A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1) (2 page)

Persephone

“I am a Plumtartt and I must gain control of myself!”

What is this cold panic that has awoken me? Tremors shake my body, and tears form in my eyes.

It is the same terror I felt in Father’s laboratory at the time of the accident. The atmosphere of evil that filled the room on that tragic, fateful night, when I thought we had banished these horrors forever, has returned.

“Persephone Plumtartt, get a grip on your senses, young lady.”

I command myself to still the core-rattling vibrations that shake my body, but the rebellious fear disobeys my orders.

I pull my knees to my chin and covers to my face. This great house, the palatial Plumtartt Manor, is so huge and  empty. It is here where I have always felt surrounded by family. Father, ‘Uncle’ Victor, our long-time family retainer, and dear Michael, the stable boy: these were my family. They, the rest of the staff, and the whole bustling estate, made for a happy place to live. Now they are either dead, have fled, or I have ordered them to leave for their own safety. How I wish I had someone here with me now. I am in the grip of a mounting terror and I know not why. I have never before been afraid to be alone, not in the least. However, this moment, this night, is different. I can feel it. Dreadful solitude and loneliness solidify in my heart.

Oh, my. I have the most ominous sensation.

There is a commotion from the lower, forty acres. The dogs are worked into a terrible fit. The fearsome brood of the estate's canines are tearing into something, a few hundred yards from the buildings. Far from what would be expected, they make the most heartrending cries I have ever heard. This pack is a ferocious group, yet the stout canines are whelping like frightened puppies. The great pack of mighty canines can be heard to retreat from our estate, yelping, whining, and with tails presumably between their lowered haunches.

An unnatural quiet engulfs the grounds, a terrible silence that should not be. I feel as if my hearing has been greatly amplified as I am acutely aware of the tiniest sound. What on Earth could have scared away that fearsome pack? How is it that I know that the invader comes for me?

An unclean presence approaches. I hear the animals in the pens and stables panic. What is that crash that I hear? Good Heavens, the horses are kicking their stable doors apart! The livestock are doing all they can to flee that which comes!

Now, once more, a silence grips the estate, uncanny in the wake of all the tumult. Something has frightened away the fierce pack of dogs that reside here. They would have given their lives in my defense, but unimaginably, they have fled in terror. So too have the other livestock managed to join the exodus. The barnyard is disturbingly quiet, after the beautiful horses have fought their way from their stables and taken flight from the peaceful estate.

Oh, that ominous sensation is washing through me again. Something terrible is coming for me; I can feel it. I want to flee as the animals of the estate have, but I am trapped by a paralyzing fear that has me secured within my boudoir.

An intuition tells me that something oppressively large and foul is on the property and it means to get in. A thing of loathing steadily approaches. It is touching the house. Somehow, I know evil is in contact with the old building. A presence, oppressively heavy, is pushing against the North wing of Plumtartt Manor.

I hear a creak.

There is another, but stronger this time. It must be the magnificent stained glass window in the Northern Annex. Saint George, slaying the dragon, is beautifully rendered in lead and coloured glass. Capping the wing on that side of the house, the great, circular, historic window sits a full twenty feet off the ground, yet somehow a massive weight is pressing against it.

Slowly, one pop and snap at a time, I hear the pride of our family home giving way. Shattering cracks signaling the failure of the distressed glass come faster and faster. More than a hundred years old, the intricate pattern of coloured glass shatters, raining down shards of her priceless myriad of colours. With a huge reluctant creak, followed by a large crash, the famous old window pushes in.

A disconcerting thud resounds along with the crash of breaking glass.

Evil is in the house.

The noises I hear coming to me are unidentifiable. There is a sucking pop, followed by heavy plop. The disgusting sounds repeat, again and again, as something large and unthinkably heavy makes its way down the hall. The hateful sound is slowly coming closer. My heart races. I want to scream. I want to flee. I am paralyzed with fright! The hair along the back of my neck rises.

A pale, green glow shows around the edges of my bedroom door. I clutch my sheets all the tighter to my throat as something touches the heavy wooden entrance. The oak creaks with tortured resistance, as a tremendous weight is inexorably pressed upon the portal. The thick oak planks bend in futile resistance to the weight of the lime luminescence on the other side. The deeply anchored iron bolts of the heavy hinges, one by one, fall in defeat before the in-opposable predator. I push myself against the wall atop my pillows, but I am trapped!

