The Pyramid Stage

Up on the pyramid stage The Kittens of Chaos, accompanied by Consuella Starcluster the tambourine virtuoso, were performing a selection of their favourite bits from ‘Prestupleniye i Nakazaniye the Musical’, in which the nihilist Raskolnikov is encouraged to get out more and is introduced to vodka and fornication by the 6^th Form students of Madame Sofia Semyonovna Marmeladova’s Academy for Young Kittens. Following on from the conclusion of their act the bemused audience was subjected to a poetry reading by Ginsbergbear.

            “I have written a haiku,” he announced:

Haiku

Cake left in the rain.

Prince Albert teapot; it nev-

Er reigns, but it pours.

…and, oh so much later:

Your Mum and Dad

They muck you about

With a bottle of stout

And a pig in a poke

Like the funny old bloke

That Mummy said to call uncle

And Dad with his fags

After nocturnal shags

They’re wondering why

You’ve contracted a sty

Or forged on your bum a carbuncle

“The fault isn’t ours”

Your old pater glowers

“We had parents too

Addicted to glue

And fans of the songs of Garfuncle”

            After a long and embarrassing pause there came a dramatic fanfare from the recently bruised Massed Pit Bands of Federated Nottinghamshire joined by the Brick Lane Zapatista Mariachi Walking Wounded, and Larry stepped up to the mic.

            “Ehem…”

            Before he could speak he was surrounded, silently, by the serene men of the Himalayas, their yak skin coats dragging on the floor. The group moved to the front of the stage, parted and revealed, to everyone’s astonishment, Mad Jack Belvoir (Bart) with his ward, the fair, and now heavily pregnant, Pricilla. Gone was the up-tight uniform of the 3^rd (King’s Own) Hussars, his once magnificent handlebar drooped into a bushy Zapata mustachio and he wore a loose, grubby Kurta shirt over baggy candy striped trousers. He appeared unkempt, undernourished, and yet he was fire-forged steel, tempered in the acid bath of global perambulation.

              “Friends, we have all come a long way since you and I faced off against each other on the Cable Street barricade. Pricilla and I have travelled far, crossed desert and mountain, swum in turquoise seas, basked on crystal beaches, begged in shit-strewn shanties. We have studied at the feet of masters. I want to talk to you about the future. We are (most of us, I hope) groping towards an ill-defined anarchist utopia, an earnest utopia with co-ops and federations and communes and unions and autonomies and endless discussions at the Street Moot and the Factory Moot. It is a worthy utopia for born-again socialists, reformed capitalists and the recently oppressed. But remember, just a short stride across the green from the Moot Hall is the Mead Hall. The sailors and ships’ cats and corsairs and doxies, these Ranters and punks, won’t be content with such seriousness alone. There must be fun, and dancing and a little mayhem too. One day when we have our Anarchy, modified and reshaped from our earliest visions, when we have our justice and fairness, we will look out towards a new utopia, a utopia for anarchists, for men (and women and cats) who are already free, already fulfilled. With joy as of little children and unfettered imaginations we will lust for a glorious future without limits; what a vision that will be.”

              As Mad Jack paused for breath Larry stepped quickly back up to the mic. He was still somewhat put out and prickly.

            “Friends. It is possible that Citizen Belvoir has a point… or two. I was about to suggest that we representatives of diverse groups, many of whom have travelled far to hammer out our differences, adjourn to the Ranters’ Moot Hall and forge a concord that would guarantee peace and prosperity for all time. It is what we had planned, why we are here. But I, for one, am having too much fun. Who cares about differences? It is a glorious day; let us celebrate our commonality. Return to the beer tent and the dance floor; strike up the Mariachi. Sod tomorrow, we are surrounded by friends.”

The Brass Band Competition

            Ferdy pulled Phoebles away from the food table, just as he was starting on his third mooncake.

            “But I’m in the middle of… Do those pink things look like prawn cocktails to you? I’m very fond of prawns.”

            Outside, a stretch of lawn had been cleared, and groups of bandsmen were polishing their instruments, shaking out the accumulated spittle and setting up music stands. Each Brass Band was similarly uniformed, somewhat like bus-conductors, with peaked caps, but distinguished by colour. There were mills’ bands in maroon or navy, miners’ bands in scarlet, charcoal or green, and a Sergeant Pepper tribute in shimmering pink, yellow, sky-blue and crimson satin.

