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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol III No. 4 |
"No, don't let him do that, it's not nice."
"I thought Krakatoa was West of Java?"
"This isn't Jules Verne you know!" |
Gunner has ordered the defensive formation to stand down and some of Ravenbait's minions have
managed to rustle up some fresh tea and coffee. They are now picnicking on tea and cake on the grass
outside her house. Aardvark is rolling around on the ground, apparently attempting to rub worms into
his skin for some reason, or perhaps he just likes the feel of it. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are
peering suspiciously at the pony-sized hound from the safety of the corner of the picnic blanket, but are
mainly far too intrigued by the possibility of free fruitcake. Thought and Memory are slyly wandering,
suspiciously aimlessly, around the assembled cyclists, and every so often one of them will perform
some strange antic as a distraction while the other nips in to steal a bun.
Ravenbait isn't eating much, but sits on the edge of the picnic blanket drinking tea and sniffling into a
tissue. She seems to have an endless supply of them hidden in her coat.
"So," says Microphonie. "I take it this demon thing is still on the loose, then."
Ravenbait nods, blows her nose. "He's out there somewhere. He shouldn't be able to get into any of the
other levels of Hell. You never know, though. I'm practically quarantined, so I can't go look. He might
have made it to the Fourth Level, as I suppose you could describe him as prodigal, or he might have
gone down to Level Nine in an attempt to get promoted to one of the Malebranche."
"So, " says Kathy, "If we find him for you, Aeroflash says you'll get better."
Ravenbait nods tiredly. "If it weren't for that little gobshite my immune system wouldn't have been
under stress and I could kick off this stinking cold. Once I've got him back under control where he
should be I'll be as right as rain. So, anyway, tell me what's happening back at the Cake Stop."
The incident with the mushrooms seemed such a long time ago. They had almost forgotten that was
what had prompted them to come all this way in the first place. Macleach, resplendent in his invincible
armour of Irn Bru, which he had donned as defense when it seemed that Garm was coming, explains
quickly about the cakes and the fighting and their suspicions regarding Gonzo; Muckspreader and the
Archaeologist chipping in every time he misses out some detail.
"I think Gunner was going to take us to the South China Sea," says Oldnewbiker in a conspiratorial
whisper.
"But then there was this wind," Scm chips in, "and we needed Aeroflash's help to get out of the Cake
Stop."
"Does he live with Yoda now?" Rigby asks. "Does he have to have very small cupboards?"
Everyone favours Rigby with a baffled, disbelieving stare. "I was only asking," he says.
"So let me get this straight," says Ravenbait, (largely for the benefit of the readers). "Kathy hits a mad
scientist with a soggy twig..."
"It was a big, heavy branch," Kathy pipes up indignantly.
"Someone slips hallucinogenic mushrooms into the cakes, which Hairyhippy and Chuffy here
positively ID as coming from the South China Sea," the Priestess continues, "and you all thought that it
must be Gonzo because he spends time looking at insects in the South China Sea."
"That's about the size of it, dear lady," Gunner affirms.
"Not by himself, obviously," says Muckspreader, somewhat lamely. Now that the evidence had been
stated so plainly, it didn't seem so clear cut any more.
"He obviously had help," says Cuddy Duck, a little snidely. "He couldn't manage this on his own."
"Why do you think Gonzo might have put hallucinogenic mushrooms into the cakes?" Ravenbait asks
them slowly.
"To cause fights, obviously, the insufferable rotter!" Rigby exclaims, righteously incensed. "Not the
actions of a gentleman at all. I propose to have him black-balled."
"Keelhauled!" Grimpeur adds, with relish.
"And why do you think he might have done this?" Ravenbait asks, even more slowly.
"Well, obviously he has foul plans for world domination," says Fat Bloke, munching on a scone.
"Not convinced," the Priestess shakes her head. "Don't really see how slipping a few mushrooms into
our cakes is going to aid the fight for world domination."
"Maybe he was just using us as guinea pigs," Kathy says in a shocked whisper, knuckles held to her
teeth as if to stop herself from whimpering. "Maybe he's going to use it on everyone else now that he
knows it works."
"No, don't let him do that, it's not nice," Ravenbait says, pulling a disgusted face.
