‘The Mystery of Catcraigs House’
By Phineas Redux
Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
—OOO—
Summary:— This is an Uberfic set in Great Britain in 1943. Flying Officers Zena Mathews and Gabrielle Parker—members of SOE, Special Operations Executive,—take an unexpectedly frightening holiday in a country house on the Orkney Mainland.
Disclaimer:— MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to ‘Xena: Warrior Princess’ and I have no rights to them. All other characters are copyright © 2015 to the author.
Warning:— There is a small amount of light swearing in this tale.
This is the 14th story in the ‘Mathews and Parker’ series. —
1. Anything To Anywhere.
2. An Aerial Taxi.
3. The Shetland Bus.
4. A Brush With the Enemy.
5. The Long Trip.
6. A Rainy Sunday.
7. The Ring of Brodgar.
8. On Convoy Patrol.
9. A Music Concert.
10. A Series of Cyphers.
11. A Visit to Skara Brae.
12. A Front Page Splash.
13. The Raid on Alesund.
—O—
Scapa Flow presented a drearily grey aspect early in the morning. On the low ground by the water’s edge stood an imposing row of giant Hangars connecting with the slightly choppy water via a long sloping concrete slipway made especially for the Flying-Boats whose home this was—part of Camp J on Orkney Mainland. Behind these buildings the two somewhat impatient women, standing on a short concrete runway for the use of more traditional aircraft, instantly recognised the silhouette of the approaching Avro Anson whilst it was still a fair distance off.
“It’s got its wheels down already, Zena.”
“She probably never raised ‘em. Y’know how much effort it takes to turn the hand-crank to lower the damned things. No electric-hydraulic undercarriage motor t’ease the pain on that mark.” The tall black-haired woman, Zena Mathews, in heavy trousers and sheepskin flying-jacket like her shorter companion, shrugged and clapped her hands together. “Gods, its chilly this morning.”
The time was just after nine a.m. but the light was still rather gloomy because of the low thick overcast cloud cover accompanied by a sharp breeze coming in from a westerly direction. Altogether an average summer morning in Orkney.
“Hey, look’it that.” Gabrielle Parker was still engrossed by the approaching small airplane. “See the raised bulbous covers evenly spaced round the front of its engine cowlings? Couldn’t mistake them—”
“Yeah, Armstrong Siddeley Cheetah Nine’s.” Like most ATA pilots Zena was well up on the technicalities of virtually every available British aircraft. “Two o’ them. An’ look at the fuselage. That line of connected windows running straight from the pilot’s cabin t’the rear make’s it seem as if the roof’ll peel away at a moment’s notice.”
“And the dorsal gun-turret forrard of the tail doesn’t help the flying qualities much, I bet.” Gabrielle held onto the wrist of her companion as she steered her towards the grassy edge of the runway. “Better get out’ta her way, here she comes.”
The plane lost height slowly, wings dipping from side to side slightly, as it approached the centre of the concrete runway. Its tricycle undercarriage, one main wheel below the rear of the single engine casings on each wing, showed dark in the low light. Then there was a burst of dust and a sharp screech as the wheels made contact. The tail lowered and the plane shot past the spectators at what seemed a fast pace; but this rapidly slowed to a crawl, and the Anson came to a halt only some fifty yards away from the two waiting women.
They had both been overjoyed to hear that one of their most cherished ATA friends, Atalanta Cassey, was flying in for a short stay at her private house on Orkney, and had been waiting delightedly for nearly an hour to greet her arrival.
—O—
It was the end of July, 1943. The overcast sky was steel-grey from horizon to horizon, with a sharp salt-tang in the chilly air. Catcraigs House, for sixty years the Hunting Lodge of the Casseys, was partially open and partially closed up. Some rooms were as warm as toast; while others served as a foretaste of the Arctic. The House was mid-Victorian, which meant that all concept of style had passed it by: two floors, with further attics stretching away under the roof. There was also access onto this roof which, in parts, was flat and parapeted. Underground there were at least two levels of cellars. Sad to say, though, the ‘usual offices’ as the Victorians and Edwardians preferred to call the toilets and bathrooms, were wholly un-modernised. This could lead to some revelatory experiences whenever anyone tried to use the baths, or prototype Edwardian showers.
The House had no great drive leading towards a pillared portico; just a short weed-covered un-surfaced lane—running from the minor road curving along the edge of Loch Boardhouse, on the northern tip of the Orkney Mainland,—eventually, after only twenty yards or so, coming out before the main entrance of the House; which in turn was simply an ordinary front door with no trimmings. Electricity was available from a small petrol-engined generator in an old stable at the rear. This machine had never been entirely trustworthy at the best of times and now, with petrol rationing, the inmates had largely fallen back on oil-lamps.
“So, Atalanta, this is some joint you have here. I’m impressed.” Zena spoke with all the democratic naturalness of her New Zealand ancestors.
“Tal. Just call me Tal.” The lady in question laughed good-humouredly. She was perfectly used to Zena’s outbursts. “God, we’ve known each other long enough by now. What is it, seven months?”
“Nearly a year, Tal.” Gabrielle had stepped into the wide, high-ceilinged hall and, at her hostess’s insistence, thrown her leather jacket onto a worn couch against the wall. “Zena’s only jealous because her own joint, back in the land of sheep, is merely a two-roomed cabin with a tin roof.”
“Ha-ha!” The New Zealander grunted, making a curious sound that served her for a laugh. “Yeah, it’ll do. How many rooms are there?”
“Oh, around fifteen; maybe twenty.” The proud owner spoke casually. “Depends what you might call a room, or not.”
Having been given substantial sick-leave together, from their SOE operations, Zena and Gabrielle had accepted the friendly offer by Atalanta to accompany her to her ancestral home in the northern area of the Orkney Mainland for a week or so; where they could pass the time hill-walking; stalking deer; fishing; or just lazing around like hogs. When Tal, with a smile, had mentioned the latter both Zena and Gabrielle had clapped hands together and shouted ‘ Yep!” at the top of their voices: which left her in no doubt of the kind of people she had invited into her house.
“Well, Tal, talking of rooms—this hall is larger in volume than all the rooms in the entire house I and my family grew up in back in New Zealand.” Zena gazed around, with obviously mixed feelings, then shrugged her shoulders. “By the way, what exactly is a Hunting Lodge,”
“Like this place? Well, in Victorian times rich people who generally lived in London or the Home Counties used to come to Scotland for the fishing, grouse-shooting, or deer-stalking.” Tal smiled at her guests as they made their way across the stone floor of the hall. “Rather than continually stay as guests of other people or at inconvenient hotels, they had houses built on the estates they owned to serve as residences while they took their holidays. They’re called either Hunting Lodges or Shooting Boxes. This is a Hunting Lodge. Most of these houses were actually built in anything but convenient places. Most of the year they remained closed, till the owners turned up in August or September for a month or so.”
“And this is one of them?” Gabrielle took another look around the cluttered dusty hall, with its high raftered ceiling. “Seems to be, er—”
“Past its best? Left to its own devices? Rundown, is the word you’re looking for.” Tal laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, it is getting to be something of a wild elephant round our necks these days.”
“White elephant.” Zena corrected, out of habit.
“Eh? Ah, yes, no doubt.” Tal grimaced. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of yearly rates and taxes we have to pay on a place like this, though. Daddy says that, what with the extraordinary Death Duties the Inland Revenue’ll slap on us when he pops his clogs, he’s decided on the only course open to him—he ain’t going to die at all. That’ll confuse ‘em, he says!”
“He being, er, the Earl?” Zena glanced at the tall fair-haired woman with a note of interest in her voice. She had not had personal experience of the aristocracy before, and was curious. “Your father. So, you’re—?”
“Lady Atalanta, in fact.” She smiled openly, obviously not taking the subject seriously. “But for goodness sake don’t let anyone know. It’s my dark secret.”
By this time they had crossed the cold hall and entered what appeared to be a morning-room, replete with soft armchairs and sofas. Tal indicated chairs for her guests while, herself, sitting in the corner of a long sofa.
“So what made ya join the ATA?” Zena let her inquiring side have free range. “Should’a thought you’d, er, have ideas of bigger things.”