            The SPZ and Brick Lane Zapatista Massed Marching Mariachi were on the brink of being disqualified for not being Traditional and were being defended vociferously by The Megadeath Morris, already barred on account of not remotely resembling a brass anything. The resultant loud squabbling had drawn a crowd. Eventually it was agreed that the trumpet section from the Massed Mariachi along with a small contingent of buglers from the West Surrey Mounted Makhnovchina could compete, but there were to be strictly no guitarrón mexicano or fiddles.

            Unseen behind one of the moot hall’s open windows, and with his back to it so that he would not be influenced or prejudiced by any prior knowledge regarding the contestants, the competition adjudicator sat waiting to pass judgement on each performance. The order of play was determined by the drawing of lots from a venerated cloth cap, donated by Keir Hardie himself in times gone by – and, after much fumbling and faffing, the competition was under way.

            By the third rendition of Mull of Kintyre Phoebles was becoming fidgety and Boz had dozed off. He woke with a start as the Zapatista Mariachi launched into The Birdie Song. Their chances of winning were looking slim, but Snowdrop was wolf whistling and shouting “Encore!” While he slept they had been joined by Anna and Bui. Aunty Stella was there too, having changed from her Subcommondante’s uniform into denim jeans and a salmon-red and black bee-striped fuzzy jumper. She had Googleberry with her and he had acquired a large Italian ice-cream cone.

            “Some foreign chap with a black eye was giving them away before they melted, from a Galatia tricycle with a bent wheel and defunct freezer. Looked like it’d been blown apart by a minor explosion.”

            As the competition results were announced over the Tannoy system there was loud applause from the crowd, and some grumbling from the competitors.

            “Look. Over there.” Ferdy had spotted Barrymore striding jauntily towards them across the green. She was beckoning furiously for them all to meet her half way.

            “Larry wants every one out front of the main stage as soon as you’re finished here. Who won?”

            Phoebles shrugged, “That bunch with the tubas and trombones and stuff, I think. Or that other lot with trumpets and French horns and a drum. Or maybe…”

            “Never mind.”

            Behind them a fight had broken out. Two bandleaders were at war over the competition trophy, grasping a handle each and tugging in opposite directions. More and more bandsmen joined in, swinging their instruments like halberds. 
            "Jocks awaaah!"
            There was a sudden surge as a wave of screaming Reivers and wildcats plunged into the fray. And then, scattering combatants in all directions, Rotskagg Blenkinsopp was in the midst with an ululating Dark Flo balanced precariously on his shoulders.

            “Someone is going to get hurt,’ said Barrymore. As Boz and Co watched the spreading mayhem the Ranters moved in.

            “Peace and love, man.”

            “Group hug.”

            “Karma.”

            Ducking fists the Ranter men folk distributed flowers and spliffs. Girls, wriggling in between the grappling factions, handing out catnip mooncakes and kisses, began to calm the situation. As the violence subsided Rotskagg and Flo emerged from the crowd.

            “Well that ended a bit disappointingly,” she said to Boz, “Blenkinsopp and I barely got started. Who are those hippie kill-joys?”

             Barrymore resumed, “Larry. Main stage. All of you. Don’t hang about too long. Oh, and Mr Boz, Larry says someone has to pay for that airship he lent you. Have any of you seen Slasher McGoogs. The acting PM would like a word with him too.”

            Googleberry started to whistle innocently, which is not easy with a mouth full of ice-cream.

           “Not really his kind of scene, this,” said Boz, “Doubt we’ll see anything of him today.” He tried to put a conspiratorial arm upon Barrymore’s shoulder, but couldn’t quite reach that high. “Erm… About that airship…” he almost whispered.

Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp

A short while later the entire group were clambering up the slope onto a grassed earthen platform of approximately one hectare in area. On it stood two, singular buildings. To their left a three-story timber frame hall was raised up on Doric columns of black and white oak. A market was spread out amongst the pillars and a sweeping stairway led up through the floor to a Georgian doorway. The dun coloured lath and plaster infill between the dark frames was pierced where ever possible with leaded windows. This sober building was the Moot Hall, the place where serious issues were thrashed out and important decisions made. Facing it, and far more jocular in nature was the Mead Hall. Entirely constructed of heavy, deeply carved oak, the main structure was windowless with a steeply tiered shingle roof out of which sprouted a tower and flying grotesques. It was decorated with intertwining ravens, deer, boar and dragons, and painted in earthy reds and yellows and a vibrant electric-blue. Smoke seeped through gaps in the roof and a great deal of noise issued from its dark interior.   On the green between the two buildings our merry gang found at last the Tamworth Ranters, dancing and carousing, a motley, unkempt band. Exposed skin, of which there was a great deal, was painted and tattooed, their scant clothing, brightly coloured and patterned, hair unruly, or elaborately entwined with ribbons and feathers. Many of the aged amongst the groups, wrinkled, sagging and tanned, seemed to shun clothing almost entirely. A manic hoop dancer twirled past, her plaited hair writhing like a medusa on speed. There was a hurdy-gurdy and a flautist in a huge floppy hat, standing on one leg.

            With Anna taking the lead, they approached the Mead Hall.   At once a slender girl burst into the open like a faun breaking cover and came prancing down the wide steps that led up to its entrance.   She was stained with red ochre and decorated in strange black Cabalistic symbols, an ankle length heavy woollen, tiered and pleated skirt hung from her hips and she had tiny bells on her toes.   She was towing a golden youth, a naked youth, gilded from blond hairline to the tips of his toes, He was lithe, physical perfection with cornflower-blue eyes, yet unnaturally passive. The girl winked at Anna on her way past, bound for a small orchard down by the river.

            “Isn’t he just too gorgeous?”

            Anna smiled back without comment.   Ferdy looked stunned and, ever so lightly, bemused.

           

Obvious within the Mead Hall, even from the imposing doorway, despite the jostling crowd, was a massive bulk of bulging muscle beneath a covering of sun blackened hide, criss-crossed with livid scars and almost entirely covered in tattoos, a red beard, plaited and bowed, a stub of clay pipe, a third hand black leather Saint Laurent biker jacket, scuffed and stained with sump oil, over a pink, Eric Bloodaxe t-shirt, striped Bermuda shorts, Doc Martens 14 eyelet Black 1914s, a red headscarf and black felt hat with black ostrich feathers and an extra wide brim turned up and pinned at the front. It was seated on a straining Windsor oak chair with a Ranter lass on each knee and a quart pewter tankard in its gnarled fist.   This was unmistakably Rotskagg Blenkinsopp the pirate king.   He stood up with a roar, letting the two girls fall, giggling, to the ground.

            “Anna, miri feely yog chavi, sastimos. Y kon shee deze bold ryes?”

            (“Anna, my young fire child, greetings. And who are these daring gentlemen?”)

             “Tooti vada kushti, skipper. Mira compañeros, o famosos Boz, Ferdinand o vlieger y Phoebles kon shee nossa martini constante,”

(“You look well, captain.   My companions, the famous Boz, Ferdinand the aviator and Phoebles who is our steadying hand,”) replied Anna.

            “You polari’s improving,” boomed Rotskagg, now in thickly accented English. He lurched forward, lifted Boz by the shoulders and shook him in a companionable way.   Dropping the Boz, he grabbed Ferdy’s wing stub and shook it so vigorously that several feathers had to be straightened, once the bird had freed himself from the crushing grip.   Advancing jovially towards a horrified Phoebles the corsair swept his hat from his own head and dropped it over the rotund ginger tom.   It buried him.   As Phoebles battled to escape, the hat twitched and it’s black plume quivered, and Rotskagg clung to the furniture, overcome with mirth.   Deeming introductions to be at an end the captain turned his attention to the ragged band of wild cats, wilder Scots and scurvy sea dogs that were shambling into the hall.

            “Mira wortacha, pralas, avela y schlumph, y xa.   Mandi wil parlé.   Eğlence daha yeni başlıyor.”

(“My confederates, brothers, come and drink, and eat.   We must talk.   The fun is only just beginning.) Rotskagg retrieved his hat and Phoebles rejoined his companions, blinking.

