Black Forest (the draft so far) Parts 1 through 11 and now Part 12

I

Constable Blackwood Aristophanes Pool sat on a large rock, sweating through his light, linen clothing and way too far from his home office in distant Londbridge. The rock provided a roughly level seat in the sweltering noon shade of the distinctly odd airship floating above.

The footing of the mast consisted of an artificial jetty supporting the mooring mast and possessed a modest, pitch smelling wood walkway leading from the base of the mast’s stairs to a short wooden pier.

Tied off to the pier was noisy steam boat—not one of those great river boats, with paddle wheels and an attempt at elegance—but a simple open topped sort, with a clunky steam engine sputtering in the midsection and benches for passengers in the bow.

The engine churned and belched smoke and steam, though it was not geared into the single submerged prop below the brown water. There was a second engine tied into the craft’s primary, running a pair of rubber belts. This device linked to two air pumps with fat hoses attached and leading over the edge. Several barely clothed local men monitored the engine and pump, now and then peering over the [rail] in a futile attempt to get a glimpse of their employer below.

Pool returned to his damp notebook, twisting his pencil stub between his thumb and forefinger, imagining the scene below. The hoses continued to move, dragging the tethered boat around to a small degree. He sipped his comparatively cool beer, sitting to his left on the same rock.

…

Etelka moved slowly, knee-deep in mud and muck. The water carried the sucking sound of each step. She would be completely blind if it weren’t for the chartreuse-tinted vision, provided by the goggles she wore inside the heavy metal helmet. Turning her body was easier than peering through the small side windows of the giant sphere on her shoulders.

The exotic material of the goggles burned through the muck and drifting sediment of the [bayou] under the airfield. Everittite was rare, and had properties which were still poorly understood. One of them was filtering out all but solid material from the vision. This was convenient because Everittite lenses had the drawback of inserting ghostly phantoms that hovered unnervingly in the distance, even under water.

The air flowing through the tube mounted behind her head, blew oily, and fetid smelling air through her hair. It mingled with her perfume before being sucked out through another hose mounted to the top of the helmet. Sometimes, due to the the vagarities of the chance breezes on the surface she would get a stifling breath of smoke from the engine.

Etelka walked counterclockwise around the stone base of the mooring mast. In addition to the ghostly phantasm the Everittite goggles showed a kind of aura of living things drifting in the distance, as well as alligators and tentacled monsters from the brackish water.

She continued, her left foot, buckled into a weighted boot, bumped into a submerged rock. The pylons of the dock where in front of her. If she couldn’t find what she was looking for—what she was certain was here in the muck, she’d have to climb back up the slipper pile of rocks hand have the surface pump-boat move to the other side of the dock, so she could continue. She probably would not have to fully exit the absurdly heavy submersible diving suit, but that was still a possibility. The men would help her to the other side and then back down into the water.

The suit was hot. The air being pumped through was hot, hotter than the water around her. She would need a bath after this, something her airship could not provide.

…

It has been over a year since we last came to N’Aurelia. How I hate this dreadful swamp. The Baroness insisted, though, so I am obliged to be here at her side, so to speak. And to return in August of all months…

If only Miss Tagore could have accompanied us across the sea. She has for the most part evaded the long, transatlantic voyages we’ve made. I am not resentful. I miss her humor and I hate to admit, her chaotic demeanor.

Just the same, Miss Tagore DID lose the object, the Baroness is currently searching for, deep in the fetid murk of N’Aurelia’s airfield. It fell from the top of this very mast, I’m told, along with a deeply corrupt Alderman of the jungle city-state.

Pool looked up at the faceted girth of Baba Yaga’s Hut, the private airship belonging to the Baroness. It luckily was directly between him and the haze-shrouded sun. The light always had a muted quality from the ever present humidity. Ominous cumulus clouds drifted by in the distance moving slowly west to east from the jungle toward the sea.

The distance from the top of the mast to the ground would surely kill a man. Pool wasn’t certain if a watery impact would to the same. Miss Tagore had been fairly certain the Alderman was dead.