"Well, no, that's why we came," says Bardsandwarriors.
"No, not Gonzo. Aaardvark." The big dog is trying to lick jam off Fat Bloke's face. "He uses that
tongue to clean his own balls, you know. And worse."
"Oh." Faces pale as imaginations collectively realise the potential consequences of being licked by a
Hellhound.
"Well, look. I can't help out in any way until I get this Lupus demon back where he belongs. So I
suppose you can either help, or head on without me and I'll catch you up once everything is sorted out
here," Ravenbait tells them. "I can let you have the two ravens....oh."
Thought and Memory are lying on their backs, feet in the air, wings slightly outstretched. They are
gurgling. Other than that they could be dead.
"Little toerags have been stealing cakes again. Look at them. Their eyes would only ever be bigger than
their bellies if there was an endless supply of food," the Priestess says, irritated. "I don't suppose either
of you is related to Loki, eh?" There is no response, just gurgling. Thought's left foot twitches slightly.
"Okay, so you'd have to go ahead by yourselves until either I'm free or those two have digested."
"We've come this far to find you," Chuffy says. "We might as well stay to help."
"Indeed," Gunner agrees. There is a murmur of general assenting from the others.
"All right then," says Ravenbait. "I'll just get someone to clear away the dishes and then we can begin."
* * *
The dishes had been cleared away. A cloud of silver sparkles had descended with a sound reminiscent
of mosquitoes on nitrous oxide, for a brief instant forming a shimmering pool over the scattered
remnants of the picnic. When they had lifted off and scudded away there was no sign that there had
been any feeding of guests going on at all.
"Right then," says Ravenbait, rubbing her hands together and then sneezing loudly and violently. "With
all of us at it, we might manage to do this. Just wait here a minute."
She ambles back inside the house with a perfunctory command to Aaardvark telling him to stay. When
she returns she has dressed in more familiar attire, is accompanied by Fingal and is gingerly holding a
pair of manky boxer shorts by one corner. She ponders a moment, looking from Aardvark to the boxers
and back again. "Damn instruction manuals, always going missing. Now how did he say it went?"
"What is it you want to do?" Flying Monkey asks.
"Oh, just one of the standard 67 transformations," she tells him. With a smile Flying Monkey takes a
hair from his head, makes several passes over it. There is a rainbow flash and in the slight purple and
orange haze it leaves, Aardvark has taken on his piglet form.
"Well, easier to keep up with him and pigs can find truffles, can't they?" the priestess says somewhat
belligerently in response to the dubious looks with which the others are favouring her. She takes the
manky boxer shorts and drapes them over Aardvark's nose. "Go find," she whispers in his ear. The little
pig shakes himself, sneezes slightly, and then trots off happily further into the depths of Hell.
"Mount up!" cries Gunner. He is suddenly besieged by a small host of silver sparkles, who sigh
breathily and seem only to want to be near his manliness. "What's all this?" he exclaims. "Get away
with you! What are they?"
Ravenbait smirks as she rides past. "Faeries, Gunner lad, faeries."
Startled, he watches carefully, and as
one of the tiny creatures swooshes past his eyes, only an inch or so away, he catches a brief vision of
naked blue skin, shimmering, nipple-less breasts, almond eyes the colour of wood moss, pointed ears
and sharp teeth.
The company moves off, slowly. The piglet only has little legs and Nutty is heard to mumble
something about wishing he'd brought Mrs Nutty along because the pace is nice and steady and now
that she'd been up Cheddar Gorge on a Brompton, she might have actually enjoyed this. Terry is heard
wondering whether the piglet isn't somehow related to Habeus Porcus from "Doc Savage: Man of
Bronze" and then, somehow, they are singing the title music from the eponymous film as they pootle
along the smoothly metalled surface. Gunner is trying very hard to ignore his retinue of admiring
faeries, which are zinging around his head making soft cooing noises, occasionally brushing against his
skin with a touch as soft as a dandelion clock. He is sure that they would not be able to keep up if the
Cake Stop posse were travelling at a pace more befitting the beauteous OCR Team Replica, but the
cyclists are forced to match the pace of the piglet.