            “What’s all that jabber?”

            “The Pirate King prefers to communicate in a bastard form of Lingua Franca.   It is the common language of the corsairs.” Explained Anna before she turned her attention to the ruffian band. Rotskagg had scooped up Bui and was tickling her behind one ear. Ale was ordered.

“Have we been dismissed?” asked Ferdy.

            “They do seem to have forgotten us.” replied Boz.

            Phoebles was edging towards the food. A long table was piled high with ornately displayed snacks. Multi-coloured catnip muffins vied with mooncakes and neat little triangular fish-paste sandwiches for the attention of prospective diners. There were exotic flans and trifle and, at the centre a life-size ice sculpture of Lady Æthelflæda in full armour and winged helmet, already melting into the brocade tablecloth. Almost before he could grab any of the refreshments there was a commotion and Snowdrop wobbled her way through the crowd on her unicycle, juggling three white mice who were squeaking Rule Britannia, not very well as they were a little nauseous.

            “Come on,” she shouted, spinning round and heading for the door, “The brass band competition is about to start.” 

The Derbyshire Question (Elstead Writers' Blog)

Read more of my adventures on: http://elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com/author/bozzyshenton/

Wee Hamish

       

    Just inside the gate there were Hoop-La stalls and coconut shies and Hook-a-Duck, all the fun of the fair for thruppence a go. Beyond these they approached an inflatable paddling pool and soggy cleric beneath a sign proclaiming Dunk the Vicar.   A target was contrived, by utilising a cunning arrangement of levers and gears, that when hit it would trip a precarious chair, tipping its occupant into the water below. The local boys were very good at throwing. Flo had travelled down with Boz and Co on the Æthelflæda, trusting the public bar at the Den into the care of one of the more reliable regulars, a trustworthy, conscientious and only slightly undead connoisseur of the golden nectar. She took one look at the forlorn and bedraggled priest, strode over and stepped into the pool. 

            “Go and get yourself a cup of tea, Pops,” she said swinging herself up into the chair and smiling sweetly at the queue of teenagers. “Come on, brats, I don’t mind a little water.” Somehow, under Flo’s withering gaze they found themselves utterly unable to hit the mark, several broke down before they got to their turn and one optimistic urchin, having thrown up on the grass, tried unsuccessfully to demand a refund.

            Boz smiled, “Best crack on, she’ll be there for a while.”

            The irresistible scent of chips frying wafted on the air.

            “Is it lunchtime yet?” asked Phoebles.

            They were passing side isles cluttered with jostling fast food stalls, Egyptian Koshari, Vietnamese Pho, Bakewell puddings, Welsh cawl, Hairy Tatties from Strathbogie and, of course Harry Ramsden’s Guisely fish and chips.

            "Hokey pokey penny a lump. Have a lick make you jump." An Italian hokey-pokey man had parked his ice cream trike close by the Kittens’ Vicecream van and was attracting a queue. Within the forbidding gothic interior of the Vicecream van a plot was being hatched to remove the unwanted competition, whilst one of the less scary Kittens leaned out of the serving hatch and beamed a smile at the unwitting Latin.

            Overhead the Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm were giving a heart stopping aerobatic display in their little Ratas.   As the gang looked up Polly broke away from her squadron to skywrite Hello Boz within a heart across the clear blue.   At a lower altitude, Beryl & Ferdy were taking kids on flights round the town in the Dragon Rapide.

            The boys had not gone much further when they heard the soulful strains of Scottish bagpipes.

            “Come on.   Sounds like we’re missing something good.”

            They emerged onto a grassed plaza where, in front of the Ranters’ Mead Hall steps and shadowed beneath the looming presence of Tamworth Castle, erstwhile seat of Æthelflæda Myrcna hlæfdige, the piper, kilted and clad in Darth Vader helmet, droned out Motörhead’s March Ör Die, blasting flames from the chanters and swirling tight circles on his unicycle.   A small torti-shell was hurrying towards Boz and his pals.