All of this just so we can go to the Black Forest and talk to some strange woodland creatures. I am absolutely loyal to the Baroness, but cannot always see what strange reasoning drives her.

…

Etelka could feel the air tubes growing slack behind her. The men were supposed to keep then taught so they wouldn’t get caught on submerged objects. This meant that their boat was directly over head, which in turn meant that she’d have to struggle up the slope of slime covered boulders at her side to go to the other side of the dock.

Could I perhaps go around the dock so as to not require ascending the mast’s foundation only to struggle down three meters a head? She thought.

Turning the cumbersome diving suit to the right, she could make out the outermost support pylons.

Her foot brushed against something. Something buried under the muck which varied in depth, but had been covering her feet the entire time she had been down here.

Backing up, struggling not to trip backwards, she moved back half a meter.

There was a curved object under the mud, barely exposed by the hole left by her boot print. Pottery? She wondered.

She stepped forward and dug the toe of her boot under it as best she could. Not pottery. The broken face of a skull turned to look up at her. Half it’s jaw bone was missing and the adjacent side was smashed in with most of the pieces missing. A startled crab crawled out and danced sideways away into the muck.

Alderman Stolison, I presume? She mustn’t be so sure. N’Aurelia was a cesspool. This could be anyone. Still, it gave promise.

Etelka began sweeping her feet, first one, then the other back and forth stirring up the muck, which was nearly invisible to her once it was in movement. She knew, however, that there was now a cloud of thick mud floating around her.

Her eye caught a gleam in a crack between two large boulders to her left, a meter up the slope of the mooring mast’s foundation.

Etelka walked heavily towards it. Her legs were tired from the trudging and sweeping all the mud around, burning with pain.

The gloves of the diving suit were large with fingers too large already for her slender hands. She glanced around for a small stick to fish it out with. Her eyes settled on a slime-covered reed, which she tested with her clumsy grip. It would sufficient.

Using the reed she bent toward the crack, trying not to fall face first into the mud.

There! Caught you! She had found what she had come for.

…

Pool looked up as the pump-men, began murmuring then shouting in the local patois. He had never quite learned enough to learn more than a few words. It didn’t matter. They would speak in their broken Brethmanic to him and the baroness.

Two of them jumped down from the boat, holding the lower edge of their skirts up to keep them from getting too wet. It was fruitless in both cases. Their longhis fell into the churned up water as they rushed to help the baroness and her strange diving suit up the rocks.

The baroness held a limp reed aloft in her left hand, threaded through some small object.

Could she have actually found it? Pool was astounded at her luck, finding a needle in a haystack.

One of the pump-men helped her unclasped the latches of the large bronze helmet, lifting it carefully off her head and setting it down on a rock, and revealing a sweaty, cobalt blue mat of hair.

Etelka smiled when she saw Pool looking at her.

He could not help but to smile back; her smile was mesmerizing.

“Quick, Pool. Take it before it slips back in to join Stolison.”

He stepped gingerly across the rocks, trying not to fall in or to drop his notebook, which he still clutched in his hand.

He slipped the 25 millimeter diameter cylinder off the reed. It was covered in green slime and muck. He held it daintily, but securely, trying to avoid soiling his otherwise clean clothing.

“Stolison? You found his body?” Pool quivered at the memory of the Alderman-come-mad scientist, who had…done things to him last year.

“Only his skull, and I’m not even certain that it belonged to him, but it was in the vicinity of our prize,” said Etelka with interspersed grunts as she squeezed out of the mud-drenched diving suit.

One of the men had removed the air tubes from the helmet and coiled them in the boat with the helmet placed on top of them. The other disengaged the weighted boots from the suit, rinsing them, then rinsing the suit as best as the muddy water would allow. These were placed in the boat.

Etelka was drenched in sweat. She had removed the goggles to her forehead as soon as her arms were free, pushing her hair back. Her white shirt was scandalously clinging to her skin as were her black pants.

She came to him, climbing over the boulders.

Pool averted his eyes as much as he could and held the cylinder out, offering it back to her.