“Oh, don’t overestimate the aristocracy, Zena.” Tal laughed easily. “We may have titles, but not many of us actually have any money t’speak of. Jolly glad, I was, to be offered a paid position in the ATA, at all. Would you like to hear the shocking tale of my personal history? I assure you it contains the whole kit and caboodle. Love, danger, adventure, accidents, and everything.”
“Yeah, please. It’ll be a change from Zena’s interminable reminiscences about how wonderful New Zealand is.” Gabrielle grinned over at her hostess. “ Owch, mind those cushions.”
After calm had been restored between the laughing women Tal went on to broach the subject of her past life.
“Let’s see, well, facts first—I’m twenty-seven; sister of the 13th Earl of Cassey; and, I’ll have you both know, a pilot of distinction—”
“Can’t say I’ve ev—” Zena stepped in to tread where more polite listeners would have feared to go.
“—Ever heard o’ me? No, probably not.” The Lady settled back on the sofa and pursed her lips as she thought back. “I said we don’t have any money—but there was enough for me to learn to fly, about seven years ago. A Gypsy Moth, it was. Well, you know what the impulse to fame an’ fortune is—about six years ago I managed to bluff various people and firms into backing me to do a record-breaking run to Australia.”
“That’s what I call seeking out adventure.” Gabrielle was impressed. “But was a Moth the best plane for that purpose?”
“Oh, I purchased, through my sponsors, a Lockheed Electra.” Tal nodded enthusiastically at the memory. “A beautiful, two-engined steel monoplane. However I wasn’t fated t’reach the Antipodes.”
“What happened?” Zena cocked an eye at the young woman.
“I came to grief in France, when one engine failed.” She shrugged, disconsolately. “Crash-landed; broke the plane; but managed to stagger away more or less unscathed.”
“Thank Goodness for that. “ Gabrielle was really relieved at this news. “Zena and I have experienced our own full share o’ coming down without the benefit of a runway. We know what it’s like. What happened then?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, y’know.” Tal looked somewhat embarrassed. “Believe it or not my sponsors gave me another Electra, an’ this time I persuaded them I could cross the Atlantic from Ireland to New York.”
“Huh!” Zena produced one of her deep laughs. “Sponsors can be remarkably naïve. So how’d the second voyage fare?”
“As bad as the first, I’m afraid.” Tal threw up her arms in a despondent gesture. “It finished two hundred miles out in the damned Atlantic. An engine failed, once more. Happily I managed to ditch beside a banana-boat returning from the West Indies. No bones broken, again—but the plane sank, of course.”
“That’s rotten luck.” Gabrielle sighed gently, smiling softly at her hostess. “So what’d you do then?”
“You didn’t—?” Zena had had a premonition, based on her knowledge of the woman’s character.
“Yep, I cajoled my sponsors into letting me have another plane.” The lady shrugged, clearly still amazed at the never-ending hope which obviously lived in the hearts of those peculiar people who were so willing to part with hard cash, for the sake of publicity, and a dollar-return in the future which was not, by any means, guaranteed. “This time it was a Boeing 247. I’d had enough o’ Electra’s.”
Listening entranced to this Odyssey of disaster both Zena and Gabrielle could pretty easily guess what was coming. It fell to Gabrielle to bite the bullet.
“And the result was—?”
“Hah! I see you’ve got me down t’a tee.” Tal didn’t seem annoyed; rather amused in fact. “For my third trip I put forward the plan that if any young woman pilot was going to fly from San Francisco to New York, necessarily overflying the Rockies, that young bird o’ passage was goin’ t’be me.”
“And the idio—sponsors, took the bait?” Zena couldn’t keep her incredulity from sounding in her voice.
“Ha-ha! You may well be amazed.” Tal nodded shrewdly. “You didn’t know me in my hot youth. I could talk a tiger into becoming vegetarian, in those days. Anyway’s, yes, you’re right. Just over the other side of the Rockies from San Francisco the plane hit some strange powerful descending wind currents. I’ve never experienced anything like it, before or since. I couldn’t make height, and my plane was literally dragged right into the ground. Thankfully as it was a stretch of relatively flat desert scrubland. I walked away again; and there was a small farm nearby, so no harm done—to me, anyway. The plane, of course, was a write-off.”
“Bad luck. Damned bad luck.” Gabrielle took up the brunt of both her own, and Zena’s, thoughts. “Don’t look as if you were ever cut out by Fate t’be the next Amelia Earhart, does it?”
“You’re so right, there, Gab.” Tal shuffled into a more comfortable position on the sofa, casting a self-pitying glance at her two avid listeners. “My sponsors finally reached the same opinion, too. Figured I was gaining a reputation—not the right kind o’ reputation—and as a result no-one’d touch me after that, as far as funding went.”
There was a pause, while Zena and Gabrielle took in this recitation of gloom and despondency.
“So what was your next step?” Zena leaned forward expectantly, obviously wondering what could possibly follow in this sorry personal history. “Ya didn’t manage t’con, er, buy, another—”
“Plane? No, no such luck.” Tal grunted unhappily. “The light had finally dawned on all my sponsors. Everybody treated me like I had a new contagious disease, or something. That was the end of my record-breaking career. Sum total, three flights; sum result, three crashes. Not exactly brilliant flying.”
“Oh, well, these things are often down t’luck, y’know.” Gabrielle tried to garnish the tale with a bright gloss, but there wasn’t much to base her opinion on. “What’d you do then?”
“Oh, my flying career lay dormant for a couple of years.” Tal curled a red lip as she remembered those times. “Just pottering about in my old Gypsy Moth, y’know. Then the War broke out, an’ I jumped at the chance of joining the ATA. They must’a mislaid my newspaper-cuttings, because they accepted me first go. Then, like you two, the wonderful Group-Captain Graham somehow found out about me. He, y’can be sure, did know about my lurid past. Maybe something in it appealed to him, because within a couple of days he’d dragooned me into his sub-Department of the SOE, too. So, here I am.”
Before anyone could take up the burden of trying to bring some light to the gloom cast by this unhappy history there came the dull sound of a brass gong reverberating through the house’s corridors, like the last dejected wail of a dying Banshee.
“That’s Cawsley, lettin’ the inmates know grub’s up.” Tal laughed as she stood once more. “Come on, lem’me lead you both to the trough; it’s this way.”
—O—
“The salmon has been smoked with oak chips as you requested, madam. The silver plates and cutlery have been locked in the strong-room as ordered.” The old black-clad retainer moved, in a sort of shuffle, towards the dining-room door as he offered these parting remarks to his employer; allowing Zena and Gabrielle to note that he was, intriguingly, wearing a pair of carpet slippers. “The generator is acting irresponsibly again, madam, so the hot water may be somewhat intermittent. I have decanted the last of the ‘88 brandy into the lead crystal 1670 decanter. There is some kind of obnoxious green matter oozing up through the flagstones of the third bay of the wine-cellar. Will that be all? Thank you, madam.”
“I do wish Cawsley wouldn’t insist on bringing the drains into everything he discusses.” Tal grimaced, as the door closed behind the ancient servant. “It’s gettin’ t’be a habit with him. Old age, I expect. He’s seventy-seven, y’know.”
“Not my place t’say, I admit, but—what about retiral?” Zena offered this solution, while also raising a defensive eyebrow at her blonde better half’s grimace of restraint.
“Oh, people—even the servants,—never retire here.” Tal grinned widely. “We all just drop in situ—or is it in status quo?—wherever we happen t’be at the time. It’s a tradition going back centuries, y’see.”
“I’ve never heard of that before.” Gabrielle scratched her chin as she ruminated on the topic. “Imagine it leads t’all sorts of curious, er, happenings?”
They were sitting round a long oak table in the dining-room which was, at the moment, set with some plain crockery and stoneware plates, looking as if they had only recently been recovered from a dusty box in the attic or some un-used kitchen cupboard; which was more or less the case. A silver tea-pot stood, somewhat incongruously, among its commoner companions by Tal’s elbow. And on the plates in front of each woman was a selection of sandwiches; the contents of which were already being closely examined by Gabrielle, who dearly loved her food.
