Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate (4 page)

“Good sir!” cried Doctor Calgori. “That is more than excessive!”

The captain lowered his cane, and glared angrily back at Calgori. He glared for just a second, but then his demeanor flickered to one of cordial politeness. “Ah, Doctor Calgori! I was told you had arrived! I’m Captain Brussel. I hope you didn’t find your journey too taxing?”

“Not at all,” Calgori answered, not masking his distaste. With a concerned look, he walked over to check on the sailor on the ground.

“Pay no mind to this mongrel, he’s made of stern stuff. I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson, and will be back at his post in no time. Isn’t that right, mongrel?” Though he was shaking, the sailor on the ground did not utter a reply. The captain continued, “Now, let me show you what we have prepared for you.”

“I will admit I am curious as to why we are at the docks.” Doctor Calgori said shakily, as the Captain led him away from the wounded sailor. This cruel violence wasn’t the first the Doctor had seen in his life, but it was jarring nonetheless.

Through the gates was a bee hive of commotion as dozens of men labored around a massive sailing ship. The ship’s design was easily a hundred years out of date. It was vintage, even for the early 1900s. Yet its construction was new, even unfinished in places. The ship looked like a gorgeous and ornate vessel from the height of the Age of Sail: intricately carved wood, cannon, ropes, masts, sails, and figurehead. It was majestic and beautiful, and completely new. It was a strong contrast to the beaten and scarred sailors that were busy loading or rigging her. They filled the air with the smell of their sweat, and startling profanity.

“Why have you brought me to this…pirate’s ship?” the Doctor asked in distaste for sailors and vessel. Calgori had been through a lot, and at this age his memory was very selective, as you will see.

“This is the vessel you are to fit with your…contraptions” the captain said. Calgori’s eyes narrowed as he squinted at the boat, but the captain continued, “I realize she looks old fashioned, but I assure you she’s very new, and beautifully built. A great deal of consideration was put into her construction, and her old fashion looks were very much part of the grand plan.

“Though she looks heavy and old fashioned, she is as light and modern as 1906 can produce. This is the
H.M.S. Ophelia.
It’s a Shakespearean reference, you see, and a bloody good joke as Ophelia floated herself, didn’t she?” The captain ended with a perverse chuckle.

The Doctor glared at the grinning captain “Hamlet’s Ophelia died in the water, as will you and your crew! Do you have any idea what that hull will go through when we attempt to travel, if it’s submerged in water?!”

“I’m sure you have your work cut out for you, and I would hope you are capable of making the necessary modifications?” This question was almost a dare, and Calgori wondered if he saw a threat behind the captain’s bushy eyebrows.

“Quite,” said Calgori, and he paused while he made some calculations in his head. “However, your men up on those masts are wasting their time. Bring them down, and fetch me some porters. This will completely change the schedule I originally proposed. We will need to unpack and, I think , we will need to order canvas.”

“We have two complete sets of sails, Doctor.”’

“It is not for the sails. I shall make you a list of new supplies. Your superiors really should have spoken to me before they commissioned the ship’s construction. They completely misunderstood my quite specific directions. I am sure it fits
your
plans, but it is completely unsuitable for mine. Unless you are planning to die on your first trip, we have a lot of modifications to make, not the least being that we need to get this boat
out of the water!
”

As the Doctor was escorted aboard, the sailors from the gate shouldered their wounded friend up the gang plank, and tried to hush his mumbled threats. “None of that talk now, mongrel. You’ve got no option but to serve your captain or go back to prison.”

“We’ll see,” said the sailor. “We’ll bloody well see.”

SKEPTICISM

“Do you know how many bands have died in small plane crashes?” Kristina asked from the back seat of our green Ford Windstar minivan. The paint was peeling on the hood, and it was hot and sticky inside with the sweat of the five young musicians. We had less than one day to travel from Gig Harbor, Washington, to a music festival we were to play in Salt Lake City, Utah.

“Just because it’s happened before, doesn’t mean it’ll happen to us. We’ll be fine,” I answered. Many times during my life I felt like I was forcing the musicians of my band against their will into doing something that would make their lives bearable. They all complained about their jobs, yet every step of progress the band made, no matter how small, seemed a step uphill. It was as if I couldn’t get them to see there was something outside their little lives, and so they constantly pulled against me.

“Sure beats the hell out of driving the whole way to the concert in this damned minivan. This thing smells like old sandwiches,” grumbled our bass player, only half-jokingly. He was a small guy, dyed black hair, unshaven, with a little tuft of facial hair under his bottom lip. His style of humor was to complain in a funny voice so it sounded like he was impersonating a grouchy old man, all while really voicing a complaint. It was effective, since you couldn’t argue with a “joke”, but it was really just his way of bitching about everything. “If we drive now, by the time we’d get to our gig in Salt Lake City, we’ll all smell like old sandwiches!”

“Patsy Cline. They had to ID her body from a piece of her the size of a loaf of bread. That was all that was left of her.” Kristina was sort of our – not voice of reason – but voice of perpetual doubt, despite all reason. Or at least that is how she was in those days. She was a tall blond, and was usually seen with pigtails. She was also the type of pianist that would stay up late reading biographies of long-dead composers through the reading glasses she did not want anyone to know she wore.

“We’ll be fine. Statistically speaking there is a greater chance of dying in the shower than dying in a plane crash,” I said from behind the wheel. Thank God we were not going to drive all the way to Salt Lake City. If people were going to bitch the whole time, I think I would have cracked before we got there.

“John Denver.”

“Look, if we were gonna drive we would have had to have left five hours ago. We
have
to fly now!” I retorted. I’m the lead singer of this band, I write the songs, (mostly about how much life sucks, or about my parents’ divorce) as well as make the website, newsletters, etc. In those days, we were the kind of band that stood onstage wearing all black, trying hard not to smile, even though we were really excited that all of seventy-five people turned out for the show.

“Buddy Holly.”

Our odorific van pulled off the back road, onto the gravel of a local airfield. A few weeks ago at an after-party one of our fans bragged about his pilot’s license. He offered to fly us to a show if we bought gas for his plane. At the time the idea seemed exciting and glamorous, but as the dust settled in the parking lot of what had to be the smallest airport in the country, and we saw the tiny rusted plane ahead of us, I was starting to think that Kristina might be right. On the other hand, this
was
starting to look like an adventure.

IMPACT

Within a couple of hours we were bucking around through deep purple clouds somewhere over Idaho. Rain was pelting the plane’s windshield so hard that we had to shout at one another to be heard. After a while it was not worth the effort. The only one who still had anything to say was Kristina.

“Lynyrd Skynyrd!”

Suddenly, there was a clearing in the clouds. In front of us was something unexplainable: a huge black silhouette the shape of a massive football, so large it filled the front windows.

The massive shape was wider than it was tall, and we were not entirely sure how far off the ground we were, so the pilot tried to climb in the vain hope of going over it. He jerked back on the control yoke, assuming the plane would leap up as well. But the plane was small, the weather was fierce, and the plane had no noticeable response other than violent shaking. The passengers in the plane now screamed in fear, and the pilot looked frantic.

The dark silhouette was too big, our plane was too poorly powered, and the pilot was outwitted by a lack of response from his controls. Soon the shadow filled our view, and the last thing I remember was the dashboard of our plane crushing the pilot and his chair into my legs.