“Pretend that it is Miss Tagore that you’re talking to, with her relative lack of modesty,” she said. She took the slimy object from him, brushing off filaments of the tiny green plants that had colonized it.

Turning to the boat of pump-men: “Thank you dearly for your assistance, gentlemen. Do you know of a place across the River where I can take a bath?”

They did, in fact, know of a place.

“Then if you wouldn’t mind could I get a ferry over to the city?”

After a painful climb up the stairs of the mast, all the time with her leg muscles burning, she returned with a bundle of clean clothes. Both Pool and Etelka enjoyed the wind on them on the journey across the vast river.

II

Later, as the pair of rings and disassembled nyereg, or saddle—a cylinder of [brass] that Etelka had created to fill the space within the pair of rings so that they could be worn in a practical fashion by a human. One end had a raised ring attached and the other was threaded so its raised section could be screwed and unscrewed, allowing the two large rings to be removed.

Constable Pool sat writing in his notebook, now and then glancing up to look at the newly cleaned gold rings.

Where to begin…We or rather the Baroness has recovered the pair of rings, two of the five Miss Tagore and I recovered frigid Muskovy, from Madam Lenkova’s archeological dig-site [two] winters ago. Was it only two winters? It seems half a lifetime ago that I learned for the first time of the secret truths, hidden from the populace or buried in myths.

That tale is recorded elsewhere, however, I will paraphrase it here, in the event my previous journals are lost to posterity. It has happened before.

Years ago, I was charged with a mission of utmost secrecy by the late Countess P of Isenberg, and under the direction of Baroness Kekszemu (who I now accompany) with the object of traveling incognito under Special Assignment by the Crown, to journey into the territory of the Khanate of Muskovy where Crown spies had uncovered rumors of an archeology dig in the wilderness of Siberia. I was chosen in part because my own departed mother had her origins in the East and I could utter a few words in that language.

Once nearly there, the most unexpected event occurred and itself changed my life forever after. A strange woman, possessing the most unsettling demeanor and suspect morality, caught up with me having followed my route from Kekszemu Manor. Like the Baroness, the pursuant Miss Tagore, had similarly dyed blue hair, an unlikely coincidence—but just that—a coincidence. The most surprising detail regarding Miss Tagore, is that she had only days before, reasoned the control mechanisms of the Baroness’s Time Traveling device, and had come from three centuries in the future.

Miss Tagore and I grew acquainted and with my meticulous attention to detail and her penchant for wanton destruction, we achieved our goal. The site was found and the mysterious artifacts were captured from the Muskovite professor, Madam Lenkova.

Among the objects that were recovered were five rings, each possessed of strange, unnatural powers—It was Miss Tagore who unlocked the secrets of the rings—powers imbued within them by an ancient beast.

Now, many will tell the reader that the myth of the Tigers and Dragons is just that, a myth. They will tell you what the folktales told them, that in the Dark Ages Terra was invaded by powerful sorcery-using Tiger-Demons from Space, who then laid wast to civilizations the world over, until their reign so enraged Dragons, fearsomely described arose from the ground or sky or mountains depending on one’s local to destroy the dreaded Tiger-Demons. They are more properly termed Rakshasa, and it was with great disquiet that I learned that they were, in fact, real and that the myths were true in a very literal sense. I have seen both dead and living rakshasa and fled the terrifying onslaught of a very real dragon itself.

As for Miss Tagore, my dear friend and companion in many adventures, she possesses modifications to her body that function like the mechanical computational devices like inventors today create, though they exist at such a small scale as to make them indescribable in these pages, and it was with these modifications Miss Tagore learned to communicate with the secret commands of the rings, rings which had been created and worn by the alien Rakshasa sorcerers.

As I have mentioned [above] Miss Tagore was engaged in a battle with an Alderman of N’Aurelia, this abysmal cesspit of a city, high above on this very mooring mast. In her victory, the second of the nyerek fell into the fetid water along with Alderman Stolison’s detestable corpse.

Pool was considering describing his treatment at Stolison’s hands, but the memory of it after all this time was still traumatic for him. He was thankfully interrupted by Etelka’s return from the cabin where she had been chatting with the captain and crew of Baba Yaga’s Hut.