“Yes, you’re right there, Gabrielle.” Tal sniggered at some recollection, then apologised to her guests. “Sorry, just dear old memories. There was the 7 th Earl Cassey, for one. He held a Ball for the local gentry in Somerset Square, London, in the early part of last century. Grand building, with a fine wide curving staircase leading up from the hall. Lady Bartlett arrived, in some kind of fur concoction, with a long train scraping across the floor behind; Cassey took one look—he was standing at the top of the staircase, looking down at the guests as they arrived—and shouted loudly, as if he were out on a foxhunt, ‘Tally-ho, there she runs!”; turned purple in the face; he was heavy-set and seventy-three, y’know; fell dead instantly, and rolled all the way down the stair, to land at the lady’s feet. Lady Bartlett, who was a game old bird herself, gazed down at his glassy eyes and said, without a pause, ‘No brush for him, this time, eh!’ Ha-Ha!”
“Good God!” Zena raised both eyebrows; the doings of the British gentry, at home, being a revelation to her republican outlook.
“Oh, there’s better t’come.” Tal carried on, irrepressibly. “Lady Sarah, this is back in 1892 y’know, was something of a society hostess; includin’ being a close friend of Bertie—”
“Bertie? Who was he?” Gabrielle leaned forward, dearly loving a good gossip.
“Edward, Prince of Wales.” Tal raised a semi-critical shoulder. “Later Edward the Seventh. Well, t’get t’the heart of the matter, he managed to scrounge a place for himself and a few cronies at Balmoral one New Year’s Day. Not usual, bearing in mind Victoria, his mother, couldn’t stand him. Anyway, they were all out in a field near the castle one morning, while the men showed off their shotgun shooting expertise to the surrounding ladies; including an, I suspect, only half-hearted Vicky. Well, not to be outdone Sarah hauled out her own double-barrelled engine o’destruction no-one realised she had about her person, having concealed it under a shawl, and before anyone had a chance t’tackle her to the ground started letting fly. You can guess the result; one shot very nearly took the Queen’s head clean off. Blew a silver tea-pot on a small table by her left elbow t’pieces. God, wasn’t there the hell of a row!”
Zena and Gabrielle exchanged equally astonished glances; this was certainly learning how the other half lived.
“So what happened?” Zena eyed the lady of the manor with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, just the usual.” Tal actually sniggered gleefully. “She was barred from the Queen’s presence for life, and told it was a damned close thing she wasn’t being charged with treason and attempted assassination. That was the end of her Society hostess activities. Went off to live on her Hampshire estate and terrorise the local population every fox-hunting season; being the Master-of-Foxhounds there she liked to lead her members cross-country like an army of Goths attacking Rome. Y’can’t imagine the number of actions for damages she had to put up with over the years.”
“Well, that’s what I call a family history.” Gabrielle grinned across at her hostess. “Nobody like that lurking in my past, I’m sorry t’say.”
“Or mine, at least as far as I know.” Zena laughed easily. “Maybe it explains a lot?”
“That I’m as barking mad as my forbears, y’mean?” Tal laughed in her turn, with no show of animosity. “You may be nearer the truth than any of us realise. Anyway, dig in. It’s only sandwiches but later, at dinner, we’ll see if Cawsley can provide something worth eating. Tea or coffee, Gabrielle?”
—O—
Their bedroom, which they had both insisted to Tal they share in order to take some of the weight of housekeeping off Cawsley’s shoulders, was large, high-ceilinged, and comfortably furnished. An open fire, stocked with sparking logs, glowed in the fireplace; the double-bed was commodious and well-mattressed; while a couple of deep leather armchairs sat either side of the fire. A dressing-table near one of the two high sash windows completed the furnishings; the only downpart of which was the rather threadbare carpet, which was decidedly showing signs of a long well-used life.
“Very cosy. I’ll enjoy our stay here.” Gabrielle threw her suitcase on the bed quilt and turned to her companion with a broad smile. “D’you realise, Zena, this is the first time we’ve been, er, alone; had space to ourselves, without anyone nearby to spy on us?”
“Ya mean—?”
“We can be ourselves here, at last.” The blonde woman turned in a circle, arms outstretched. “This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.”
“Ha! Poetry. Ya must be feelin’ romantic.”
“Maybe a little.” Gabrielle grabbed the handle of Zena’s suitcase. “Here, lem’me help you unpack. Did you bring a change of nightie?”
“No, did you?” Zena sniggered conspiratorially herself.
“No, as it happens.” Gabrielle tried to put on the nearest to an air of innocence she was capable of. “Didn’t think it necessary. Do you?”
“Hell no, baby. Hey, come here.”
“What?”
“I wan’na kiss ya. Got’ta welcome my paramour to her new home somehow, don’t I?”
—O—
It was about half an hour later that the women actually got around to serious unpacking. The only bathroom on this, the upper floor, was at the end of a long draughty corridor; but as they were the solitary inhabitants of this side of the house—Tal’s room being on a separate corridor—they had the place to themselves. A quick inspection revealed plenty of hot water, courtesy of the generator operating dutifully, at least for that evening. So each luxuriated in the joys of a long hot bath; while the other remained present idly chatting, gracefully ogling the revealed charms of the bather, and being childishly annoying by flicking soap bubbles in her face; they having plenty of time before dinner that evening.
The bathroom sported a bath coeval with the Second Boer War, though apparently in fine working order still. It had a variety of different taps and push-button valves, which Zena—probably wisely—forbade her partner from trying: who knows, as the black-haired Amazon prudently observed, what might happen?
As was their usual mode neither had brought skirts or frocks with them; each preferring their usual slacks and trousers, with loose-fitting men’s shirts and comfortable flat-soled leather brogues.
“Ha,” Gabrielle laughed happily as they finished dressing back in their room. “we look like a coupl’a women goin’ to a fancy dress party as lumberjacks.”
“Works for me, babe.” Zena came over to the shorter woman, passing her fingers through light blonde hair, and cupping Gabrielle’s cheek softly. “You look beautiful. After this damned War’s over we’ll be like this always; think o’that.”
“Gods, Zena, I can’t wait.”
Another few minutes were taken up with odds and ends; Gabrielle sorting out her clothes from her suitcase; placing them on hangars in the old wardrobe standing by the wall.
“Good Grief, Zena, the smell o’mothballs is enough t’choke ya.” Gabrielle stepped back from the dark confines of the wardrobe with a hand to her affronted nose. “Don’t think this’s been opened any time the last forty years.”
“Probably not.” Zena was busy with her own clothes and bits and pieces. “God, you’re right; I can smell ya from here—hey, stay away from me; I don’t want contaminated, y’know.”
“Hah!” Gabrielle groaned in despair at this weak witticism as she turned to view her partner with a critical eye. “Don’t worry, Tal’ll just think it’s your normal scent; you bein’ a New Zealander, an’ all.”
“Hoy!”
But Gabrielle’s attention had been caught by something Zena had just taken from her suitcase.
“Zena, what the hell’s that?” The blonde gazed at the round object in her friend’s hand, wound about with a yellow silk scarf. “My God, you’ve brought the damned chakram—what made you do that; are you mad?”
The lady in question contrived to look abashed as she placed the offending object on the bed-quilt.
“Figured it’d be safer, in our hands, than left in a locker back at the ol’ Nissen hut.” She raised an arm, appealing to her cohort with open palm. “Who knows who might’a had t’go in there, while we’re away? Nah, better it’s with us.”
“You might have let me into your secret, too.” Gabrielle pouted a little, but not with deep feeling; she seeing the wisdom of her partner’s course. “Well, next time I hear about your decisions before you take ‘em—right?”
“OK, sorry. D’ya forgive me?”
“Come here, you silly girl.” Gabrielle sniggered at this golden opportunity. “You’ve been very naughty; but a nice kiss’ll make up for it. Mmm.”
—O—
“This is the salmon Cawsley was speaking of earlier.” Tal was revelling in her position as hostess. “We catch ‘em in one or two of the local rivers—streams, really, if the truth be told.”
“I heard that was an expensive hobby.” Gabrielle wasted no time in sampling the offered delicacy. “Don’t people pay lot’s o’ cash t’fish in places like that?”
“Yep, it’s been the main bread-winner for the estate here over the last fifty years, I’ll have you know.” Tal grinned widely at her guests as they sat round the long table. “We cajole unsuspecting clients up here; squeeze ‘em for every penny they can spare; then decant ‘em back t’the Home Counties poorer but happier for having caught a few fish. You’d be amazed how many fall for the same old routine every year.”
