Emperor of Gondwanaland (11 page)

A nurse hurried into the room, all starched calm business in her traditional tricornered hat and life-saving medals.

Behind her strode Ilona Grobes.

Ilona hung back smiling only until the nurse assured herself that Mutt was doing fine and left. Then Ilona flung herself on Mutt. They hugged wordlessly for minutes before she stood up and found a seat for herself.

“Oh, Mutt, what
happened
to you? A Junior Effectuator found you unconscious a few feet from my door and brought you here. I was at work. The first thing I knew about your troubles was when I saw your picture on the evening propaedeutic. ‘Unknown citizen hospitalized.’ I rushed right here, but the remediators told me not to wake you. You slept for over thirty hours, right from Fishday to Satyrsday!”

Mutt grabbed Ilona’s hand. “Let’s just say I had kind of a hard time getting to Tlun.”

Ilona giggled. “What a funny accent you have! That’s one thing that doesn’t come across online.”

“And you—you’re more beautiful than any photo. And you smell like—like vanilla ice cream.”

Ilona looked shyly away, then back. “I’m sure that’s a compliment, whatever vanilla ice cream may be. But look—I brought you some candy, and one of my favorite books.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much for being here.”

No ice cream, Mutt thought. He’d be a millionaire by this time next year.

They talked for several hours more, until the sounds of some kind of commotion out in the hall made them pause.

The door to Mutt’s room opened and three men walked in. They were clad in elaborately stitched ceremonial robes and miters, and carried among them several pieces of equipment.

Seeing Mutt’s puzzlement, Ilona explained. “It’s just a team of Assessors. Golusty died yesterday, shortly after your arrival. The Imperial Search has begun.”

One Assessor addressed Ilona. “Citizen Grobes, your testing will take place at your residence. But we need to assess this stranger now.”

“Of course,” Ilona said.

The Assessors approached Mutt’s bedside. “With your permission, citizen—”

Mutt nodded, and they placed a cage of wires studded with glowing lights and delicate sensors on his head like a crown.

I offer the following story as a trial run for a book I wish to write that will focus on the science of the 1600s and 1700s: starring Bishop Berkeley,
The Philosopher’s Star
will indeed be an example of “horsepowerpunk”—if and when I ever find time to do the necessary research.

But meanwhile we have the adventure below. It was not enough for me to conceive of using a young Cotton Mather as a narrator, although Howard Waldrop tells me that’s a coup, since he can think of no other fiction that does so. No, I had to go and bring in a fictional hero from the canon of Robert E. Howard. Oh, well, the road to wisdom is through excess, and all that.

The chance to use local history—I live in Rhode Island—was another temptation. My thanks to Pamela Sargent, who commissioned this tale for her anthology
Conqueror Fantastic
.

Observable Things

Now that I have at long last, thro’ simple Rolling Away of the weary Years, attained my threescore and a lustrum and acquired the status of Elderly Relick, honor’d and revered (yea, even feared), but likewise equally unlisten’d to, by Younger Generations busy with the affairs of a new Century, I am naturally disposed to cast my Eye backwards o’er the course of my life, questioning whether Events which once loom’d large as Mount Ararat in my Mental Apprehension did indeed hold all the Significance with which I once imbued ’em, and whether certain treasured Beliefs of mine, Polestars by which I erstwhile directed my Conduct and Career, were as trustworthy as I deemed, or whether these glittering Arrays of interlocking Axioms and Suppositions were not in fact Edifices built upon the Shifting Sands of Happenstance, Misunderstanding, and Deceit.

Chief among these Eidolons, perchance falsely dominant, I number my quondam Faith in the Existence and Prevalence of Witchcraft. Doubts as to the Mundane Workings of the Prince of Darkness thro’ his mortal Slaves first began to trouble me shortly after the Trials at Salem, wherein I play’d no small Part. Convinced then that “an Army of Devils is broke in upon the place which is our very center,” I staunchly maintained that Spectral Powers rampaged at will up and down our Earthly Stage, and that every Prayerful Man had a Duty to crusade against ’em.