“Have you figured out which is which yet, Pool?”

Etelka had picked up Nila’s—Miss Tagore’s—informality, especially in private situations. Pool still struggled with it, certainly with Baroness Kekszemu, who he secretly adored.

Pool picked up each ring, one in each hand, studying them, weighing them.

“I have no clue as to which one is which,” he answered. It was true. He had no clue. He had refrained from the modifications Miss Tagore and now the baroness possessed.

With a flourish of her fuchsia dress she sat abruptly down by him, at the end of the table central to the airship’s lounge. [describe map on table] Her boots clanged on the metal grid of the floor panels beneath her. She pulled her chair closer to the table and Pool. Floral perfume wafted from her flowing hair a second after she took her seat.

Etelka locked eyes with him as she reached for the rings. He was entranced and couldn’t look away from until she shut them, alabaster lids obscured the aquamarine gems.

Pool’s eyes went to her hands. She was holding the rings just as he had just done.

“I am by no means confidant, but I believe this one…” holder in her left hand higher “…is the translator ring. That at least is what my internal is telling me.” Internal refers to her modification, acquired three centuries in the future from one of Miss Tagore’s special surgeons. “I say that only because this one is that horrible mind control ring…Or at least I believe it is. I find its touch repellant.”

Etelka put the repellant ring down with disdain. It hit the [metal] surface of the table top with a sharp clink.

She then slipped the overly large ring onto her thumb, something she had seen Nila do, and closed her fingers around it.

She looked at Pool, he was looking at her and twisting the left point of his mustache. “What do you think is the root cause of periods of conflict between the Empire and Muskovy over the last two centuries?” Etelka annunciated clearly and carefully chose words in her native Hunnish, that Pool was less likely to have picked up by proximity. The each spoke Brethmanic and Muskovitian, but she was fairly certain Pool’s grasp of Hunnish was limited to a few polite phrases and formalities.

“Baroness, it seems a rather odd digression from our investigation of the rings, but if you must know, I feel that as with any rival populations growing in number, they will at some point come into conflict over resources or territory. The Brethmanic Empire cannot expand to the North, West or South due to the ocean and seas, leaving only the Eastern frontier, whereas Muskovy is boxed in by the Sinese lands to their east and the Sind and Pars to the South. They also historically have been jealous culturally of the superior accomplishments of the Empire.” Pool stopped his long-winded answer to her question, trailing off at the end as he realized it might have been an intentional aside, a test of the translator ring in her hand.

He looked at her eyes gleaming at him. She indeed showed the smile she always wore when she was enthusiastically interested in something.

“It was Hunnish that I spoke.”

“Ah. Very good. It sounded like the fluent, unaccented Brethmanic you typically speak,” Pool responded, releasing his mustache. The left tip was now slightly higher and tighter than the right. “What of the other?” he asked.

“I will secure it so that it doesn’t fall into any hands but our own.”

“That is wise.”

After sitting in silence, briefly jotting a few more lines in his diary, while Etelka rustled around in her cabin, she returned and sat back down next to him.

“Baroness, I know that the reason for this quest for the ring is so that you might use it to communicate with those things in the Great Black Forest that we fought off.” Pool harbored a memory of a pitch black night when Baba Yaga’s Hut, having been damaged and blown off course made an emergency landing in a broad clearing amidst ancient ruins. During the night, monstrous things, ape-like but somehow different came at the airship, which was resting on the ground.

Shots were fired and several attacking beasts were killed. Miss Tagore fought off an incredibly large one and ultimately drove the remaining ones to retreat.

The following morning they company investigated, finding the corpses of the fallen. The first impression is that their attackers were somehow a cross between a gorilla and a dog or wolf. They possessed the physique of a gorilla, though tending toward hairless. The neck was longer and less thick than that of a gorilla and was mounted with a head, structured so as to belong to a bipedal organism, with mouth and eyes perpendicular to the spine, rather than in line with it.