The table was set with a plethora of dishes, plates, cups and saucers; but not a silver service. Instead the cutlery and dishes were of a common stoneware, clearly incorporating several differing designs—some few rather gaudy in colour. The porcelain teapot near Tal especially catching Zena’s eye.
“What is that concoction, Tal,—the teapot, if that’s what it’s meant t’be.” She pointed with a finger at the offending item. “That’s some crazy angular design on it; the colours are rather broad and bright too, ain’t they? I’ve never seen anything so, so brash; if ya don’t mind me sayin’.”
“Don’t you like it?” Tal smiled with pleasure as she glanced at the pot. “I love it. Bought it years ago, in Harrods. It’s designed by a woman called Clarice Cliff. I love her work; there’s several other examples of her tableware lying about the old shack—so don’t be shocked if you come across them also, unexpectedly.”
At this juncture Cawsley returned, followed by a middle-aged woman in an apron, with the main course. Between them they carried several covered tureens which they laid ceremoniously on the table, before retiring again to let the guests sample the repast in privacy.
“Say, Tal, how many servants have you at the moment?” Gabrielle was always interested in other people’s social circumstances. “Should’a thought the War’d put a spoke in the servant situation.”
“Oh, you’re so right. It’s wreaked havoc, in fact.” Tal’s expression, as she considered this, said it all. “In the late ‘thirties we had, oh, maybe fifteen servants working in the House and on the estate. Now there’s only Cawsley; Mrs Richards, whom you’ve just met; and Asher, who sort of works around the grounds. Everyone else has gone off to join the Services, or armaments factories, for a lot more pay.”
“From your tone I gather ya don’t expect t’see many returning t’the fold, later?” Zena cocked an enquiring brow at her hostess, as she took the lid off a large salver and helped Gabrielle to a slice of venison. “Mmm, this looks delicious.”
“Yeah, Mrs Richards is a great cook.” Tal smiled in delight at her guests enjoyment. “Take some o’these roast potatoes, too. Here, let me serve.”
There was a pause in the conversation while the women settled to the serious business of appeasing strong appetites. Eventually, after the main course, Cawsley silently returned to clear the table; making way for a dessert of some kind of fruit pudding with cream of which, to Zena’s amusement, Gabrielle begged for a second helping.
“Yes,” Tal finally sat back, gazing at her replete guests. “t’return t’the question of servants; I think Catcraigs’s seen the last of the great days.”
“What d’ya mean, Tal?” Gabrielle gave her now empty plate one last sad glance then reclined comfortably herself, fully replenished in body and soul—good dinners having that effect on her. “Surely, even if the old servants don’t return, you’ll still be able to engage new one’s?”
“I don’t know so much.” The Lady of the House shook her head doubtfully. “It’s a new world; an’ it’ll be even newer after the War. I may be wrong, but I rather think better paid factory jobs’ll be available for women—and men, come t’that—which’ll coax the traditional people away from taking service. Wouldn’t be surprised at all if I were left on my lonesome, t’run the dump single-handedly. Probably have to shut the place up, an’ retire to the old London hovel in Somerset Square.”
Tal, at this point, conducted her guests out of the dining-room back to the comfortable morning-room with its sofa’s and armchairs. When everyone was settled once more with steaming coffee cups, supplied with faultless aplomb by Cawsley on little tables by their elbows, Tal opened another topic of conversation.
“How’s the time?” She put out her left wrist to look at her watch. “Ah, just after nine p.m. If you’re up for a little exercise, before we actually settle down for a good old chinwag of an evening, would you like to accompany me on an, er, act of mercy?”
“What’s that, then?” Gabrielle produced something close to a giggle as she sipped her coffee. “Are we gon’na go round the estate lookin’ for poachers? I’m your gal, if so. Maybe we’d better leave Zena here, though—very delicate, y’know, an’ easily frightened.”
“Har!” The lady in question made a face at her partner and rose to her feet. “I’ll come along—someone’s got’ta keep ya safe from bogles an’ beasties, an’ things that go bump in the night. Not that it’s very dark, at the moment.”
“Oh, we’re not going outside.” Tal joined her guests as they made their way into the corridor. “There isn’t much t’see of the estate round the house, anyway. A sort of boggy moor rises to high ground nearly right outside the back-door. And just a few yards across the road, in front, the Loch of Broadhouse sweeps across from left to right.”
“So the fishing chaps, an’ ladies, have t’work for their fun?” Zena laughed in a deep rich contralto. “It ain’t merely laid on at your doorstep, eh?”
“No, they have to trek across the moorland to reach the various streams where the salmon run.” Tal nodded, as she directed them to the main hall with its sweeping staircase to the first floor. “If you’d like to have a quick wash and brush-up before we start. Where we’re headed can be, um, rather dusty an’ dirty. I’ll see you both back here in, say fifteen minutes. I’ll bring a couple of torches.”
“So, where’re we headed?” Gabrielle raised an enquiring brow. “Mystery’s intrique me, Tal.”
“The cellars.” Tal laughed at the blonde woman’s expression. “Don’t worry, there’s electric light in all the bays an’ rooms—and my torches are guaranteed; at least that’s what the labels on ‘em say. Y’remember what Cawsley said earlier today about seeing some mould or whatever down there. Seeing as I’m the chatelaine o’the old ruin I feel obliged t’explore these kind’a complaints. Better t’get it out’ta the way quickly, I thought; before the heat of interest cools, if you see what I mean. It’ll be fascinating, all the same,—you’ll be able to see the extent of our wine cellars. There’s bottles, and a few small casks, down there that’ve been stored for over a hundred years.”
—O—
“Well, this is an interestin’ way t’spend an evenin’.” Gabrielle ran her fingers through blonde locks; gazing at Zena while they changed their shirts and splashed some cold water, from the jug and basin sitting on a table by the wall, over their faces in lieu of a wash. “Hope it don’t take long; I really wan’na spend the rest o’the evening sitting in a comfortable deep armchair, digesting my food to the strains of idle gossip.”
While her partner was rambling on Zena had been searching in the old wardrobe for a clean shirt. Now she stepped back quietly, extending a cautious arm towards Gabrielle.
“Gabs?”
“Yeah, what? Lost your cream shirt; it should be there somewhere.” Gabrielle sniggered lightly. “I put it in myself, just t’make sure you didn’t lose it.”
“I laid the chakram in there, too; on the bottom shoe-shelf.” Zena’s voice was hardly above a whisper as she turned to her paramour. “It’s glowing.”
“It’s what?”
“Glowing. Not much, but enough t’show through the yellow silk o’that scarf it’s wrapped in.” Zena beckoned to Gabrielle. “Here, come over—but not too close. See?”
“Jeeysuss!”
Before either one could react to this strange spectacle something even stranger occurred. The atmosphere all round the women, in the wide room, took on a shimmering rippling effect; the light seemed to vary suddenly, between broad day, late evening, and deepest midnight, before settling to a level somewhat darker than it had been up to that point.
Both women felt a curious queasiness, as if the world all round was vibrating at a high pitch; then, without the faintest warning, their surroundings changed in the flicker of an eye from the warm cosy room to a small forest glade encircled by high trees covered with thick green foliage. To one side a small stream flowed over a shallow pebbly bed; on their right two horses stood patiently together; and the time seemed to be early afternoon. On their left two other women stood looking at the surprise visitors. One was tall, sporting long black hair, and dressed in some kind of leather corset and extremely short skirt with heavy boots. From over her shoulder the hilt of a sword showed. Beside her stood a more petite woman: blonde locks cut short round her head; instead of a blouse what seemed to merely be a brassiere, of no great covering capacity, concealing her chest; while her skirt was, if anything, shorter than her companion’s. Tied to the outside of her calf-length leather boots were two curious but deadly-looking daggers. Neither seemed all that put out by the sudden appearance of their uninvited visitors. The tall one was the spitting image of Zena, while the blonde could easily have been Gabrielle’s twin. There then ensued a short pause, eventually broken by the blonde warrior-looking woman on the other side of the glade.
“So, you’ve both come, at last.” She turned leisurely to her companion. “They’ve come, Xena.”
“Yeah, I sort’a noticed.”
—O—
“What the Hell is happening?” Gabrielle glanced from Zena, to the two women standing opposite, then back again. “This can’t be happening. It’s impossible. Is it a dream?”