            “We made it. Anna’s just over there with the ambulance.”    Anna Pyromatrix travelled with Bui her cat in and old ambulance converted to a mobile home.   It was more cramped than a Winnebago, but cunningly kitted out to provide all their basic needs. “This,” Bui pointed at the piper, “is Wee Hamish.   He came down with us.”
            As Hamish segued seamlessly into We Are Sailing, Bui grabbed Phoebles’ paw and dragged him towards a cluster of ghers, tipis and festival tents.   Boz and Ferdy hurried along behind.
            Near the centre of the encampment they found the ambulance. Close by a small group of pirate captains, Reivers, Moss Troopers and clan chiefs lounged around a roaring campfire. A black iron kettle hung precariously above the flames and a slight, wild haired blond crouched where a tablecloth had been spread out on the ground with a chipped teapot and collection of miss matched mugs.   Anna stood up when she saw them approach.
            “Mr Boz, Ferdy …and Phoebles!   We’re off to find Rotskagg in a wee while, but there’ll be time for a brew first.   You’ll be setting yoursels doon?”

The Tamworth Ranters’ Gala

Almighty Cod created the universe and all that is in it.   It created cats and men and tortoises.   It anointed kings to enforce its laws and appointed bishops to interpret its words.   And all was right with the world.

            This proved very lucrative if you happened to be a bishop or a king, but was not necessarily regarded as a good thing by everyone else. Then after eons of malcontent, the ‘English Civil War and Almost Revolution’ happened and the world turned upside down.   The scum on top of the placid lake that was the class system within this sceptred realm lost cohesion, began to break up and loosen its grip.   And out of the silt at the bottom rose up every kind of fanatical crank and loony demanding equality, emancipation, universal suffrage.   Pacifists and feminists, naturists, atheists and suffragists felt empowered to speak out; compelled to cry from atop soapboxes and from the backs of carts the length and breadth of the country.   Out of this turmoil emerged The Ranters.   Almighty Cod, they asserted, was not an omnipotent being somewhere out there.   A little piece of Cod (a piece of Cod that passeth understanding) existed, in equal part, in every living thing.   They reasoned, on the strength of this revelation, that no individual had more claim to represent the laws of Cod or man than any other.   Every man, woman, cat or carrot had an equal right to rule, and therefore no right over others at all.   Every man, woman, cat and carrot had sovereignty over its own existence and wellbeing, unfettered self-determination.

            Over the intervening centuries The Tamworth Ranters came to believe that the Piece of Cod was not a thing in itself; it was a metaphor, it was the spark of Life.   All living things were free and equal.   They also embraced the golden rule of philosophers and prophets to do to others what they would have done to themselves, and to love one another as they loved them selves, enthusiastically and often.   They tended to throw a good party.

June had been damp and dreary.   Not that this was noted to any degree by the people of Tamworth.   In Tamworth June was almost always damp and dreary.   However, on this festive day the sky was clear and the morning sun was already warming the recreation ground, though the overnight drizzle still puddled on the tarmac of the vehicle park, reflecting silver-cerulean against the dark grey clinker.   Boz glanced back as the gang strode out across the disused landing strip.   Several airships swung gently at their pylons.   Lady Æthelflæda, freshly painted, was dwarfed next to the looming black vastness of Rotskagg Blenkinsopp’s brutal Queen Anne’s Bounty.   The corsair’s flag ship bristled with quick-fire cannon, rocket launchers and Gatlings, her canopy emblazoned with the crimson, crowned skull (crowned with a papal coronet) that was the Blenkinsopp sigil.   It even had a hangar and launch port for its complement of armed ornithopters.

            “The pirate king’s here then,” he said to the others, “wonder who he’s brought with him.”

            “I noticed Larry’s dirigible back there too,” replied Phoebles.

            “I reckon we’ve missed the parade,” chipped in Ferdy, pushing his goggles up over his flying helmet.   “Told you we shouldn’t have spent so long over breakfast.”   But the bird was wrong.   As they reached the row of Portaloos and temporary litter trays by the road gate they could hear the trumpets and guitars of the Massed Zapatista Marching Mariachi as they played La Valentina, and see the tops of the wavering crimson union banners above the heads of the spectators.   The annual Gala parade always drew a large crowd.

