“So,” said Ed, “You dropped the sham religious cover and have returned to your vile Druid ways.”
Sister Letum smiled and then kicked Ed hard. “Infidel,” sister Letum hissed.
They had brought Ed a great distance in all manner of conveyances. They left Capital City in private Rapido car, and then after hours transferred to a Turkoman. For about six hours the ride had been reasonably smooth and Ed managed to get badly needed, if uncomfortable, sleep. The road became very rough and the jolting went on for another four or five hours. After a brief stop, Ed was tied to the saddle of a horse. He was blindfolded but he could feel the warmth of the sun as it rose, and he could tell that they were climbing higher and higher.
Ed sensed they were among a large throng of moving people. He could hear the sound of hundreds of shuffling feat and the encouragement of some who urged others to keep up with the pace. The crowd was not disciplined and children’s voices could be heard. Ed knew they were ordinary city dwellers by their speech and they parted in fear to make room for his armed escorts on horseback. They were just ordinary avatars. ‘Seekers’ Ed realized, here to get their names in the Book of the Righteous.
As he lay upon the tent floor, and with great effort, Ed looked up to examine his surroundings. The tent was large and was set up as a small chapel with an altar at one end and two dozen portable pews. There were wooden crates stacked at one side. Ed had seen a lot of freight in his career and he recognized the unusual shape of the crates as well as the stenciling on the side which read ‘Bofours’ or ‘Krupp’. Serious hardware thought Ed.
Ed thought about escape, but his duty was clear so he rested gathering his strength.
After an hour of so, Sister Letum returned with a squad of The Orders “Left Hand of Circe”. They were heavily armed with matching spears with razor sharp tips, ancient damascene swords, and high tech night vision goggles hanging at their side.
“Come to kick me again,” said Ed, “it felt kind of nice.” Ed smiled. Ed knew she wouldn’t do anything rash. They needed Ed and their plan could not be completed without his cooperation. At least his initial cooperation, for eventually they would kill him and in a very ugly way.
Ed could see Sister Letum considering his offer.
Then she turned to the squad and said “Clean him up. Mother Superior will be here soon.” She looked hard at Ed and Ed could see pure hatred in Sister Letum’s eyes. “And find those robes he needs to wear. Clean him up real good.” She smiled.
For the first time since the sinking of the Duckpin II Ed felt real fear.
Ed was untied and dragged out a side entrance of the tent. An ice cold stream flowed swiftly next to the tent. They were on the edge of a precipice and Ed could see hundreds of avatars of all ages and types dressed in simple white cotton robes slowly climbing the steep path hundreds of feet below. They were having a hard time, Ed could tell, because many were stumbling or lying beside the edge of the path to rest. The air was thin at this altitude. City dwellers thought Ed.
As the squad of the Left Hand of Circe stood guard, two burly and very strong women dressed in animal skins and brown leather thongs with ponderous bare breasts stripped Ed and forced him into the icy water. They picked up some stones and began vigorously scrubbing Ed. They were pumice stones realized Ed and they hurt. Ed glanced up and saw the twin peaks and volcanic smoke of Mount Sodom.
SISTER LETUM 'THE LEFT HAND OF CIRCE' ON THE APPROACH TO MOUNT SODOM
The Muse of Journalism read Jimmy’s report carefully. Sindy had left The Times in a great hurry and probably left the city by now. The Muse considered his options. He liked the idea of living but he hated living in the sub basement. It was cold and damp and Jimmy was hardly the kind of companion he preferred at night, or for that matter at any time.
There was an old speaking tube somewhere in the basement near the janitorial management station. It had been abandoned when The Times ‘downsized’ and fired all the janitors during a strike. At first the ‘journalists’ objected to cleaning the toilets and sweeping the floors, but they eventually accepted the task when the bathrooms became unbearable and floors so littered with Styrofoam boxes and rotting tuna fish sandwiches that movement was impossible. In a few months The Times had hired dozens of new “copy boys” like Jimmy. The muse laughed. Copy boys were dirt cheap and cleaning toilets was a lot like journalism.
Jimmy was on assignment. He was on his way to Khrons for Pastrami on White, with mayo and lettuce, no mustard. It was a clever ploy on the Muse’s part. Since Jimmy got always it wrong, the Muse had a chance that a Pastrami on Dark Rye with brown mustard would soon arrive.
Jimmy’s earlier copy, a piece on the Architectural Splendor of the Art Décolleté Lobby of the Times Building, had indicated that lots of odd people were milling about on the streets and in the lobby of The Times building. “There not journalists,” Jimmy had said, “They don’t have pencils behind their ears and no notebooks or blackburys.” The Muse knew who they were, even it Jimmy didn’t.