“If it is, it’s my dream, too.” Zena had been staring at the other women, taking in every detail. “Say, hello there. Who’re you, an’ where are we. D’you have anything t’do with all this?”
In silence the mysterious tall black-haired warrior-woman took a few long paces to stand in front of Zena. She pointedly gave the twentieth century apparition a long slow examination; from modern shoes, through slacks up to the cotton shirt Zena sported. Then the woman gazed deeply into Zena’s eyes, as if searching for something—some character trait, or mannerism perhaps; after which she came to a sudden decision, and held out a friendly hand.
“Hiya, I’m Xena, glad t’see ya at dam’ last. Ya took you’re time, I got’ta say.”
After a natural hesitation Zena held out her own hand, but was somewhat disconcerted when the strange woman ran her own hand forward to grip, not her hand, but her lower forearm.
“Hi, I’m Zena, too,—ouch!”
“Sorry, I got kind’a a strong grip.” The woman looked over at her blonde companion. “Gabrielle’s always tellin’ me t’exercise some restraint—but restraint an’ I’ve never been what you’d call intimate.”
“Gabrielle?” Gabrielle, standing beside Zena, cut in here. “I’m Gabrielle, I’ll let you know. What the—”
“What the Hades is happenin’?” The other blonde stepped forward to greet her own alter-ego. “We heard you the first time. Don’t get excited; everything’s under control—well, nearly.”
There followed an almost comic interlude while the warrior-like Gabrielle tried, against some resistance, to grip the modern Gabrielle’s forearm as her companion had done with Zena. Finally Gabrielle’s defence was broken and she felt the strange woman’s hand tight round her lower arm.
“Gods, looks like y’even have a different way o’greetin’.” The blonde heavily armed woman, like her partner, gave Gabrielle a close inspection. “Where’d you get that tiny scar, just under your left ear?”
“Shrapnel.”
“Shrapnel? What’s that?”
“Hey, let’s get down t’business.” The dark warrior took control of proceedings with a firm voice. “No time for idle chit-chat—we got important plannin’ t’get straight, just as quick as these ladies can absorb what they got’ta do.”
“Plans? Do?” Zena inclined her head suspiciously as she listened to this. “What exactly can we do? An’ where can we do it? Neither Gabrielle nor I have ever been here before. Wherever the dam’ this is.”
“Xena an’ I have been burnin’ the midnight oil over that very point, haven’t we, beautiful?” The warrior-Gabrielle, after firing a sweet glance at her own companion, smiled confidently at the other two still bemused women. “It’s a little difficult, I grant you; but the essence of the problem is that we—that’s Xena, here, and I—are livin’ at the moment—that’s today, y’know—in what we think you’d likely know as sometime in the first century AB.”
“AD, Gabs.” The dark warrior raised her eyes to the sky an instant in despair. “AD.”
“Oh, yeah, AD—sorry.” Gabrielle nodded, unperturbed. “That’s, er, something AD then. We can’t actually fix the date, from your point of view, much closer because, umm,—”
“Because we can’t do the mathematics, t’be truthful.” The warrior-Xena growled low, in a somewhat menacing tone. “But, Hades, a hundred years more or less won’t matter. Maybe it’d be clearer if we told ya that Gods’-damned maniac Caligula’s the present Roman Emperor. That any help?”
“Er, yes, umm, yes.” Zena ran a hand through her hair, as she fought to come to terms with this situation. “That’s, um, fine. So, what exactly are we doing here? And how’d we get here?”
“Almost seems like magic, ha-ha.” Gabrielle moved closer to her companion and clasped her right hand tightly. “Can’t think o’any other way this could happen. Y’know, magic.”
“It is.” Xena spoke with calm certainty, as if describing a mere day-to-day occurrence.
“What, magic?” Gabrielle’s voice quavered, as she felt her mental world rocking on its foundations. “That’s rubbish; magic doesn’t happen.”
“It does, here.” Warrior-Gabrielle pursed her lips and shrugged. “A lot; as you may well find out, if you have t’stay long.”
“Yeah, don’t be gettin’ it into your imagination that you’re, er, back in your own past.” Xena gave both women a sharp look. “You’ve come back in time, certainly—but it may be, Gabs and I’ve come t’the conclusion, perhaps a little, er, sideways.”
“Sideways?” Zena frowned darkly; this kind of mystery she didn’t like. “Wha’d’ya mean?”
“It—what y’see all round you at the moment—may not be exactly an’ precisely what you’d probably call your own, er, History.” Warrior-Gabrielle raised a hand, in an explanatory gesture. “There may be a sort’a, er, crossover, between what is your world, and, erm, ours.”
“Yeah, a temporary connection.” Xena had started pacing around the camp-site, obviously losing patience. “Just for a short while, y’understand. Which is why we got’ta sort out what you two are gon’na have t’do when ya both go back t’your own time. What ya do there is gon’na be important, very important indeed.”
“Like what?” Gabrielle glanced from one to the other of the warrior-women. “This whole thing’s crazy; an’ I’m still not wholly sure I ain’t havin’ a nightmare. Do what?”
“Stop the War.” Warrior-Gabrielle spoke with a chill clarity. “Stop that damned world-encompassing War you’re fightin’ at the moment. You two can stop it, with Xena’s and my help. That’s why you’re here.”
—O—
Only a few minutes had passed by, but it seemed more like hours to Zena and Gabrielle. In this short time the two warrior-women, a new and rather alarming breed to the modern refugees, had managed between them to clarify the situation to some extent.
“There are Gods an’ Goddesses here?” Gabrielle was the most vocal about this new slant on the supernatural. “Real Goddesses? You’re joking. That’s just nonsense.”
“No, it ain’t.” Xena had been talking with some animation though, it still appeared, to little purpose. “They’re real; they’re mostly mean an’ self-centred; an’ they’ll mostly fry ya in a flash o’ blue light rather than pass the time o’ day. No, they ain’t joking, take my word for it.”
“And this Hera one,” Gabrielle took up the gist of what the warrior-women had told them. “has, simply out’ta spite, sent a powerful token—a golden arrow, of all things,—into the future, our future, t’stir up a worldwide war? An’ you think we can find this thing,—this symbol,—and return it to you, thereby hastening the eventual ending o’the War?”
“Yep, that’s the heart o’ the matter.” Xena now stood foursquare before the women from the future; staring intently from one to the other. “I suppose you’re the next best thing t’warrior material that’s available; from your time, that is. An’, of course, ya have a sort’a connection t’us; Gabrielle an’ I.”
“Connection, what connection?” Zena gave as good as she had received in the wary looks department. “Oh! Ya mean the similarities between us? Like we look like each other. Is that significant?”
“We’re not related, are we?” Gabrielle frowned, trying to absorb this information. “We’re your descendants? How can that be, if our worlds aren’t exactly, as it were,—”
“Let’s not get bogged down in details.” The warrior-Gabrielle waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve tried explaining it to Xena, here,—with what results I leave t’your imaginations. I even quoted Aristotle,—but it was no use—”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Xena, but it’s true.”
Seeing an argument starting, that would almost certainly delay any fast conclusion to their uncomfortable position, Zena jumped in to state her own main concern.
“What about how ya want us to act, t’find this dam’ arrow.” She turned to Gabrielle, still by her side. “My friend, here, is just as much part of the whole damned thing as I am, I suppose?”
“Oh, yeah, you both have t’act together, I’m afraid.” Xena nodded, as at an unarguable fact. “As a duo you’ll have a much more powerful, er, aura—to finally come t’grips with Hera’s totem. We, Gabrielle here, an’ I, are somewhat restricted by, er, supernatural restraints—or, of course, we’d go ourselves; an’ have the whole pathetic affair sorted in a moment.”
“Oh, I’m glad you’re so sure of your own capabilities.” Zena could be scathing, when required. “That’s so much help, I can’t tell ya.”
The dark-haired warrior’s companion, obviously an old hand in this situation, grabbed her friend’s wrist; holding her back from whatever rejoinder the tall incensed woman was clearly considering.
“Easy, lady, easy. Friends, right? Friends.”