The head was sized like that of a gorilla, but having a much longer snout. A short-snouted wolf head, with a heavy brow, little hair and small, though still canine ears.

Miss Tagore, Nila, was the one that had interacted with…fought with the leader (clearly the leader). She had returned from the field, as typical, speckled with blood.

The leader (#### had called it the goblin-king, a fairytale character) had used some manner of mind-control to convince Nila that she had both injured it, then that it had injured her. None of this is certain from their first encounter, because Nila had been the only one to really interact directly with it, and had been the only one to have actually fought it.

The decision to go back came to Etelka slowly over the next few months. She wanted to know what these creatures were. Not at all human, but despite their animal appearance, they possessed an intelligence. Once the decision was more or less final, she had to have a means to communicate. This meant going back across the ocean to N’Aurelia to find a ring lost in a vast swamp.

“Pool, it is my opinion that those things as you refer to them, are sentient beings, strangely overlooked throughout history, perhaps lost to folktales, as so many other things have been.”

“I will have Baba Yaga’s Hut prepare for a return voyage at the captain’s convenience,” she said.

…

Appealingly lush and verdant from above, in the marginally cooler air, though still turbulent, the hellish jungle city of N’Aurelia passed away behind them. Baba Yaga’s Hut, named for a witch of slavic folklore, swooped between and evaded massive thunder heads whose shadows dotted the ground below. The muck-brown river wound its way to the sea.

It was not long—maybe an hour—until they reached the fading edge of the delta beneath them. Brown water and rich jungle turned to islets in grey water, followed by only water.

Pool, for a reason he didn’t fully comprehend or bother to analyze in himself, always enjoyed watching the transition from sea to land and land to sea, along with the topography of the mountainous cumulus clouds around the rocking airship.

He was perched, standing and leaning on the semi-circular cockpit counter. Three seats: the one on the left was exclusively the Captain’s or if remotely necessary, the substitute pilot’s; the one on the right was the special one, belonging to the Baroness (as did the entirety of the airship)—[in a whisper] Baba Yaga’s Hut was also a time machine); and the center one, given to whatever guest needed a view.

The Captain, nearly recumbent and half asleep, lightly guided the airship by means of several brass rods by his right hand. The airship tilted this way and that, slowly navigating the humid airs of this equatorial realm.

Even at altitude, a thousand meters—maybe more—the air was humid. It cooled as they headed out over the open ocean. Pool sweated in his shirt, his linen jacket hooked over a chair in the lounge behind him.

Tiny white and brown surface ships plied the waves below. Pool tried to imagine the grit it would take to risk near-certain death over the edge of the continental shelf; things, big things, lurked beneath the waves of the wine-dark sea.

“Pool? Shall we talk now?” Etelka asked.

Pool was shaken from his daydream, imagining the tiny sailing boats below being swallowed whole by the leviathans of the deep.

“Hmm…yes, Baroness…” he responded.

“Remember, we are friends and that requires no excess of formality, Constable.” Etelka’s modes of speech depended on the situation. Calling him Constable in private, was almost always facetious, though in public, it was always appropriate.”

The same applied to references to Miss Tagore. In private she was Nila. In public, in front of others, she was Miss Tagore. Really, only Nila understood the nuances. Etelka wondered where and when she was. So did Pool in his own way.

The table in Baba Yaga’s Hut’s lounge was covered in engraved metal. Pool had always guessed it was an alloy of tin. The engraving was that of the world, Terra, their world, as mapped as accurately as they could manage.

Etelka was sitting there, the chair closest her cabin (first forward [starboard]). Her hair was loose, a look that Pool always liked, adored. Cobalt locks drifted in loose curls over her pale shoulders. She twiddled the nyereg having only one ring on it now in her right hand. Etelka looked up when he returned from the cabin.

“Baroness…Etel….” he stumbled over her given name. “You want to discuss the ring?”

“Yes, Pool…Blackwood.” Pool had never heard her pronounce his given name before. No one but his long-dead mother ever called him by that, anyway.”

“‘Pool’ will do. That name never really suited me, I think.” He meant it.