Presently, however, in my Dotage (and I suspect in my weary Bones that I will not live much longer, certainly not managing to equal the vast Pile of Years once surmounted by my father, whose Christian Name Increase betokened his very longevity), I begin to doubt myself whether or not the Celestial Forces commonly make such Extraordinary use of Mortals as Actors in their Unknowable Dramas, imbuing ’em with Supernatural Powers for Good or Evil. I myself have, I now honestly aver, never
in my Maturity
witnessed any Occult Manifestations among the Pitiful Wretches accused in Salem or elsewhere and which would qualify without reservation as Extramundane. Certainly I would have no hesitation at this late date in abandoning all Credence in the Supernatural, were it not for one certain Man and the Events he brought in his train.

That Man was named Solomon Kane, and I met him when I was but thirteen years old, and all of Christian New England seemed doomed to Merciless Extinction at the hands of the Salvages and their Dreaded Conqueror, King Philip.

’Tis said, Reader, that the Spaniard De Leon quested after the Fountain of Youth in the Bermoothes and elsewhere, yet had he but considered the Power of Man’s Memory to restore his Vanished Infancy as if not a Day had passed since he wore Bunting and Lisped his Cradle Songs, then would the Balked Romish Explorer have realized that said Prize dwelt nor further off than beneath our Pates. Thus when I in my Expiring Years cast my own Sensibilities backward down Time’s Stream, I am instantly restored to the inquisitive and fleet-witted yet shallow-experienced and Headstrong Young Lad who once believed that he could understand any Observable Thing, and who found the World a Condign Marvel for his Seething Brain.

The Clime during that August of the Year of Our Lord 1676 had been a most unnatural one for the Colonies, Steamy, Enervating and Mephitic, as befitted the horrid Travails we Poor Souls in the English Israel had been undergoing for the past several Years. Betimes it seemed that we upright New World Denizens were suffering the fate detailed in Deuteronomy: “wasted with Hunger, devoured with Burning Heat, the Teeth of Beasts against them.” For two years now we had been battling for our Very Lives against the False Indians who had once befriended us, and with whom we had lived in tolerable Amity for some Decades. The Causes of their Bellicosity were numerous and hard to parse. An Enduring Catalogue of Innumerable Grievances had existed prior to actual Combat on both sides of the Affair, and the subsequent War had occasioned a Host of others. Slaughters and Outrages had been frequent during the course of the Struggle, and Blood both Pagan and Christian had flowed like Wine among the Nazarites.

At this Juncture, however, after much Tromping up and down the Countryside by Armed Militias, after many Grievous Setbacks and Retreats, Burnings of Homes and Stockados, Slaughter of Livestock, Despoiling of Grain and Fruit, Captivity of Innocent Maidens and Babes, the Tide seemed to have turned against the Tawny Tygers and in favor of the White Man. The Perfidious Canonchet, one of the Salvages’ chief Sagamores, had been recently captured and executed, his Dying breath an Unrepentant Curse upon his Betters. Weetamoo, the Squaw Sachem, pursued across the Taunton River just days ago in her Canoo, had Drowned and Perished Utterly, her Head Alone paraded on a Pole thro’ the Lanes of Taunton to Exultant Cheers. The Various Tribes Allied against us, the Bulk of the Nipmucs, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, and many lesser Clans, facing not only us English Lions but also our allies, the Mohegans and Mohawks, had been driven either Westward or Northward or into Guarded Encampments.

Yet one Redoubtable Foe remained uncaptured, and he the most Fearsome, Clever, and Undauntable Spectre of all. King Philip, Warrior Son of Massasoit, Sachem of all the Wampanoags, known before his English Christening as Metacomet. He it was who had Brew’d all the Storm amongst his Kith and Kin, he it was who had Wrought such clever Strategems against us, oft o’erwhelming our Superior Forces by Guile and Cunning. Now, ’tis true, Philip seemed helpless, a Portrait of the Chastized as we read of in
Amos
: “he who is stout of heart among the Mighty shall flee away naked in that day.”

Yet just so long as Philip lived, so long would our Future Safety be uncertain. Prospects that the Renegade could Regroup his forces and return Some Far-off Day to Harangue and Belabor us again were all too Large, especially if he turned for help to our Rivals, the French and Dutch. (And may I interpolate here, Reader, Merest Mention of the well-known Irruption Twelve Years Later of just such Salvage Deviltry around Saco, Pemmaquid, Casco, and Elsewhere as proof of the Undying Enmity of these Redskins, as chronicled in my own humble tome,
Deccenium Luctuosum
?)