The door gives way!

“No!” I helplessly cry out, begging mercy of the horror by which I am besieged.

An enormous paramecium pours through the failed aperture. Its grotesque, jellied form, first pushes and now pulls itself into my bedchamber. With deliberate effort, the shapeless blob maneuvers itself towards my canopied bed. Pseudopodal limbs crawl up over the bedrails.

I try to scream, but an unexpected grunt cuts off the outburst.

“Unh!”

A warm tingling passes through me, as if a giant bubble had burst and dispersed an energizing carbonated fizz from my navel to my extremities. Something has been triggered in my body's innermost core. The tangy taste of copper fills my mouth, just like the time of the laboratory accident. An electrical charge is forming and building within me.

The glowing green glob reaches out for me.

“No!” I shout once more; however, this time I pronounce the word as a proclamation, rather than a plea.

I feel an intense bolt of organic lightning pulse throughout my being.

Bouncing off my toes, a powerful and intense burst of energy blasts from my outstretched fingertips towards the murderous amoeba.

Originating from a point just off my palm, a brilliant red light fills the bedchamber, before flashing straight into the horror.

Hah-wah-fuh-
WH
O
O
OSH!!!

B
O
O
OM
!
!
!

The creature is atomized in the thunderous explosion and I know no more.

Ichabod

I can't hardly believe I'm really in London!

What a wonderful city, and I really do mean, full of wonder. The city’s famous skyline has changed in recent years. Along with St. Paul’s, Buckingham Palace, and London Bridge, now there are also elevated railways, with trussed supports connecting important buildings. Mooring towers grow from various structures, that they may be serviced by aircraft. Fantastic ships of the latest construction and design sit upon the Thames.

Ever since the pass of the
Revelatory Comet
, a strange wave has passed over this city. It is as if the five thousand pounds of clockwork in Big Ben’s tower went and spread like algae on a pond.

Everywhere I look in this urban sprawl, modern marvels insinuate themselves into the fabric of busy life. The streets are still full of the most elaborate and beautifully appointed carriages the world has ever seen. Two wheeled Hansoms and four-wheeler carriages of quality and luxury, crafted of the most exquisite woods and leathers, abound in this busy English metropolis; however, in these Post-Comet days, they occasionally have to share these London streets with steam-powered lorries and trams. Double-decker passenger wagons, a wonder in themselves, are now pulled by steamer land locomotives.

Gosh, the menfolk are all duded up fancy, what with their top hats, long shiny black coats, and sparkly vests. Spring-driven self-tipping hats appear to be very popular this year.

My upbringing is to be hospitable. I reckon I’ll try being friendly with one of my English cousins.

“Howdy there, ‘my good man’,” I say (I admit, I’m proud of being able to work in a bit of the local lingo), “are you all doing all right, tonight?”

I receive a dubious appraisal in return. Oh well, I’ll try a different English phrase on these gentlemen.

“Cheerio, y’all. This fog’s somethin’ else, ain’t it? I can't hardly see as far as a toad jump.”

Hunh. They must not have heard me, because they are trying awfully hard to ignore me.

There are lots of fancy ladies here in London.

Dang, but my head’s a spinnin’ at all these pretty women. These London girlies are all gussied up finer than a peacock at the Bird’s World Fair. Their hats are packed with enough bird plumage to give flight to the Buckingham Palace.

I ain't never seen nothing like these gals before! Some of these modern ladies have started an alluring, and risqué trend, by wearing their corsets on the outside of their dresses! Something about the way they wear their bustles tends to exaggerate, rather than to hide, their more delicate assets.

I like this place!

Persephone

What was before a lively courtyard, bustling with creatures great and small, is now lifeless and desolate.

Drained from the events of the night before, I leave this melancholy scene. With no horse in the stable, I set out to walk to the Elderberry Pond train station. The events that led to this sad moment play in my mind.

It began a few months ago, just after Father’s tragic death. I cling to the hope that the foul forces he had used to complete his experiments have departed as well. Alas, no...

As Uncle Victor and I are cleansing the laboratory of the disgusting sigils father had scrawled over floor, wall, and ceiling, the beloved family retainer is attacked in a vicious assault I am powerless to stop. I know it is something not of this world, something unclean and unnatural. It draws the very life force out of Uncle Vic and drops his used husk. A hideous thing is formed, something I do not want to remember. I fly from the abomination in terror. I run into Michael the stable boy. He has heard me scream and come to my aid. The monster comes! Michael cannot see it! I can, but he cannot! Run, child, run! Alas no, I think his teenage infatuation with me has led to his wanting to protect me. He is a tragic, would-be gallant, slain in a wasteful manner.