            They squeezed through as near to the front as they could manage and Dark Flo lifted the vertically challenged Ferdy onto her shoulders.   They were in time to see Snowdrop’s techanka wreathed in flowers with Consuella in her most exotic Carmen Miranda outfit, letting rip on her tambourine.   The techanka was followed by the prancing cavalry of the Snake Pass Zapatistas led by Aunty Stella, in her Subcommandante Everyman outfit, sans ski mask, but wearing a delicate feathered purple half mask that perfectly matched her hair.   Each caballerro lofted a fluttering black SPZ flag.   Next came the Catnip Growers Association rainbow float, swathed in a purple haze.   Bringing up the rear, with the Kittens of Chaos crammed on the roof rack, came the Vicecream van blaring out the Slasher Theme from Psycho.   As the last of the parade passed, the crowd spilled onto the road and followed into the Recreation ground.

Departures

“Where is my Oberfunkmeister?   Ah, there you are.   Get a message to the whaling station, right away.   I want the Pinguin readied for sea by the time we arrive, and they’re to get steam up on the trawler too.   Matrosenfeldwebel, get everyone into the tubes.   Don’t forget the frauleins in the canteen, and make sure you bring my radio officer with you when he’s done.   Oh, and find the ship’s cat.”   Otto von Luckner turned to Harold, “If you would come with me gentlemen, please.”

            The Kapitänleutnant led the trawler officers across the ravished concourse towards a set of check-in desks labeled Walfang-Hafen, gathering trawlermen as they went.   Kriegsmariners were already lining up neatly, and slightly less tidy groups of New Swabians in lab coats or boiler suits were gathering near the sliding doors to the pneumatic tubes.   The Kronstadt shore detail, led by Dark Flo, appeared from behind a pile of rubble, they laughing and joking, she sporting a puffy, almost closed eye.   She was limping and the left sleeve of her shinobi shozoko was torn away to reveal an angry graze on her elbow and purple bruising to the shoulder.

            “Thanks to one of your overzealous fishermen.   Took a swing at me from behind, with a barstool.   Can’t tell a ninja from a submariner.”

            Bamse, as was his wont, had rounded up the last of the stragglers.   With the company assembled the tube doors opened and embarkation began.  

            “Once you reach the whaling station get your people aboard your trawler and be ready for the off.”   Von Luckner was cradling Fotzenkatze, the lithe tabby mascot of the now crippled submarine Seeadler.   “I will be along soon as I know everyone is safe.”

The bow and ruptured freshwater tank of the Ancaster had been repaired in their absence, the boiler was nearly up to pressure and springs taken in so that only shortened bow and stern lines held her to the quay.   The crew stood, alert, at their stations.   Harold stood by the bridge window, his hand placed lightly on the highly polished new telegraph, its dials disconcertingly labeled in German.   Billy Tate held the spokes of the enormous ship’s wheel, awaiting instructions.   An Aldis lamp on the wing of the Pinguin’s bridge began to flash morse at high speed.   Easter Smurthwait and the Ancaster’s sparks eyed the twinkling light, then each other, and shrugged.   Yes, the trawler did have a radio officer.   Sparky, a lad hailing from the Midlands, had spent the entire adventure locked in his radio room trying unsuccessfully to contact Wick Radio, blissfully unaware and, as usual, totally forgotten.

            “’Spect he’s telling us to get going,” said Easter to his skipper.

            “OK.   Cast off fore and aft.”   He rang ‘Halbe Kraft Voraus’ on the engine room telegraph, “I hope that means what I think it does,” and Ancaster’s single screw began to churn the water into a fury beneath her stern.   She moved slowly away from the quay, picked up speed, was steered deftly around the breakwater by the third hand, and belching black smoke from her Woodbine funnel, the trawler proceeded out to sea.

            On the bridge of the Pinguin Otto von Luckner turned to his Signalsmaat, “Are you certain you sent Follow us… in English?   Ficken!”   He rang down to the engine room and the mighty diesels thumped into action.   He sprinted to the wing of the bridge and shouted, “Abwerfen der Liegeplatz-Seile.   Cast off fore and aft.”   Back in the wheelhouse he addressed his helmsman, “Follow that boat.”