Moreover, there weighed in the Balance evidence of King Philip’s Supernatural Allegiances. Many and many a time had reports come of Uncanny Forces at work on the side of the Salvages. Ill-faced Omens had oft abounded before Various Indian Attacks, viz., Uncouth Storms, the clouding of the Moon and the Sun, St. Elmo’s Fire, the Appearance of Unnatural Beasts, and the Disappearance of Common Game Animals. Such Tokens of the Dark Allies invoked by the Indians unnerved us, rightly so, and made Philip’s Death all the more Imperative.

It was in this Spirit, and with this Aim, that a group of Statesmen, Militiamen, and Common Citizenry stood eagerly upon Hammett’s Wharf that August Day in Newport, chief Establishment of the Plantations of Rhode Island, awaiting our Savior from across the Sea.

Standing atop a Tarry Piling and thus elevated above the Mass, with the Undimmed Eyes of Youth I was the first to spot the Ship we all anticipated, and gave a loud “Hulloo!”

“Here she comes! The
Black Gull
approaches!”

A general Stir went up among the Crowd congregated under the Unnaturally Blazing Sun. Even my own Father, ever a Figure of Stern Sobriety, evidenced a more agitated Mien ’neath his formal Wig, betokening a Ferment of Hope and Trepidation, than I had ever before seen him exhibit. He turned to Major Pynchon and said, “Let us pray that Kane has seen fit to answer our pleas. If this ship indeed bears that most fierce and noble of Puritans, we are saved, forsooth.”

I clambered down from my Bituminous Perch, as the Stout Full-rigged Vessel drew e’en closer, and from the expectantly gathered Souls there began to arise a general unseemly Hubbub. Major Sanford and Captain Goulding, Major Gookin and Captain Church, took it upon themselves to quiet the Ladies and Husbandmen and their Babes, lest Solomon Kane receive a Wrongful Impression of our Character, deeming us less Stoic than the situation demanded.

Before much longer, Hawsers flew thro’ the Air from the creeping Ship and the
Black Gull
was Warped into place alongside Hammett’s Wharf. Navvies heaved a Gangplank up and over to bridge the Gap twixt Ship and Shore, and a Collective Suspension of Breath preceded the actual appearance of Solomon Kane.

When the Man Himself materialized like one of the Four Spirits of heaven mentioned in Zechariah, that Suspension turned to a Gasp.

Used as we all were to the Sober, Respectful, Crowfeather Garb of our Preachers and Leaders, we still received a Shock upon first sighting Solomon Kane. For he was Attired in a Manner that had not been General for at least a Hundred Years. His Unadorned, Close-fitting Garments harked back to the days of Good Queen Bess. From Slouch Hat to Unseasonable Mantle to Worn Boots, he presented a Stygian Form. Exceedingly tall, with long arms and broad shoulders, Kane exhibited features both Saturnine and Powerfully Focus’d. A kind of Dark Pallor lent him a Ghosttly Visage, counterpointed but not relieved by the Thick Hedgerow of his Brows.

And his Accoutrements! Warlike and Vengeful in the extreme, raising in my Brain thoughts of the passage in Psalms: “two-edged swords in their hands, to wreak vengeance on the nations and chastizement on the peoples …”A Wicked Unscabbard’d Rapier depended from his wide leather belt, into which were thrust Twin Pistols. But the most Curious object carried by the Adventurer was a kind of short lance or Stave of Ebony Wood, its Pommel carved into the shape of a Cat’s Head, its sharp tip stain’d with some Ocherous Substance.

At my elbow a Rude Fellow unknown to me whispered to his Companion, “’Tis said Kane was peer to Raleigh and Drake in their prime, during the century long gone.”

“Aye. I have it on best authority that his Afric exploits earned him undying youth from Pagan sorcerers.”

“If so, that fabled benison sits heavily on his shoulders.”

I felt a righteous indignation in my Youthful Soul against the words of these Hayseed Poltroons. To my eyes, Solomon Kane was Justice Incarnate, the most Proper and Vengeful Christian my Gaze had yet to encounter. Moreover, he radiated an Aura of Romance, like a figure out of Spenser or Malory, a Dark Knight on a Perpetual Quest.

With Unreasoning Certitude, I knew then that I would follow this man wherever he led, and do whatever he bade, if he would but Consent for me to be his Page.