Etelka stared intently at him, trying to read him—it was always very difficult for her to read the expressions of others. They all wore masks—or she just didn’t get their meaning—regardless, it was hard for her. She knew Pool was a dear friend, but sometimes he seemed an inscrutable automaton, a character in a story.

Etelka swallowed, her mania draining away. “P…Pool, with this ring…” she held it up between her right thumb and forefinger. It was much larger than a human would craft. Bright, yellow gold. The nyereg was necessary for humans to wear them. “This translates language to language by means of rakshasan magic, or as we say, technology, though we do not as yet understand it.”

“And the reason for translating?”

“In the Schwarzwald, Fekete-erdő, also known in Brethmanic as the Black Forest—as you know—we encountered a race…a species never before documented on Terra.”

“I sincerely desire to document them, to discover them and uncover their culture.”

“Baroness, I had always assumed that you were primarily interested in mechanical devices.”

Etelka tilted her head in the way that a parent often does with a child. “I am interested in everything, Constable Pool.”

…

Pool again writes in his journal.

It was Miss Tagore who unlocked the secrets of the rings we found in frigid Siberia, dug from the frozen ground by Professor Anastasia Lenkova Finn. We had returned to Kekszemu Manor and Miss Tagore discovered first that she could initiate the powers of the rings by the power of here altered mind.

She had been in the back of the Manor with the Baroness firing guns and inadvertently activated an explosion-inducing ring, to all of our surprise.

Not long after, we—or I should say—she came to the realization that one of the other rings allowed for the simultaneous translation of spoken and even written words, both to and from the wearer.

She had used the translation ring on several occasions, but the ring-saddle that the Baroness had constructed to provide a better fit on Miss Tagore’s slender fingers had been lost in a battle atop that airship docking mast in N’Aurelia.

We travelled across the sea and the Baroness dove beneath the waters under the mast for the sole purpose of recovering the ring. To my amazement she found it.

She intends to use it to communicate with those beings, not human, but hardly animals that we encountered in the Black Forest.

Pool wondered what Nila, Miss Tagore was up to and where she was. He missed his friend but was happy for the time alone with the Baroness.

…

From the cockpit, the booming, sonorous voice of the ever-present Captain announced the sighting of the European continent. Almost two weeks had passed.

Pool wondered how the man managed to not leave his seat for so long. (Pool had been aboard for two years, on and off, and had observed the Captain Gordon’s extreme inertness.) Both he and the Baroness took their respective leaves on a daily basis.

From the cockpit, baritone voice: “Baroness, they signal us. There are three warships on patrol off of Lusitania.”

Most airships of the Royal Navy had dedicated masts hanging beneath them for semaphoric communication. Because of its design and the constraints of the icosahedron Baba Yaga’s Hut did not. (Anything outside the icosahedral structure around the airship would be lost when it transits time. This alone would prevent unwanted boarding by assailants.)

“What do they signal?”

Beatrix, the chief engineer of Baba Yaga’s Hut sprang into action. Her curly brown hair bouncing in its ponytail. Running from the cockpit to the engine room, her veritable home, she cranked up the semaphore mast, which through the the icosahedron of the outer shell of the airship. The wheel, with its handle set in the right side of its quarter meter disk, was cranked clockwise over and over, until the mast reached its full height, in contrast to the downward hanging masts of the Brethmanic warships.

Beatrix, the nominal first mate, called out the status of the mast.

The captain responded, indirectly, “Baroness, What is our message?”

“Tell them who I am…No, tell them I am ‘Constable Pool’ on special assignment.” Etelka shot Pool a big, snarky smile. “On Special Assignment for the Crown.”

“Baroness, you are of course aware that this airship is known to the Imperial Navy to belong to you exclusively.”

“Yes, my dear Pool. I am aware of that.”

“So what!” Etelka was unexpected peeved.

Pool shrunk back, not really understanding her motivation in naming him.

Work in progress. Mistakes and misspellings are present. This is a very rough draft. Copyright 2021 Ion Fyr

#scifi #sci-fi #science fiction #fantasy #writing #short story #alternate history