“Aww, shit.” Xena shrugged her shoulders, but condescended to relax. “OK, then. So, this is the routine, first ya got’ta—”
Zena had been eyeing her counterpart intently, as she listened to this unfolding tableau; but before the warrior opposite her could reach her conclusion a blast of bright pinkish light swept through the woodland glade—mysteriously filled with sparkling starry-like particles, resembling a firework;—then this vanished to reveal the, to Zena and Gabrielle, totally unexpected presence of another woman. She was tall, blonde, and dressed—if dressed is the right term—in tight-fitting black leather trousers, shirt, and calf-length boots; the overall impression being that of a dominating personality. This, however, was dispelled instantly she opened her mouth to speak in a high-pitched distinctly agitated tone.
“Xena, ain’t ya got these gals up an’ running yet?” The blonde pranced over to the warrior-women—trying unsuccessfully to hide the fact she appeared to be holding a short riding-crop in her left hand. “We got things t’do here, y’know. An’ Time’s running out. Y’ain’t got the dam’ arrow yet, have ya? No, I didn’t think so. Well, don’t just stand there, looking sappy—do something. Hey, Little One, how’s about ya give the warrior-lady here a hint, an’ get her movin’,—just for me, snookums?”
“Aphrodite? What the Hades is with that get-up?” Warrior-Gabrielle had crossed to stand beside the new arrival, and was examining her with a mixture of amazement and amusement. “An’ what’s that you’re holding?”
“OK, so ya caught me at, er, a delicate moment.” The blonde addressed as Aphrodite pursed her lips and had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. “I was, er, I was, umm—”
“Having fun?” Xena couldn’t help sniggering.
“No, I was not having fun—that is, I mean, I was, er, er—OK, fancypants, I was engaged in, er, social interaction with one o’my particular followers.” Aphrodite raised a disdainful eyebrow at her critics, unconsciously waving the vicious-looking riding-crop around. “I was havin’ a great time—then I had’ta come here post-haste, t’drag your two sorry asses out’ta the mud. So, what’s new in the Golden Arrow situation? Hera ain’t gon’na sit back an’ let ya get away with this, if she can help it, y’know. Get me the dam’ Arrow an’ I can neutralise it, like that.”
The fact that, on flicking her fingers, nothing happened—though she valiantly tried another three times before giving it up, did not enhance her speech; though her listeners seemed perfectly used to her presence and attitude.
“Who the Hell are you? An’ where the bloody Hell did ya come from?” Zena had finally lost all patience. This magic thing was getting to be a real pain in the butt. “An’ if ya say magic, I’m gon’na get nasty, I warn ya.”
For answer the tall blonde eyed her interlocutor with great interest for a few seconds; then made a curious rippling motion with her right hand. In front of the women from the future a large well-sprung double bed, complete with sheets and quilt, appeared, as if by—
“How the Hell—” Gabrielle took a cautious step backwards, being the nearest to the apparition.
Aphrodite waved her hand again, and the vision disappeared as quickly as it had materialised.
“Oh, I thought you two were tired.” The blonde magician smiled brightly. “No? Oh, well, some other time, perhaps. So, right now I come with news of great import. Anyone wan’na hear it?”
“Oh, Gods.” Xena took the bit between her teeth, obviously having had prior experience of this crazy woman. “What did’ya come t’tell us, then? We already know Hera’s havin’ a tantrum or three, up on Olympus. What’s new there?”
“Today’s hot news item is that Hera, Queen of women an’ marriage—an’ don’t she like t’let everyone know that—is riled to the tonsils, I’ll have ya know.” Aphrodite broke off here to favour her two friends with an aloof glance. “As we speak she is preparing to come down amongst the minor riff-raff o’Humanity who deign not t’worship her glorious presence,—that being, precisely, you, Xena an’ Gabrielle,—t’deal out ruthless vengeance; an’ what she intends doing when she finds you both don’t stand describing. So, I’m here t’save ya.”
“Great Artemis!” Warrior-Gabrielle looked less than thankful at this good news. “ ‘dite, stop talking in riddles, an’ let us know what is goin’ on.”
The woman, or Goddess, or mere magician—neither Zena nor Gabrielle had yet managed to reach a conclusion on this topic—shrugged her leather-clad shoulder; took the head off a long-stalked red poppy near her left leg with one vicious swing of her riding-crop; and smiled gently on her subjects, and the two intruders from another world.
“She’s on her way, as we speak.” Aphrodite looked round at all four women, tightening her lips and looking, for the first time deadly serious and like someone capable of stern actions. “So I ain’t got any choice. I’m gon’na send y’all back to that crazy world where all-encompassing Wars seem t’be scheduled every twenty years or so. You’re gon’na find the Golden Arrow; I’ll bring ya back here; destroy the dam’ thing; an’ Hera slopes off back t’Olympus t’cry in a dark corner. Mission accomplished.”
“Great Balls o’ Greek Fire!” Xena raised her arms in disgust; her voice climbing higher in addition. “I thought we’d discussed this long ago? Y’can’t send Gabrielle and I back, or forward—or whichever other dam’ direction it is. Supernatural restraints, an’ whatnot. That’s what ya told us both a few weeks ago, ain’t it?”
“Ah, not quite.” The Goddess lowered her head self-consciously.
“What?” Warrior-Gabrielle stepped up; taking the black-clad Goddess’s free hand gently in hers. “Come on, out with it. What can you do?”
“Well, t’tell the truth, I can shoot ya both into Eternity—or, specifically, the world these ladies come from—for, Oh, all of a medium-sized clepsydra.” The blonde glanced at Zena and Gabrielle. “That’s about two hours, t’you.”
“Tartarus!” Xena didn’t seemed impressed. “What d’ya imagine we can accomplish in that time?”
“Everything.” Aphrodite shrugged her shoulders again; trying to look as if it wasn’t her fault. “There’s no time for anything else.”
“Hey! what if—”
But Xena’s question was fated to hang on the air of the quiet glade unanswered. Aphrodite, obviously deciding that time was indeed precious, raised her hand in a comprehensive gesture. There was a blinding flash of brilliant pink light; the same stomach-churning giddiness overcame Zena and Gabrielle—then they opened their eyes to find themselves standing in the high raftered chilly entrance hall of Catcraigs House once more; with the two warrior-women from the past, still heavily armed with edged weapons, by their side.
“Oh God, we’re back.” Zena took a deep breath and glanced at her three companions in the dim moonlight coming through the windows.
“Oh Gods, we’re here, Gabrielle.” Xena crouched defensively, as if expecting an immediate attack from unknown opponents, glancing at her companion the while.
“Yep, we’re here, an’ no mistake.” Warrior-Gabrielle bent down gracefully, and when she rose again there were two vicious-looking daggers in her hands. “So, what now?”
—O—
“Ha! The place looks like a Roman villa.” Xena had cast a jaundiced eye around her immediate surroundings, which were clearly not to her taste. “A shabby villa. D’you really live in this dump, Zena?”
“As a guest, yeah.” Zena, on her part, wondered what the outcome would be if she tried to take control of the situation. She decided instead to go with the flow—Xena’s flow. After all, you could never be too careful, and this magic thing was weighing on her nerves. “Our room, where the chakram’s lying, is up these stairs, here. It was glowing, y’know.”
“Oh, forget that.” Warrior-Gabrielle had also been giving the locale a searching examination. “It was just the lodestone—the beacon, for you two. It’s done its job; it’ll have vanished by now.”
Zena instinctively glanced at the tall black-haired warrior by her side; noticing for the first time that a chakram hung at the woman’s waist—slightly different in design from the one she and Gabrielle had found in the Maeshowe chambered cairn, but still a deadly-looking weapon. Obviously there were wheels operating within wheels in this complex affair.
“Is that right?” Gabrielle gave Zena a relieved glance. “Well, that’s one less problem, I suppose. So what d’you propose to do now, Xena? I mean, we’re in a house in the extreme north of the Mainland—it’ll take ages, even driving the ‘Tilly’, to reach wherever you decide we ought to go t’find this dam’ Golden Arrow. An’ that Aphrodite character did say y’only had two hours.”
“Oh, we ain’t goin’ anywhere, except somewhere in this building.” Xena shook her head decisively. “It’s here, in this house. That’s why the chakram y’found was glowing; and why y’were projected back to my time; and why Aphrodite came t’help out—if ya can call anything she does helping.”
This revelation stumped both Zena and Gabrielle, bereaving them both of speech for a few seconds—Zena was first to recover.