The muse decided to act. In the name of journalism and a free press he would act. In truth he badly wanted a bath and the ministrations of Miss Taut. The muse grabbed a crayon and began writing. After an hour or so Jimmy returned, but before he could descend the stairs the Muse yelled at him and told him to go to the presses and see if any odd people were there. “I want an article on the Splendor of the Mighty Harris V55 ‘Thunder’ Presses,” ordered the Muse of Journalism “Oh and toss me my lunch.”
Jimmy was disappointed because he really was hungry and wanted a bit of the Mackerel Salad on Crustini that he had been instructed to get for the Muse, but an assignment was an assignment. He was a professional journalist. “I will obey O Mr. Muse of Journalism, I shall obey,” said Jimmy.
After Jimmy had gone the Muse of Journalism climbed the ladder into the basement of the times. As he approached the Murdstone Family Mausoleum he tip toed past the door. The last thing he needed was a screaming competition with his daughter Jaloux. Soon he reached where the janitor’s management station should have been located. There was nothing there but yesterdays news papers piled to the ceiling. They has pulled out the desk and chair and used the space to increase The Times circulation numbers. The Muse climbed through the bundles of papers and eventually reached the wall. Bingo! There was the speaking tube and its rotary director.
“Ha, ha,” chuckled the Muse. He pulled the cork like plug from the speaking horn and turned the rotary to station 7. He blew hard into the horn. Nothing happened. He blew again and again. He was close to hyperventilating when he heard a small voice say from the tube “Hello, who is there.”
His heart was racing. He gathered himself together and yelled into the tube. “Mss Taut, stop the presses. Get your pen and write down this front page lead.”
The familiar voice of Mss Taut began crying at the other end of the tube. The muse heard a small voice say, “Yes Mr. Murdstone.”
Tears of joy thought Ruprecht, tears of joy.
Chris tugged for a third time on the shoulder strap holding up his breastplate. “This used to fit,” said Chris to Philpot Onus.
“You were a lot thinner then,” said Philpot. “I’d say you need a 44 long” Philpot turned and began rummaging about in the ancient and dusty armory of the Brick Layers Secret Society. After a short while Chris found a breastplate that would fit, but the steel plate undershorts were a bit small and chaffed. They would have to do, they had to move out immediately if they were to arrive at Mount Sodom in time.
Chris and Philpot clanked into the closed courtyard of the Temple of Enlightenment and Tax Deductions of the Brick Layers Secret Society. The seven Yellow Knights of the Revolution were lined up in review before him. Chris sighed. Not a single knight was less than 80 years old. Their mismatched armor, shields, and weapons were almost painful to see. However each was adorned with a new bright yellow cape that hung from their necks, across the back of their saddles, and descended to the belly of the pony. At least Chris had gathered or ‘borrowed’ 20 tough Mongolian polo ponies from the Detached Palace of the Monforte’s. Sir Gandorlf of the Yellow Knights of the Revolution, also known as Old Nefunst the Cobbler, was wheezing and coughing. His pony was skittish. We had better get going Chris thought.
Chris and Philpot rose upon their mounts. Philpot Onus raised the Banner of the Yellow Knights of the Revolution, Bearers of the Concordat of Abdication, and Brothers in Arms to Mofo the Brave and Very Dead. Chris pushed the button on the automatic gate opener and the great iron gate of the Temple slowly opened, its script unused for hundreds of years. The procession of Yellow Knights ambled slowly, but with determination, out the ancient gate and on to Beast Street. Their yellow banner was billowing stiffly in the brisk wind. The shields of the Knights reflected the winter sunlight and dazzled the onlookers. Gasps of astonishment could be heard from the crowd.
A pert young secretary with wire rimed glasses and sensible shoes standing on the stairs at the Reserve Bank was most surprised. Her mouth fell open at the splendor of the slow procession of the Yellow Knights. She was momentarily blinded by the gleam of the breastplates of the two lead Knights. Then she grabbed her me-Phone and began dialing. “Station 43 reporting, you won’t believe this but the Knights are on the move” she said. And then after a long pause she continued, “No I’m not kidding, they are on the move down Beast Street, and No, I’m not joking.”
As the knights in all their glory passed The Times building, a news urchin came running from the side entrance and into the street. “Extra, Extra, Read All About It, Plot To Overthrow Governor and Bring Back King, Extra Extra.”
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