Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables (40 page)

H
e reached the woodcutters’ camp by midmorning, when the sun had baked the open plain enough to burn away the fog and briefly banish the seasonal chill.

The camp stood near the base of the mountains, at the edge of a huge stand of trees. It was a modest tent city, augmented by a few large lean-to structures built for maximum portability. Indeed, the last mile of the trail led through a graveyard of stumps where the town’s wood supply had been previously harvested, and from which the nomadic lumberjacks had long since pulled up their tent stakes.

Everywhere he looked, men were hard at work, dragging fallen trees behind horses, cutting the trees into logs, and splitting the logs into practical sizes of firewood. Some carefully stacked the split logs into even cords underneath a large lean-to, while others harvested discarded branches for an immense crackling fire, over which the skinned carcasses of two deer rotated slowly and fragrantly.

Stovepipe’s attention turned to the sound of a grindstone, and in the distance he spied an elderly man sharpening axes beneath the shadowing roof of another, much smaller lean-to. Sparks spat from the stone as it whirled, putting the necessary edge on each tool.

“Herr Fooks?” he asked.

The old man nodded and seemed to smile, although the details of his expression were nearly lost in the sprawling mass of dense white beard covering his face. Fooks wore an ancient floppy gray Tyrolean hat, a braided green cord serving as its hatband. This gave him an elfin appearance that his white shirt, green suspenders, and traditional leather pants served only to enhance. He rose to his feet and extended his hand to Stovepipe, greeting him in unintelligible German.

Stovepipe fumbled in his coat pocket and withdrew the letter of introduction that Freiburg had written for him. Bowing politely again, he presented it. Fooks broke the red wax seal and withdrew its contents. Fetching a pair of spectacles, he sat down to read.

As Stovepipe waited, he took notice of the many tools arranged carefully on the crude benches that lined Fooks’s workshop. There were hammers, mallets, wedges, whetstones, and
assorted other devices obviously staged for the maintenance of axes and saws, but what caught his eye was an array of much smaller and more refined tools. These were the tiny drills, miniature clips, odd-sized screwdrivers, tweezers, and finely compartmentalized trays filled with the springs that a man would need to repair a fine timepiece.

Or, perhaps, a rifle.

Eventually Fooks finished reading. “Bring me zee Vinchester,” he said quietly, “
und
vee shall zee if I can mend it for you, Herr Montpelier.”

Stovepipe unslung the rifle from his shoulder and handed it to the old man, who shouldered it as if to fire it and experimented briefly with its long brass telescopic sight, taking mock aim at various distant objects. Eventually he directed its muzzle toward the ceiling while he gently tugged at its lever. Finding the lever jammed, he emitted a low grunt of disapproval and set the weapon on his bench.

“Ziss vill take zum time to repair, Herr Montpelier.”

“Good things take time,” Stovepipe replied, nodding. “Oh, and please call me Stovepipe.”

Fooks appeared to smile. “Herr Stovepiper, zo it is.” He looked back at the rifle. “
Und
vat ist ziss?” he asked, pointing at the pewter dial in the stock.

Stovepipe gave him a quick demonstration of the light-beam generator, which had the bonus effect of not only lighting up the inside of Fooks’s wooden shelter, but also igniting the old man’s enthusiasm. Practically dancing with amusement, the white-bearded fellow slapped Stovepipe on the shoulder and babbled something incomprehensible, in German, which sounded like high praise.

The clucking of chickens sounded in the distance.

“You have hens here?” Stovepipe asked.

Fooks nodded. “For zee eggs, yes. I begin every day with a much-cooked egg.”

Stovepipe smiled. “
Bitte
, please, get to work on my rifle. I must go and boil an egg for you now.”

True to the innkeeper’s prediction of the previous morning, Fooks was thrilled beyond measure with Stovepipe’s little egg-cutting device and insisted on being served two additional soft-boiled eggs while he worked. Nearly an hour passed before Fooks emerged from the lean-to, cupping a small broken piece of metal in his right hand. He explained he would have to construct a replacement for it before the rifle could be reassembled. However, he added that he would be happy to lend Stovepipe a telescope and another rifle until he was able to complete the repair.

Hardly had the words passed from his lips when three younger woodcutters came striding up to the lean-to, each bearing a different weapon. One of them held a long-barreled Remington Rolling Block, a fine single-shot rifle ideal for long-range work. Another carried an old military-issue Spencer repeating carbine. The last man had a Civil War–era Henry repeater, definitely of early issue because its receiver was plain iron instead of the more familiar shiny brass.

Fooks gestured at the selection of firearms as the men held each of them forward for Stovepipe’s consideration.

“Hard to decide,” said Stovepipe after pondering the options for a moment.

“Herr Stovepiper,” Fooks said pleasantly, “Fritz Freiburg writes to me zat you are zee type of man who must try all three.”

R
iding back toward New Hamelin, Stovepipe took great comfort in the solid feel of the old Henry repeater as it slapped against the side of his long coat. Fooks had rigged up a rope sling for it so he could carry it just as he had carried his Winchester, and he had been pleased to find it accepted the same .44 rimfire rounds. The rifle functioned flawlessly, as determined by the brief test he had conducted. Before Stovepipe rode out, Fooks even insisted on sharpening his throwing knife to a needlelike point. He was now fully prepared for battle with Crooked Scar’s raiders.

It was not the rogue Comanches who crossed his trail that afternoon, but rather the Pied Piper. Stovepipe reined Thursday up
short when he heard the sound of Crossley’s land-ironclad chugging in the distance, its pipe organ eerily holding a single sustained note. The huge engine was moving at a moderate pace, billowing great clouds of steam as it deviated from the main road and cut across open prairie. A strange shadow followed along behind it, its bizarre shape shifting irregularly like a desert mirage.