“What!” She turned to face the dark dangerous warrior. “Here? Jeesus! OK, so, where?”
“Yeah, we got’ta move fast, y’know.” Gabrielle’s two-pennyworth, though, appeared to fall on deaf ears as far as any notice was taken of her.
Xena and Warrior-Gabrielle stood together casting roving eyes around the large hall; taking in the entrances to the two corridors which led off into the heart of the building, as well as the three room-doors visible.
“Place’s a rabbit-warren, ain’t it?” Warrior-Gabrielle sniffed deprecatingly.
“Lady Atalanta told us earlier her servant had reported some sort’a ooze, green ooze, seeping up through the flagstones o’the floor in one of the cellars.” Gabrielle relayed this news for what it might be worth; though it seemed to elicit faint interest. “Is that significant? By the way, where is Tal, or her servants? Thought all this noise’d bring her running.”
The two warrior-women from the ancient Past exchanged a look, then Xena replied cursorily.
“Nah, just an instance o’Tartarus’s, er, ambience pushing through into your physical world.” Xena again spoke off-handedly, as if this strange event was old hat to her. “Nothing we can really do there. What we need is t’find the dam’ Arrow; that’ll settle Tartarus’s hash—forget the cellar. An’ your friends? Well, this’s a sort’a magic environment we’re in at the moment. Your pals ain’t here—but don’t worry, they’ll re-appear when we’ve completed our mission.”
Having no adequate reply to this astounding revelation, neither Zena nor Gabrielle said anything; although they raised mutually mystified eyebrows at each other.
“Are there any rooms in this palace where old things are kept?” Warrior-Gabrielle addressed her question to her blonde counterpart. “Y’know, sort’a relics, bits o’broken sculpture, old coins, an’ that kind’a thing.”
“I suppose there might be something of the sort, maybe in the Library, or a study, or somewhere.” Gabrielle exercised all her mental ability, but couldn’t pin anywhere else down, off the cuff. “I don’t remember Tal telling us where those rooms were, did she, Zena?”
“No, search me.” Zena shook her head unhappily. “Wasn’t uppermost in our minds, when we arrived, if ya recall.”
“So, we search every dam’ room in the old ruin—that’s just great.” Warrior-Gabrielle snarled quietly under her breath, then pinned her warrior companion with a glinting green eye. “Do we separate, an’ go through each side o’the house in two groups? Or stay together?”
“Stay together.” Xena was adamant; gesturing for the others to follow her to the first door on her right-hand. “Quicker that way. So, where’s this?”
She opened the door, only to reveal the morning-room with its armchairs and sofas. A grunt of annoyance greeted this sight, then she walked on, leaving the door ajar. The next door was close by, but Gabrielle arrested Xena’s hand just as the warrior reached for the handle.
“That’s the dining-room; just a long table, an’, er, chairs.”
“Huumph!” Xena moved ahead, disregarding the room in consequence. “Where’s this corridor leading? What’s this door?”
“No idea.” Gabrielle, apparently chosen as chief guide, shrugged her shoulders. “Suppose you bett—”
Xena threw the door open to reveal a room lined on all four sides with bookcases reaching nearly to the ceiling, which sported an artistically detailed plaster design.
“Er, the Library.” Gabrielle, even as she spoke, felt her words to be effectively redundant.
“Hades, ain’t ever seen so many scrolls in one place before.” Warrior-Gabrielle was clearly impressed. “Not outside the Alexandria Library, anyway. Wish I could stay t’read some o’these.”
“No time for pleasure.” Xena backed out, nearly stepping on her doppelganger’s toes, after carefully ascertaining nothing like the object they were after was visible anywhere. “This’s getting’ t’be a damned chore.”
As they moved on a tremor ran through the floor under their feet, making them stagger for a moment, followed by a faint hissing noise from somewhere far away in the distance.
“Graagh!” Gabrielle put a hand to her offended nose, gasping. “What is that ghastly smell? Like hundred year old bad drains.”
“That’s Tartarus.” Warrior-Gabrielle gave a half-shrug. “Gettin’ a bit stronger—maybe we should pick up the pace a bit, Xena?”
They had reached the end of the corridor, which finished in a small winding stair obviously meant for the servants use. Xena nearly ran up, taking the steps three at a time. Zena followed in her wake, mesmerised equally by the warrior’s well-muscled bare legs, and the sheathed sword strapped to her back. This, Zena found herself thinking, is right outside my comfort zone, bigtime.
The corridor into which the stair disgorged the four women was narrow and short, though well-carpeted—and unknown to either Zena or Gabrielle, who had not so far entered this part of the house. Xena wasted no time in etiquette.
“Three doors on my side; two on yours, Gabrielle. Go to it.”
Xena opened the first door near her, as Warrior-Gabrielle did the same on her side.
“A small store-room; full o’clutter.” Xena sniffed critically, and moved on. “Hasn’t been opened in fifty years, I bet.”
“Nothing here, Xena.” The blonde warrior, still grasping her daggers confidently, cast a quick glance over to her partner; Zena and Gabrielle moving cautiously in the women’s rear. “Just an empty room.”
“This’s someone’s bedroom, a servant I think.” Xena gave the room the slightest of examinations. “No good.”
“Another empty room.” Warrior-Gabrielle seemed to have picked the short end of the stick. “Gods, I’m beginning t’think most o’this house’s abandoned.”
As the women progressed along the corridor Zena mused on whether to attempt explaining to the two warriors the intricate social structure of a country house which was generally only opened for use for a month or so in the hunting/fishing seasons—then thought better of the hopeless task.
“Hmm, somewhere t’hang old clothes.” Xena had reached the last room on her side. “Cloaks an’ hats on hooks; an’ piles o’shoes an’ boots on the floor. Right, what about you, Gabs?”
“That’s it for me, darling.” Gabrielle stepped forward, taking first place as they rounded the corner of the narrow corridor into a much wider and longer corridor. “Hello, this’s much better furnished—chairs at intervals; thicker carpet; an’ panelled walls. Very plush.”
“An’ what appear t’be about forty doors in total, or didn’t ya notice that minor detail, sweetie?” Xena snorted, though with a light touch of humour in her tone.
“I got eyes, warrior.” Warrior-Gabrielle wasn’t put-out in any way. “OK, you take the right this time; I’ll look after the left side. You ladies, just follow us, an’ for all the Gods’ sakes don’t try anything rash—Xena an’ I have everything under control.”
She had hardly allowed this somewhat hubristic remark to pass her lips when the ever-watchful Fates caught up with her. There was another, much stronger, tremor which this time shook the entire building like a powerful earthquake; dust and pieces of thin plaster from the ceiling filtering down in a thin haze all along the corridor.
“Jeesus!” Gabrielle was less than enthralled by this unlooked for progression in their undertaking. “Xena—Gabrielle? How about some resolution here? This’s becoming far too much like the damned House of Usher for my liking.”
Her plea was, again, left unanswered; Warrior-Gabrielle instead, standing at an open door, beckoned to her partner.
“Hey, Xena, look’ee here.”
When Zena and Gabrielle arrived the two warriors had already entered the wide room, to examine the lair. Its walls were half-panelled with what may have been mahogany; the floorboards were highly polished and scattered with two or three small colourful carpets, possibly Persian; a couple of leather armchairs stood either side of a fireplace with a high marble mantelpiece; and to one side, near a window, sat a large desk with a comfortable chair behind it. At various places throughout the room were several small tables, loaded with books, maps, and anonymous documents. There were also two large fully-stocked bookcases against the far wall, near one of which appeared to be a museum-type table under the glass-top of which various objects were laid out.
It barely took Xena two paces to reach this interesting piece of furniture, with Warrior-Gabrielle close on her heels.
“These carpets are Persian, Xena.” Warrior-Gabrielle paused to eye the objects in question attentively. “Seen others like ‘em, before,—beautiful.”
“That’s a Turner.” Gabrielle laid a hand on Zena’s arm, pointing to a large brightly coloured landscape oil-painting on the near wall, opposite the window. “Nice.”
“Here it is, at dam’ last,—the Golden Arrow.” Xena’s voice was heavy with triumph. “Got it—an’, by all the Gods in both the Roman an’ Greek Pantheons, I ain’t gon’na let it out’ta my hands till I give it t’Aphrodite.”
