadow for stealthy approach. We must depend on our herbal camouflage to gain further entry unto their camp. We must get as close as possible before we drop this leafy canopy and step in among them.”

“Maybe we can time their passing shadows. Every now and then, as we are in shadow for a moment, we can inch forward a little bit.”

“Yes, this stratagem will have to suffice. With luck, they will naughtte notice a singular, shrubbery, surreptitiously slipping into their midst..”

~gulp.~

“I think this is as close as we are going to get, Ichabod. I want you to listen to the beat. Do you have it? Now, remember, you are Martian. You must be a Martian in every way. Do you have the rhythm? Can you feel it, man?”

“Yessir.”

“Listen, boy. Allow the music to seep into your bones.”

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dumpa-dumpa-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dumpa-dumpa-dump!

“I shall throw the thin disguise of this shubbery away as we time our entry into the circle of dancers. Are you ready?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. One, two, three...”

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dumpa-dumpa-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dump!

Bah-duh-dumpa-dumpa-dump!

“Gringle kronk!”

“Kringle gronk!”

“Gringle kronk-a-donk-a-donk!”

I desperately count to myself.

“One, two, hop!”

“One, two, hop!”

“One, two, hop, hop, hop!”

We fulfill the accompanying spins and self patty-cake styles. So far, so good. No one has caught us yet.

Our Martian brethren welcome us with flashing eyes and gnashing teeth. Smiling their tooth filled smiles in our costumed face, they draw us into their excitement. Sir Paul is uncanny in his ability to sing along with these chomping chaps. I am frightened out of my wits, but I think it is a greater fear of Sir Paul that keeps me from shirking my role.

The wild expressions of these crazed Martian monsters - they are so much more animated than I had could have ever imagined! I desperately try to mimic their outrageous expressions with the puppet controls of my right hand. Valuria was right! I am glad I am using my right hand for this.

The third hand atop our head is a nightmare to operate! Holding my left arm straight up above my head, circulation has long since abandoned the busy limb. My bloodless hand does not want to cooperate with my instructions. I can barely see and am having difficulty maintaining my bearings with all the walking backwards and using a mirror through a monster mouth to see what is happening around me.

Oh no! Now we are expected to perform patty-cake rituals with this slavering monster!

Oh no! Now we have to do it in a set of three, three handed monsters!

On and on, the devilment continues. The macabre festivities never cease! Through the night, without respite, we are carried into more and more complicated series of dancing rituals. The maddening counting exercises involved with the patty-cake routines are rotting my mind. I think my eyeballs are spinning in counter-rotation as I start to lose my mental grip in the supreme and relentless mania.

It is a numb and bloodless arm I extend above my head. It must be in the wee hours of the morning by now. I cannot keep my eyes open. I am prepared to drop and let the Martians have me.

Sir Paul is a tower of strength, but even he tires. His powerful, resonant voice grows hoarse at the rough usage of the Martian vocalizations. I know that even his incredible intellect is weary from the incessant mathematical calculations necessary for the steps and claps.

The sky begins to lighten. I am not sure if I dozed or not. The dancing excitement has now finally died down. The Martian pilots head back to their ships. One operator for each walker and flier. All the others waddle to the crawler.

“But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks. T’is vengeance, and a day of reckoning, come.”

“Yessir.”

“Well, Ichabod. Which ship did you have in mind that we so boldly commandeer this glorious new day?”

“I don’t think I could get the hang of flying a rotary flight craft too swooft, Sir Paul, and it takes a few moments to heat up the metal melting beams. Due to their high rate of fire power, I think those little walker numbers with the green energy blasters are pretty hot.”

“Indeed. Very well then, let us appropriate that which is deemed ‘hot’.”

“Let’s climb up behind that feller yonder and take his boat.”

“Pity, we did naughtte practice climbing a ladder in this blasted costume. Hurry, boy, we must manage the three-legged, three-armed, ladder climb behind its assigned engineer.”

The stench of foul, miasmic vapors assaults us as we enter the stale and misty alien atmosphere. The thrum of un-natural engines assail us. The darkness is just barely alleviated by dim, green, control panel lights.

The gentleman that preceded us up the ladder turns to confront us. Our conductor is not happy about having us aboard his trolley car. He and Sir Paul get into an awful shouting match. I think it goes something like this:

M-“Rheorgh uitte, Qqeilntz.” (Wrong boat, dumb dumb.)

SP-“Gar! schliptschzk rheorgh uitte, Phluti-thrrrh.” (No, t’is you that are in the wrong vessel, cactus puss.)

M-“Izsk uitte, blex rheorgh.” (My boat, you wrong.)

SP-“Hieney blitzen, guden lieben, yamen shaman, habadahae, rheorgh uitte.” (I’m afraid naughtte, my good non-man, it is you, most definitely, who is on the wrong boat.)

Sir Paul kicks our captain in the shin as he delivers this last line.

“Flargle!”

“I don’t think our Captain Ahab wants to relinquish command! He has immediately grabbed us in a very clingy way. We are locked in hand to hand to hand combat!”

“Blast these double-elbowed fiends! How on Earth are we supposed to gain a reliable joint manipulation technique?”

“It ain’t easy, is it? This dang ol’ toothy eggplant is able to work out of every joint lock we try. That extra elbow and arm are a handful. So to speak.”

“I will say, our three pointed stances are amazingly solid. However, though enjoying a steady foundation, neither of us can gain the advantage on the other in this snake pit of six arms.”

