Quest of the Five Clans: the Harlequin Tartan

CHAPTER 7

Here we keep our Finer Monsters

Beneath the Hall of Wonder, a greater, darker hall. An Aladdin's cave hoarding deeper magic. A basement of silent wonders, sleeping artifacts awaiting the summoning call. A trumpet blast crying awake! Arise! March forth and seize the new century! Mechanical men and arc-light angels, wind-up lions and flocks of bronze birds, self-propelling wagons and ghostly figures constructed of hammered light. This army of wonder would throw off dusty sheets, stretch wooden arms and bronze legs, stoke machine-fires and burst through this cavern into the daylight world...

As what? Conquerors? Rescuers? Carnival exhibits, more like. The world I knew would shrug, complain they blocked the street-traffic, tempted children into unproductive habits. The miraculous creations would be seized for parts, melted down and pushed aside, left to alleys to amuse the dogs. So declared my cynical mind. Till that final battle twixt wonder and world, they rested here in dust and dark.

I removed my tinted lenses, peered about. Illuminated by lamp, not electric angel-shine. I smelled old wood, dust, paint, mold, canvas, mice. Heard a thumping far off, a heart-like tapping, tapping.

I studied benches of disarticulated puppets. Unpleasantly reminiscent of after-battle surgery-tents. All about, dusty sheets hinted what patient slept beneath. Perhaps a wind-up elephant, a magic table, a mystic mirror. A killer readying knife for my throat. That last would be no great wonder. Unless it were a wind-up killer. A bronze assassin... I considered. Where in the springs and gears beat the heart? No telling. Best just parry till his spring ran down.

"I assume you like dragons," remarked Zeit-Teufel.

I considered. Did I like dragons? A dangerous question. Dragons in stories, parables, statuary and emblems went well enough. One could prefer them or not, as one wished. A sane man could like dragons fine, because he did not believe in dragons. But for those fearing madness, the question held ominous weight. The mad must always favor dragons.

"Yes. I like dragons," I declared. "So long as they do not burn the couch, fright the maid or dig in the roses. And now I've bought one ticket, one pair of smoked glasses, accompanied one caped stranger to this suspiciously dark setting and answered a suitably absurd question. In return, you shall explain the boy, the hand, and the fog. Then I'm off."

Teufel clapped hands happy. "I guessed it so. Said to myself, there is a man who can appreciate a good dragon. And that it should be the famous Seraph! We're all quite honored. This way." He turned and hurried down an alleyway of piled puppets, ominous boxes, sheeted wonders.

I sighed. In the hell-shine of the chamber above, this clock-hatted man had seemed sinister and worldly, the master of a hall of wonders. Here in kerosene's sane glow he was a tall boy in a hall of toys. By voice, I judged him not yet twenty. No doubt his father, 'Zeit-Teufel, senior', manned a proper business desk, reckoning sums and costs. While Teufel cadet ran laughing through the family warehouse of heirloom wonders.

I followed, hand on knife, feeling absurd. From somewhere came a muffled thumping and banging. Someone wanted in; or more likely out. A heart-beat, almost. Perhaps one of the wonders hoarded here was a giant heart, pulsing, alive. Grotesque but interesting. I would not pay to see it. I have my own heart already. I stopped at a random exhibit, lifted the sheet. A chessboard. Upon the board, a mouse. It stared at me, as I at him. I pulled back more of the sheet. Behold a mechanical man, turbaned, pipe in one hand, glass eyes contemplating the board.

His free hand held still, just above a pawn. I considered the board. Ah, the Turk played a pawn attack. The mouse would counter with his queen... No, that was a trap.