As she spoke the heaviest yet shudder ran through the building, nearly knocking the women off their feet. This time it went on for an appreciable period, exactly like a major earthquake. Again plaster fell from the ceiling, while dust rose from the rippling floor; a pane in the high window cracking across with a loud snap.
“Jeesus!” Gabrielle was at the end of her tether; grabbing the arm of her lover beside her in alarm. “Ya better call the Lady fast, then. I think we need her right now. That’s now!”
Taking the window as an exemplar Xena raised a closed fist and brought it down on the display-case top. There was another crash of splintered glass; then she raised her hand, with a long brightly shining sliver of golden light firmly in her grasp. Zena and Gabrielle both gazed eagerly, seeing the long slim shaft; the wide feather-like end; and the pointed head—it was, indeed a wondrously beautiful example of the goldsmith’s art—a perfect arrow, in pure gold.
“That’s it?” Gabrielle clearly could hardly believe the fact.
“That thing?” Zena was more sceptical. “Doesn’t look much; anyone could’a made that.”
“It’s the genuine article, alright; Hera made it.” Xena growled savagely, with bared teeth. “But I ain’t gon’na allow the spell she put on it t’fulfil its purpose, if I an’ Gabrielle have any say in the matter.”
A curious darkness seemed, at that moment, to fall on the house, and into the room they all stood within. A silence, almost of infinite emptiness closed round them, like a physical entity; and cold the nature of which neither Zena nor Gabrielle had ever experienced washed over them.
“What’s the next step, then.” Zena spoke in a low grating tone, knowing the climax was close on their heels.
“The next step is Aphrodite.” Xena’s voice was low, calm, and determined.
“I think things are happening.” Gabrielle shivered, not altogether because of the cold. “She better get a god’dam move on.”
“She is.” Warrior-Gabrielle put a hand out to her paramour, glancing round the dark room. “I can feel her presence.”
Immediately on this last word there came a cloud-like mass of flickering pink light which formed round all four women; Zena and Gabrielle felt the usual drop in their stomachs, as if they were falling from a great height; everything, for a fraction of a second seemed nothing but bright white light; then they all stood once more in the quiet forest glade, with its high green-leaved trees on all sides. In front of them Aphrodite, now dressed in a flowing near see-through pink confection, awaited them with a wide grin.
“Gim’me! Gim’me! Right now. Come on, Xena, move that ass!”
Tightening her lips, but otherwise ignoring the tone of the Goddess’s command, Xena walked up to her and held out the slim sliver of gold. Aphrodite grasped it tightly, then—just as an unheralded dark cloud rushed up from the north to overtop the blue sky, bringing with it a howling wind,—she made a pass with her other hand over the Arrow and,—rather unimpressively it seemed, to the watching Zena and Gabrielle,—it vanished in a faint gleam of pink glittering sparks.
Immediately the dark cloud dispersed as quickly as it had arrived; the wind evaporated; and the blue sky came out again, letting bright sunlight flood the peaceful glade.
“What? What? Is that it?” Gabrielle looked first from Zena to the two warrior-women, then across at the strange still grinning pink lady. “That’s all? After all the damned effort; an’ drama; an’ just god’dam plain unadulterated nuisance it’s been for Zena an’ I for all these months—that’s it?”
“Yep.” Xena obviously didn’t believe in wasting words: one might have thought she had Spartan ancestry.
“Another adventure over; another great plot for a scroll.” Warrior-Gabrielle gently inclined her head, smiling at her partner.
“Ain’t I just great?” Aphrodite seemed pleased with herself. “An’ I’m the only one who could’a done it, too, I’ll let ya know. Come on, Little One, let’s leave Xena an’ these ladies t’relax for a while—I got’ta great set o’ evening wear you’ll love; long pants and jacket, sort’a raspberry-shade. Don’t worry, Xena won’t miss ya for a while—she’ll be too busy polishing Argo’s girth-straps, or whatever.”
“What about our friends, from where-ever?” Xena folded her arms, putting on an expression rich with sarcasm. “Gon’na send ‘em home, before ya both take your little holiday?”
“Oh, yeah, suppose I better.” Aphrodite eyed the two women, as if in an afterthought. “Well, g’bye, thanks for all the help; much appreciated an, er, all that.”
“ ‘bye.” Xena unfolded her arms, a trifle half-heartedly it seemed to the recipients, to give a somewhat lacklustre wave with her left hand.
“Glad t’have met you both.” Warrior-Gabrielle at least made the effort to really appear interested in their visitors and co-adventurers. “Bet you’ll remember this escapade, eh? G’bye.”
Before either Zena or Gabrielle could form an adequate answer to these somewhat perfunctory farewells they were again enveloped in the now wholly detested flood of raucous pink light, to open their eyes a moment later to find themselves back in their bedroom in Catcraigs House; standing in front of the old wardrobe as if a mere few seconds had passed since Zena had pointed out to Gabrielle the glowing chakram—which now, as they both adjusted their eyes to the dim light, they could perfectly well see had indeed entirely disappeared.
—O—
“Good Grief!” Gabrielle sat on the wide double-bed beside Zena. “Did all that really take place? The old house, here, looks as if nothing’s happened to it, anyway; hasn’t fallen down.”
“Well, the chakram’s vanished; just like that crazy pink lady said.” Zena was as flummoxed as her partner, with as few answers. “An’ that horrible smell’s gone, too.”
“D’you suppose destroyin’ that Arrow’ll really stop the War, like they seemed t’think?” Gabrielle, as she rose to cross the room, cast a frowning glance at her partner. “I can’t bring myself to believe such a small thing’d ever have that kind’a influence.”
“Hmm, if it has any effect at all, it might be to sort’a shorten the War, maybe.” Zena shrugged non-commitantly. “We’ll just hav’ta wait an’ see.”
“Wonder if Tal’s around, anywhere?” Gabrielle gloomily looked at the loose yellow silk scarf, now bereft of its strange contents, lying in a heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. “Maybe she has something to add t’the whole wild tale.”
As if on cue there came a light tap at the door, which Gabrielle got up to answer. Standing outside was their chatelaine in person.
“Hi, Tal.” Gabrielle greeted her like a long lost friend fresh from the jungle.
“I just thought I’d come up to see if you both were ready.” Tal glanced at her visitors rather uncomfortably. “It’s just that, er, er,—well, the truth of the matter is I went down t’the cellar, to scout out just where Cawsley said that green slime was oozing through the floor—an’ what d’you think? There wasn’t anything t’be seen—all gone, if it was ever there in the first place. So, the expedition’s off, ladies. No need for it. I thought I’d invite you both to the drawing-room to have a good old gossip, instead. What d’you say? There’s some fine sherry, or whisky, if you prefer.”
“Sounds like a plan t’me, Tal.” Zena, standing by her partner’s side, laughed quietly. “By the way, was there any kind’a, um, disturbance here in the house a few minutes ago? Just askin’.”
“Disturbance? No, nothing at all; the weather’s fine an’ calm—an’ the foundations haven’t settled for over forty years.” The Lady of the House grinned impishly. “No, everything’s hunky-dory.”
Zena and Gabrielle looked at each other.
“Simply out’ta curiousity, d’you go up t’the rooms on the west side of the House often?” Zena couched her question in a neutral tone, as being of no real import. “Y’know, maybe thieves or intruders could climb in an’ steal anything y’might, er, have on display?”
“Well, I haven’t been into many of the rooms for years.” Tal admitted, with a dismissive gesture. “If a thief finds anything there worthwhile he’s dam’ welcome. Only the rubbish of the ages, as far as I recall.”
“Oh, well, not important.” Zena shrugged, innocently. “So, sherry? Sure ya don’t have any weak shandy? Gabrielle, here’s, rather young for the stronger liqueurs, y’know.”
“Stupid!” Gabrielle, who was standing a pace behind her confederate at the open door, took this opportunity to reach forward and slap the tall dark-haired Amazon on the butt with unrestrained verve.
“Ho-Ho, I’ll get ya back for that, don’t you worry, blondie.”
“You got’ta catch me first, though.”
Gabrielle grinned as she darted through the door, to accompany her hostess downstairs with a prim expression on her innocent features.
“Rrrr!”
The End.
—O—
This is the concluding part in the present ‘Mathew and Parker’ series. Tune in at a later date for further adventures of the heroic couple.
—OOO—