Father had always been a man of the strictest scientific disciplines. After the passing of the
'Revelatory Comet'
, it was Father – with his already brilliant mind amplified by the Comet’s effect - who discovered the inner workings of atoms. This lead to his discovery of the nature of the Sun’s power: nuclear fusion. I remember the night when he showed me the equations, which he said had ‘come to him’ as if in a dream. Even then, his excitement seemed a bit alien, yet I was enthralled by the concepts he presented.

He knew that if he could make use of his new understanding to replicate this series of reactions, Mankind could harness the power of the stars themselves to provide incalculable energy. Energy enough to power the world.

Yet for all of his knowledge, for all of his precise and brilliant equations, he could not recreate the necessary conditions through scientific means. Where before the Comet’s passing he would have accepted this dispassionately, the changed man Father was could not contain his almost-frightening zeal. It was then that he succumbed to the temptations of dark magic to bring about what he could not, by science alone. It was as if the
Revelatory Comet’s
effect not only amplified his intellectual prowess, but somehow warped his character, weakening his resistance until he became capable of misusing magic in such a way. Father Summoned... and Something came. Now that Something has returned to our home.

After last night’s attack on Plumtartt Estate, I know that evil forces are loose in our fair land.

I have been in contact with a newspaper reporter. Normally, I would eschew such an ally, but this is a man of resolve and grit. He has seen much in this world, and could very well be the man to help me tell my story to an unsuspecting country.

Hello, what's this? A wagon approaches. It is from the Plumtartt Factory, home of the Sol Furnace.

“Miss Plumtartt! You are needed at the factory. We had two more deaths overnight. Horrible things. Some of the men are refusing to enter the plant. It looks like there could be trouble. Miss, please come at once!”

“You shall first take me to the Elderberry Pond train station.” I command the wagon driver, “and then return to the factory to have it closed until further notice. I appreciate the men’s loyalty to the factory and the important projects we have contracted, but no further loss of life is tolerable.”

The Plumtartt Factory wagon drops me at the station, the driver returning to carry out his previously unthinkable duty of closing the factory. That means stopping production at Plumtartt shipyard. We are close to launching the
Dreadfulle
. She is destined to be the greatest Battleship afloat, and the Flagship of Her Majesty’s Navy. Three more Battleships are under construction. They are considered a vital part of England's and our allies' security. Though still a few months from my twentieth birthday, I have always taken an active part in the oversight of these massive factories and shipyards. The supervisors will not be happy about it, but my wishes will be respected and my orders will be followed. Governments from around the world will not be happy about the factory and shipyard being shut down.

It is with a heavy heart that I leave my country home.

Arriving in London, and eventually my hotel, I am still a bit shaken.

The loss of the Plumtartt stables has made me late for my appointment. I hurry to the chosen place of meeting, ‘Clubbe Mandrake’. It is deemed socially acceptable that two persons of opposite gender may meet here without word of our private tete-a-tete raising eyebrows amongst the leaders of London society.

My appointment is with the famous reporter and adventurer, Sir Henry Stanley! The very same reporter who successfully searched darkest Africa for the lost Samaritan, Doctor Livingstone.

“Miss Plumtartt, I presume?”

“Ha, ha! Yes, Sir Henry.”

“Please call me Henry.”

“Thank you, Sir Henry, you may in turn address me as Persephone.”

“I should be delighted, Persephone.”

I say, it is I that is delighted for Sir Henry is quite a figure of a man. This bold and intrepid explorer is far more attractive than I had imagined. Tall and strongly built, he carries himself with a singular self-assuredness that is so tempting a refuge in my wretched loneliness.

“My poor child, Persephone darling, you are over-wrought my dear. May I be so bold, as to put my arm to about you for comfort?”

“Oh, Sir Henry, I think I would like that very much.”

Sir Henry’s quiet reassurance and welcome contact melt my composure. Impulsively, I lean my head into his shoulder. In a few short moments, I release the tears that had until now been kept in check.

“That’s it my darling, just let it all out. Unburden all the woes that trouble your gentle heart and let me do all in my power to help you.”