Stovepipe pulled Fooks’s telescope from his coat pocket, extended it to its full length, and carefully adjusted its focus. He could clearly see Crossley at the Steampiper’s helm. The Piper was wrapped tightly in his rubbery coat, goggles secured over his eyes and pied cap pulled down tightly against his ears. What intrigued Stovepipe, though, was the shifting mirage trailing behind the machine. The optics of the telescope could not quite capture the image with sufficient clarity, but Stovepipe realized what it was.

The rats….

Sure enough, the Piper had been true to his promise. He was leading a massive herd of them, so many that it appeared to be every rat from the town, maybe the entire territory. They spread out for a considerable distance behind the Steampiper, a roiling brown/black/gray mass of undulating fur and whipping wormlike tails. The metal treads on the huge machine’s wheels pressed into the prairie’s sandy surface, leaving deep corrugated impressions wherever it rolled. The pursuing rodents spilled into these indentations, pooling up until their numbers were so great that new arrivals simply skittered over the writhing bodies of the others and plunged into the next impression in the sand, where their own bodies formed the base of the next rat bridge.

Stovepipe lowered the telescope and wiped his brow.
But where is the Piper leading them?

He kept his distance but changed course and followed, aligning his path with the rear of the ironclad, taking care not to be observed. It was a simple matter. The pipe organ blocked any rear view that Crossley might have had. Clouds of steam billowing
behind the machine did the rest. Stovepipe donned his goggles and rode among the swirling mists.

The Steampiper chugged steadily along, eventually heading toward a small, craggy hill. Stovepipe noted that it was a considerable distance from town and the rats had finally begun to expire. The oldest and weakest were starting to collapse on the trail.

Stragglers…. The Piper’s killing off the stragglers by simple attrition.

It occurred to him that an efficient means of destroying the rodents would simply be to bring the Steampiper to a full stop and reverse its direction, crushing the weakened creatures as it rolled back into its own tracks.

Is this the Piper’s plan?

But when the ironclad slowed near the base of the hill, he saw a large entrance partially blocked by an immense coin-shaped stone and realized that the Piper had other intentions. Stovepipe reined his horse and took cover behind a small stand of trees, tying Thursday to one of the low branches. He carefully climbed up to a wide fork at the apex of its trunk and took a seat, bracing the telescope against a limb as he studied the distant scene.

The Steampiper rolled into the cave, still issuing that one peculiar sustained note from its pipe organ and leading the rats behind it. They continued to scamper in, although their weakened condition was evident even from a distance. Shortly after the last stragglers had made it inside, the pipe organ’s bent note abruptly ceased, and the distinct chugging of the machine’s massive engine was heard anew. The ironclad was building up steam again.

He’s coming back….

Stovepipe slipped down from the tree. Quickly tucking Fooks’s telescope back into his coat pocket, he unhitched Thursday and led her into an arroyo a dozen yards away. He patted her dense gray fur to calm her before extracting the periscope from amid his diving gear. He extended the device to its full length, raised it up straight, and then peered up out of the arroyo to see what the Piper was doing.

The Steampiper reached the tunnel entrance and rolled to a stop. Her captain sounded three long separate sustained notes from the steam whistle and then swung himself down from its cabin. He walked out and stood in the open, hands on his hips, obviously waiting for something.

He did not wait long. Within minutes there was a rumble of hoofbeats, and a Comanche war party rode up, bringing their horses to a halt in a circle surrounding him. Clad in dirty buckskin and lumpy buffalo robes, they carried both bows and repeating rifles.

Stovepipe watched through the periscope, transfixed.

Is Crooked Scar with them?

He could not be certain. Some sort of negotiations seemed to be taking place. After a few minutes the affair was concluded, and the Comanches rode off toward the northwest, as if to circle around to the other side of the hill. Crossley returned to his machine and set it in motion.

Stovepipe pondered the potential meaning of the odd meeting he had witnessed. The Piper had made some sort of arrangement with the Comanches, but its brevity suggested a follow-up to something already in place. Stovepipe resolved to continue observing, but to wait a full hour before following Crossley back to town.

Gigantic clouds of prairie dust churned up by the Steampiper’s huge wheels commingled with columns of steam from its boiler as the machine moved back and forth in front of the cave, until at last the mysterious operation was completed and the ironclad chugged off toward New Hamelin, the ground shuddering as it passed. The dust settled and the steam evaporated. Only then was it clear what the machine had accomplished.

He sealed off the cave.

Stovepipe was impressed. The immense coin-shaped boulder now blocked the entire portal, with piles of dirt and smaller rocks scraped up closely around the edges, sealing it so that any escape was impossible. The Piper had done his job well.

The rats will not be leaving here.

Stovepipe turned his head and looked at the image of the distant Steampiper, now just a speck on the distant horizon.

Well, all but one of them, that is….

T
he aroma of sausages steaming in beer greeted him as he rode back into town. It was late on what had become a cool afternoon, with shadows growing long as the sun descended. From the beer garden at the hamlet’s edge came the joyful sound of a horn band playing “Roll Out the Barrel.” Stovepipe was amazed to find that the streets of New Hamelin decorated as if for Oktoberfest, with huge cloth drapes of blue-and-white-checkered Bavarian bunting hanging from every rooftop, gutter, railing, and second-story window. Similarly festooned tables had been set up on the boardwalks, wood groaning under the weight of iron cauldrons filled with steaming sauerkraut and neat rows of tall dimpled-glass mugs foaming with fresh ale.