“Let’s break contact and rethink things, Sir Paul.”

“Agreed. Yes, this allows the two of us to take each other’s measure.”

“Hey, I’m back here, too! Grapplin’ ain’t workin’ for us so well this time around, Sir Paul. How are your pugilistic skills?”

“Second to none! I coulda been a contenduh. No, what possessed me to say that? I could have been a champion anywhere in the World. ‘Sir Paul, The Fighting Gentleman’. Though I chose the theater, the heart of ‘The Fighting Gentleman’, beats in this chest.”

“That’s good enough for me, Sir Paul. Let’s clobber this ugly galoot!”

“Let us enter unto fray! Bah, I am unable to fight this fellow right side back nor Southpaw. That infernal third hand is forcing me to fight ‘Northpaw’.”

“I don’t feel as if I am hitting real hard from back here, Sir Paul.”

“These damnable costumed three digit mitts! They do not allow me to strike as I would wish. That’s
it!
No more Mr. Nice Martian. I’m taking off the gloves.”

“I fling my cleverly costumed three digit gloves down in a classic cavalier challenge, sir. Put up your dukes!”

“That Martian is very excited to see human hands protruding from the Martian arms, Sir Paul!”

“Bitt! Bitt! Bitt!”

“Ha, ha! Now I can really let you have it, you galactic gherkin! My human fists make much better weapons than those dainty, sticky, three digitters. Come now, Ichabod, let us give him the old ‘one, two, three’, about umpteen times.”

“Yessir! Um, Sir Paul? While we have been fighting Mr. Happy, I have also been trying to get a feel for the layout of our surroundings. My periscopic view over your shoulder, out of the mouth of the costume and around the fearful Martian is limited. Nevertheless, I am getting a rough idea of the bridge. From floor to ceiling, the surrounding walls are covered in mystifying artificial lights. More often than not, they are blinking in some diabolical manner and pattern. There are things that I have figured on seeing, such as the steering controls and such, but there is one thing I look for but cannot find. No! There it is! Work him over to your right, Sir Paul. Yes, that’s good. Now box him over a skosh more to the left. Yes, that’s perfect, sir. If you could see to clobbering him back a smidge... Excellent positioning, sir. Now shove him in the loo!”

“Good thinking, lad!”

“Thanks, Sir Paul, I knew there had to be one. Now that we have the protesting fellow crammed into the w.c., we can jam the door with this broom. I did not expect to see a broom, but I cannot say that I am very surprised, either.

“Yes, t’is a ubiquitous home and office staple item.”

“I can now study my project more thoroughly. The great steering devices and consoles that enable the operation of this monstrosity are centrally located and obviously designed for six-limbed  control. There are banks of rounded panes of glass. There is a very large, curved, thick, pane of glass, strategically placed before the controls of the ship, but the window has no view. In fact, it has a dead, blank, appearance. As I slowly examine each device in turn, it would seem at first that their understanding would elude my human comprehension, but my mind begins to see sense in the chaos. Our world of Earth has a predilection toward things mechanical, but much of this apparatus operates on some unfathomable electricity-based principle. Obviously, the source of this vessel’s energy resources is engaged. I spy a group of dials and gauges in a partially partitioned console. These give me the idea that they represent the workings of the machine’s furnace, or, at least, what passes for the Martian equivalent. I suspect that it is not so very different than our own coal-fired steam furnaces, though my theory is that it is fueled by some powerfully kinetic Martian ore. Maybe they have learned to tap its energies and utilize its bounties in ways our minds have not conceived.”

“Let us forego further examination of this ship’s workings, and get straight to the controls.”

“Yessir. Three centrally-located three-toed foot stanchions are the presumed placement of the craft’s operator. Two shafts extend from the assumed ‘front’. If one were a three-legged beast, he would stand upon the three stanchions, be facing the large, blank, curved-glass window, and would enjoy an easy access to the shafts being placed before him from the horizontal ‘ten’ and ‘two’ o’clock positions. A third shaft is deployed from above. When using the term ‘shaft’, this is in a very loose sense. Though I suspect that there is, indeed, a ’shaft’ somewhere below the convolutions of flexible piping, ridged conduit, bands of wiring, and reciprocating rods, it is far too deeply buried in its burden of reptilian shrouds for me to make an honest determination.”

“I note that the foot control accouterments are many times more complicated than the hand shafts, Ichabod. What’s more, each is prepared to accept influence from individual fingers and toes. These individual digits most likely have more than one task.”

“I agree. I’m afraid that you will be required to put the gloves back on, Sir Paul, in order to properly animate your steering mechanisms.”

“Ah, yes, of course, I see. I shall don again my green gauntlets as we mount our charger. Let us carefully step into the digitted pedals and grasp our assigned manual control extensions.”

“Yessir.”

“The lifeless controls are unresponsive beneath our tentative efforts at trials. Any suggestions, Ichabod?”

“One moment, please, Sir Paul; I am trying to get a handle on these workings. I think that we must energize these control arms somehow to grant mobility to our tower. These devices would appear to be animated by electric current. Often, when handling this devious medium, a relay is used to help control its lightning paced path. This relay, or as some electrical engineers call them, borrowing a term from their railroad cousins, ‘switch’, can grant access to, or disconnect from, its captivating charm. These manifest themselves as toggles, levers, and sinkable, push switches called ‘buttons’, like that which fastens your clothing. I suggest giving that great red ‘button’ over there a push to initiate a depressing motion within. That will, I fervently hope, move us along on our endeavors.”