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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol V No. 6 |
Soundtrack:
Afro Celt Sound System - Sound Magic |
On a flat rock that he wishes was further above the high water mark than it is, Jack Shandy is laying
out a complex pattern of flour and cornmeal. The veve he is creating is a symbolic representation of
their loa, Mate Care-for, better known as Legba, Guardian of the Crossroads. The Crossroads are part
of the central myth that is Voudon, westernised as 'voodoo': they are the place where the spirit world
and the world of the physical meet, and their Guardian will be a powerful and welcome ally in what
lies ahead. While the cyclists may not be aware of what lies in wait at the top of that road, the Priestess
had taken a pretty good guess after talking to the Australians. It is, he reflects, a tangled web of a
world. The Australians may not have been puppeteers in the manner of Shandy and Shandy's father, but
puppeteers they had been nonetheless, and Shandy had been at that performance. He had seen the
strange behaviour of the young lad in the zebra stripes and had reported the same to his Captain. His
Captain, of course, although giving the impression of being a useless drunk most of the time, was as
sharp as a Toledo steel and a walking encyclopaedia when it came to criminal activities that might
affect him. When the two ravens turned up with the rather obscure and cryptic message, Captain Jack
Sparrow had immediately guessed where they would be going, and once Gonzo had turned up, and the
likeness had been so startlingly obvious.... well. That just settled things.
With the final sacrifice of rum, candy and chicken blood made in the proper fashion, Shandy, now
dripping with sweat from the exertion of maintaining focus in the face of the mighty power that is
Maitre Carrefour, calls across to his Captain.
"It is done," he says, panting a little. There is an immediate release in tension from the other pirates.
The Cake Stop massive are completely oblivious to the work that has been completed.
"Right then," Captain Jack says brightly to the cyclists. "Now you can go. You have about six hours."
"And then what happens?" Brock asks, puzzled.
"Well, then the tide comes too far in," Captain Jack says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
"See that rock over there where Shandy is? That'll be underwater in about six hours." He bares his teeth
in a rather frightening grin. "I should think you'd want to be back here before then," he tells them.
"Why?" Rigby inquires. "Is that when you serve tea and crumpet?"
"No, my lad," says Captain Jack, his grin quite frightening indeed. "Because when the rock is
underwater, Shandy's little picture will be all washed away," he gestures with one arm to illustrate the
action of the sea on flour and cornmeal. "And when Shandy's little picture is washed away, then the
safest place to be will be back on The Black Pearl. That's where we'll all be. I'd get a move on if I were
you." He takes a swig of rum and then swaggers rather unsteadily back to his mean, who are already
setting about lighting a cooking fire, as if Shandy has not done enough already.
Gunner, not entirely impressed with Captain Jack's lack of commitment to their cause, immediately
takes charge and rallies everyone into something resembling a proper pack.
"We are going after Gonzo, we are going to get to the bottom of this entire strange affair, and we are
going to do it even if it takes longer than six hours!" he exclaims. "Who cares what happens to some
abstract pattern of flour? This isn't the Tate Modern! Those are pirates, not Damien Hirst and chums!"
Several of the cyclists look at each other uneasily. They think Gunner might have missed the point
somehow. "We are the League of Gentlemen Cyclists!" he continues, undaunted.
"What about us?" cries Kathy indignantly.
"Yes yes. And the ladies. Now come along. We can't stand here idling all day!"
There is the popping-bubblewrap noise of a collection of cyclists clipping into cleats not-quite
simultaneously, and then they set off after the faint tread-marks Gonzo's tyres have left in the dust on
the dry-baked road surface, running the gauntlet of those empty, staring eye sockets.
* * *
They soon find that the island is a lot bigger than they had imagined. As they ascend the slope to the
side of the mountain they discover that on the other side the island stretches away from them. The
volcano may look as if it is only slightly off-centre in a small island, but in fact it stands practically at
one focal point of an irregular ellipse that stretches far enough that no one can make out the distant
shore.
The road winds on down into a jungle that is not dense enough to prevent sunlight reaching the ground.
Through the trees they can see glimpses of grey stone structures that look South American, perhaps
borrowing from Aztec architecture. The pack pauses for a moment at the crest of a ridge, an easy
descent before them, and surveys the scenery.
"I don't like this," says Kathy, shivering despite the hot sun. There are still skulls watching them from
the verge, and she can't help but feel that those silent observers are somehow reporting back to
someone who is marking their progress with deadly intent.
"Don't worry, Little Miss Naughty," says Chuffy. He brandishes the mighty sword, still safely encased
in its sheath. "I'm in the mood for smiting."
"Anyway," Tim Pike says chivalrously. "I'm in front. Anything we meet will have to get through me
first."
"Badgers?" Redshift says, for no apparent reason. "We don' need no steenking badgers."
Kitzy, although as nervous as Kathy, is getting impatient. She wants to find Gonzo and discover what
has happened to him, why he is acting so strangely.
"Come on," says Macleach. "There's no point just standing here."
"The tracks carry on down the hill," Hairyhippy observes.
They mount up and head off once more, down the long hill into the relative cool of the jungle shade.
There are a lot of strange noises in the jungle. Birds, mostly, they decide. Cuddy Duck, Pingu and
Seagul try a variety of the dialects they use when traversing the world's oceans, but are largely ignored
and come to the conclusion that the species here must have been segregated from the rest of the world
for thousands of years and thus evolved highly specialised languages. Either that or they aren't birds at
all, but fish that have been genetically modified to live in trees and fly, rather than live in the sea and
swim. It seems unlikely, but science is up to all sorts these days, after all.
They all have the strange, undeniable sense that they are being watched, and it is making them nervous.
After about half an hour of riding, the jungle opens out. There, in the middle of a vast clearing, is an
enormous building in the Aztec style. Cuddy Duck finds himself glancing back at the mountain behind
them, something niggling at the back of his mind, but he can't pin it down. At the top of the square-
stepped pyramid is a golden statue, the details of which are impossible to make out at this distance,
especially as it reflects the sun so brightly that it is painful to look upon. The skulls on the sticks at the
side of the road have turned, without anyone noticing when, from animal to human.
Gonzo's faint tyre tracks carry on, straight down, in the only direction possible. Straight into the
yawning rectangular mouth of the pyramid.
This, then, at long last, is the final destination.
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