"Mistress Raven," he finally calls in desperation, brushing a faery out of his face and then apologising,
embarrassed, for his forward behaviour, for they are still evidently female. "Would it be possible to
have the hound back so that we may go a little faster?"
"He's a hellhound, Gunner," the priestess replies. "We might not be able to keep up."
"But, dear lady, I am besieged. Nay, plagued. It is too much for a man of decent, gentlemanly
sensibilities."
The priestess looks back over her shoulder, and mumbles something indistinct. With a collective moan
of disappointment, the faeries are left behind, unable to progress. Gunner looks back to see the small
cloud hanging stationary above the road where his head had been, and then it scoots off at a rapid pace,
back the way they had come.
The landscape around them changes, becoming more dramatic, less welcoming. The air begins to take
on the unmistakeable stench of rotten eggs and the clear sky is becoming streaked with orange and
grey, the pallor of smoke invading the cerulean blue. Over on the distant horizon, a vast, dark mountain
belches and spews black clouds. Jets of gas the colour of wet concrete spurt from jagged cracks, deep
within which can be seen the eye-hurting glow of molten rock.
"I thought Krakatoa was west of Java," says Hairyhippy.
"Didn't know there were any seabirds down here," says Chuffy, grinning widely.
"What?" J.L. Seagull frowns.
"Well, look," Chuffy replies, pointing at the volcano. "It's puffin."
"Looks like things have certainly taken a tern for the worse," Groucho adds.
"Yeah," Jimbo agrees. "We could be completely shagged here."
"I could be fooled into thinking that was Mount Doom, if I were gull-ible," says Terry.
Ravenbait suddenly brings the gang to a stop. "It is," she says ominously. She leans down, mutters
something to the piglet. Aardvark immediately turns back into a hellhound. "Little pigs might get eaten,
where we're going," she says.
Kathy looks frightened, clings to the back of Tim's jersey with one hand. Arellcat and Redshift glance
at one another resolutely. Redshift reaches down and brings out a curved, single edge sword from its
sheath on the bottom of the recumbent, tests its edge and then returns it, sucking her thumb to stop it
bleeding.
Now that they look, they see they are the top of a steep, tortuous descent, and at the bottom is a grey,
stinking wasteland. Gravel piles rise, steaming toxic yellow from oily, black earth, which stretches on
into the foothills of the great volcano. There are no trees here, only bushes; twisted, misshapen and
stunted, poisoned into deformation. The breeze carries the tortured screams of those who have only just
come into full awareness that the pain will never become blunted, that there is no hope of becoming
inured, that eternity is far more than the mortal mind can comprehend.
From their vantage point, the cyclists can see thin, bedraggled humans being whipped by enormous
creatures with massive horns and lascivious serpent tongues. Those are the sinners guilty of
fraudulence and malice; the seducers and pimps. Slowly, stumbling over sharp, ember-hot stones, the
hypocrites struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks. The simonists, wedged into stone holes where their
feet are licked by flames fed directly from the spitting fire-mountain, kick and writhe desperately. The
magicians, diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here, as well as the thieves. Some wallow in
the products of human defecation. Serpents writhe and wrap around men, sometimes fusing into one
other. Bodies are ripped apart with sucking, slurping, crunching sounds. The sinners here are afflicted
with scabs like leprosy, and lie on the ground, scratching so fiercely as to tear their skin off with their
abused, broken and bleeding nails.
"I was afraid of this," Ravenbait says grimly, stifling a sneeze as though her life depends on it. "Ladies
and Gentlemen, welcome to Malebolge."
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What will happen now? Will our plucky companions in adventure manage to track and detain the
dastardly Lupus demon, thus releasing the mysterious Priestess to aid them in the quest to find the
villain of this dastardly tale? Will they survive the rigours of a hunt through the very fields and blasted
plains of Hell itself? Was Ravenbait right to say that Garm would cause them no trouble, or is the great
hound waiting to take advantage? Could it be that there are those amongst the Cake Stop who even
now are contemplating the unthinkable, and wondering if the Priestess isn't rather too rum to be
acceptable as a member of the Genteel Intrepid Sorority? Find out in the ongoing tales contained in our
educational adventure periodical for boys and girls of all ages. Chronicles of the Cake Stop!
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