With her thundering pistons producing nearly eight thousand horse power and her twin screws rapidly accelerating her up to seventeen knots it did not take the Pinguin long to outstrip Ancaster.   Von Luckner was on the VHF radio to Harold.

            “Follow us, captain.   Best speed.   We want as much open water as possible between us and Antarctica when whatever it is happens.”

            Easter had been looking astern, “I think it’s happening now, skipper.   You’ll want to see this.”

            Even at the distance of two miles they could see the ice plateau on the continent behind them begin to dome.   The hump rose slowly at first and then burst in an explosion of rock and ice fragments.   There was an incandescent flash.   When vision returned a hemisphere of boiling atmosphere was visible, expanding at an incredible rate.   A rumble grew to a roar and to a screaming shriek that paralysed the onlookers.   The pressure wave tore fittings from the deck and cracked window glass.   The accompanying tsunami, however, passed them unnoticed.   In the open sea, travelling at 500 miles per hour it barely raised the fleeing vessels a foot or two.   As it approached the shoaling seabed around the southern tip of America it would pile up into a destructive wall of vindictive ocean, but out here it was benign.   Back on the Antarctic mainland snow clouds gathered above ground zero and lightening bolts flashed across the sky.   The trawlermen watched as powdered snow billowed and swirled; and out of the turmoil rose a vast, polished metal cylinder, its mirror surface reflecting the chaos that surrounded it.   The Andromeda Machine climbed serenely through the storm into the quiet sky above, performed a leisurely pirouette and accelerated away.   Within moments all was calm.  

            “Well, that was different,” said Easter to no one in particular.

A tinny voice crackled from the bridge loud speaker, Kapitänleutnant Otto Graf von Luckner was back on the VHF.

            “We will be heading for the Rio de la Plata in the Pinguin, but are more than willing to escort you across the South Atlantic, captain.   It will give us chance to compare notes and discuss the recent events.   I expect you will be wanting to proceed to the Ärmelkanal, your English Channel.   We may well catch you up on our way to the Baltic.   It rather depends on how long we loiter in Montevideo.”

            A wandering albatross tucked in behind the stern of the Lord Ancaster, skimming low over the restless swell of the Southern Ocean.   Sunlight glistened off the heaving rollers and dolphins played in the bow-waves of the two vessels as they pointed their prows towards the New World.

Wolves in the Wood (Elstead Writers' Blog)

Follow more of my adventures on Tuesdays on Elstead Writers' Blog:
http://elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com/2014/04/15/meanwhile/

The Raid

A hearty group of Kriegsmariners had come into the concourse from the Unterseeboot Pens and was indulging in manly horseplay when the glass in one of the skylights shattered.   If they could have made out more than a vague mauve blur they would have seen Dark Flow running down the marble wall, paying out rope with one hand and frantically casting throwing stars with the other.   They scattered, rallied and returned fire with their Schmiesser MP-40s.   Bamse was abseiling, noticeably more slowly and cautiously than Flo, towards the distant floor, and the bullets chipping off chunks of stonework all around him were not making for a happy St Bernard.   To his amazement he was still whole when he reached the ground.   His survival was probably due in part to the distracting effect of an indistinct pink whirlwind that pirouetted through the ranks of mariners.   Sailors doubled over with an “Oooff!” or flew backwards, crashing into disintegrating furniture.   The disgruntled emperor penguins who had, until this moment, still been waddling around the vaulted hall, turned, gave out a communal squawk of disapproval and trudged towards the double doors of the main exit.   Bamse headed off to locate and liberate the crew of the Lord Ancaster.

            An alarm siren wailed, almost immediately Neuschwabian reinforcements burst onto the scene and the machine gun fire intensified.   Dark Flo became pinned down behind a Coca Cola dispenser.   The situation was looking decidedly desperate when there came the sound of two small explosions from the Submarine Pens and the Kronstadt sailors arrived.  They reached the top of the escalator already firing and immediately fanned out.   The battle was intense, and destructive.   As more and more lights were shattered by ricochets and an increasing gloom descended on the vast hall Dark Flo began to suffer the Purkinje effect.   In low light simian eyes become more sensitive to the blue end of the colour spectrum, this is Purkinje shift, or dark adaptation, her Plymouth Pink Ninja outfit was no longer working efficiently.   She was becoming visible.

Meanwhile Bamse was having difficulty rescuing the trawler crew.   They did not want to be rescued.   The third hand, Billy Tate teamed up with the St Bernard and they ushered the crew into an elegant, Art Deco wardroom.   Plans to organise a second front disintegrated.   The trawlermen were divided into two, almost equal factions.   One group wanted to sit it out in the wardroom, perhaps get a cup of coffee, and wait to see which side won.   The others had enjoyed their stay so much that were all for joining the fray on the side of the Neuschwabenlandians.   Billy was weeping with frustration.

            “T’ skipper seems pally enough wi’ that Kapitänleutnant chappy.   Thy squabble’s nowt te do wi’ us.”

            “Look,” barked Bamse, “Flo and I have gone to a lot of trouble to get you ingrates out of this mess.   Don’t you want to see your Yorkshire homeland again?”   He paused for dramatic effect, “The stigma of mutiny could get you all exiled to Grimsby.”

            “…”

            “Ay, and ‘tis starving cold here.”

            “Bleaker ‘n a February afto’ on Top Withens.”

            “C’mon lads, lets stick it to the Hun.”

            Bamse took a nifty step back to let them pass, but the unsuspecting young Tate was knocked to the ground and trampled in the rush.

Von Luckner and Harold emerged from the subway tunnel as the firefight was reaching its peak.   The hall echoed to a cacophony of swearing (in German and Russian), cries of anguish and anger, the percussion of small arms fire; and it was filling with clouds of smoke and dust.  Glass shattered and bullets zipped through the air like gnats.   The duo instantly drew fire from both sides and dove behind the check-in counter, where they were joined, cowering, by the first mate and chief who were crawling on their hands and knees.

The Ancaster’s crew burst into the foyer, roaring out a battle cry:

            “Tigers, Tigers, burning bright!” all bravado and slightly squeaky apprehension.

            The Kapitänleutnant glanced disbelievingly towards his companions.

            “It’s a Hull City supporter’s chant,” replied Easter Smurthwait, “…Football…   I’ll explain later, when things quieten down a bit.”

            Albert Fleck leaped to his feet, “Go the three-day millionaires!" and then ducked down again as the round from a Schmeiser plucked at his tea-cosy hat.

            The trawlermen fell upon the Neuschwabenlander troops with fist flailing.

            “This’ll ney tek long.   ‘Sney rougher’n a Satdi-night scrap in Rayner's on t’Hessle Road.”

            Taking advantage of the added confusion, Dark Flo ducked out from the cover of the soft drinks dispenser and tucked in behind the wave of fishermen.   She skipped lightly up the back of the nearest deckie, tripped across the heads of three successive Kriegsmariners, became airborne and tossed a Happo egg into a light machine-gun nest as she passed overhead.   Her 3 Inch diameter, hollowed out black egg contained a disabling mixture of itching powder and concentrated Naga Ghost Chilli sauce.   Flo adopted the ‘Flailing Squid’ pose as she hung briefly in the air then plummeted, feather duster in hand, into the midst of the battle.

“THIS WILL END… NOW!”   A voice like an intervention from the patriarch of all thunder gods reverberated above the crouching combatants.   The hunched and wizened oriental master had materialized in the open no-man’s land that separated the warring factions.   He drew himself up to his full height of four feet two and a half inches, shoulders back and ramrod straight.   His eyes glistened and his tall orange hat quivered as he glared about the room.   The shooting slowly petered out until only the intermittent crack of a sniper’s round broke the silence.   Otto von Luckner broke cover and approached his men.

            “Nicht mehr!   Aufhören zu schießen!”

            The Himalayan envoy waited patiently for a bleakly expectant peace to descend across the scene.

            “This is intolerable… and futile.   A machine that is secret, a truth that is hidden, are now known to all.   The Andromeda Gerät will depart.   We will depart.   And it would be wise for you to be not here when we leave.   I recommend you utilize the high-speed pneumatic tubes to your whaling station and there take ship.   You do not have long.”   He stalked over to his colleagues who turned and followed him back into the subway.