Iron Chamber of Walrus
Tim T. C. Cat (‘C’ is for ‘Ctalking - the ‘c’ is silent)
The small fishing vessel docked at the stone wharf that below the vertiginous cliffs of the coast of the Island of Sodar. Harry Dockworthy heaved his weighty portmanteau using all his strength to lift the massive case up onto the dock. At last he was here! Sodar! The last feudal island within the kingdom of Great Britain and its territorial waters!
“I say good fellow!” enunciated Harry to a local peasant who was lazing by a set of crustacean encrusted lobster nets, “where might a fellow catch a taxi around here?”
The peasant appeared to mull over Dockworthy’s words as if he had spoken in a foreign language such as French or Italian.
“Arrh,” said the peasant in a voice reminiscent of the classic pirate movies of the nineteen thirties when Hollywood was still in its golden age and had yet to succumb to the siren song of political correctness and militant feminism. “there be no ‘taxicabs’ on this here island. This be the Isle of Sodar and the laird don’t hold with the likes of motorcars and newfangled inventions such as those.”
“But I say good fellow,” replied Dockworthy in response, “This island has a substantial population and active economy, as I was reading only the other day in the Oxford college library’s leather bound copies of Wikipedia. How the deuce can the active transportation of goods and people be accomplished without the use of the internal combustion engine? This ‘laird’ you speak of is not one of those gosh-darned awful environmentalists is he? I have a monograph here explaining exactly how so called ‘global climate warming’ is scientific hocus-pocus.”
“No sir, the laird don’t hold with no environmentalists, hippies or other big-city types. No, the Isle of Sodar runs on coal, just as God in his bounty intended. Our whole mass-transport and movement of goods is based on the steam driven engines of the Sodar railway, sir.”
“Well that sounds excellent. I had not anticipated that Sodar would be an island of such clear thinking. I had the impression that as a ‘feudal’ island that it might be a bit backwards in its thinking.”
“A common error sir, begging your pardon,” the peasant tugged his forelock in a manner that Harry found both charming and respectful, “people often indulge in stereotypes of medieval socio-political structures, thinking them backward and repressive but as a serf myself I find them to be much preferable to the chaotic and repressive madness of the mainland, begging your pardon and all sir.”
“Don’t worry my good yokel. I find your honest perspective on these matters very refreshing indeed. Now, could you assist me? I still need to find a way to Awfulplace Hall and my luggage is dashed heavy.”
“Awfulplace Hall, is it you be going is it?” asked the peasant, “You’ll be going to be pay your respects to the Laird of Sodar then, I’ll be bound.”
“No, no, I’ve been invited to stay with my old college chum Henreid Arden. Apparently he lives there with his lovely wife, who I haven’t met before and whom he married under mysterious circumstances. I did send him several letters last month saying I was on my way but mysteriously he never replied to them, despite his original invitation.” explained Dockworthy in a manner that he hoped was not overly intellectually challenging for the simple peasant before him.
“Arrh,” repeated the peasant, rolling his Rs like the rolling green hills of Sodar, “Then I have both confusing and alarming news for your sir. Your college chum, Henreid Arden, IS the feudal laird of the Isle of Sodar! I’m surprised he never mentioned this to you sir, particularly as I know for a fact he always wore his ceremonial robes of lairdship even while at college.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I always found his dress sense a tad eccentric but you know these aristocratic families - they simply hate to spend money on new clothes. But tell me good fellow, you also mention that your news would be alarming - I see nothing alarming about my good friend being actually a man of noble and high position. Tell me, what other news do you have?”
“The laird has been missing these past four weeks sir. Nobody knows where he be, not Lady Arden, not the servants not even his faithful hound Sparkles.”
“Well that is deuced mysterious!” exclaimed Harry in an exclamatory manner, “But I say, I still need some way of getting to Awfulplace Hall. Is there perhaps a bicycle or rickshaw I could make use of?”
“Well, it might not be fitting for a man of your noble and gentle nature sir, but my pony and cart could carry you and your luggage to Awfulplace Hall. For tax purposes you’ll need to book it via Uber but really that is just a formality.”
Harry quickly arranged the exchange via his iPhone and before he knew it, they had set off together up the winding cliff road and into the heart of the Isle of Sodar.
The clip-clop of the horse and cart through the country lanes, ranked by hedgerows, began to lull Harry to sleep. The weather was surprisingly warm and balmy for February but still consistent with a cyclical model of global temperatures in which apparent ‘warming’ was simply part of a series of natural warming and cooling phases with no connection to so called ‘greenhouse’ gases at all, as Harry had extensively proven in his recent monograph.
Harry’s reverie was suddenly broken by the sound of a bus approaching from the opposite direction.
“I say!” cried out Harry to the driving yokel, “That’s an omnibus! Did you not say there were no cars on Sodar?”
“The laird makes an exception for the bus sir. The locals don’t really approve of it though. Had a race with a train the other month and the train still won.” explained the yokel.
“Are there any other exceptions I should know about?” asked Harry quizzically.
“Well Sir Largehat who runs the railway has a Rolls Royce car but I don’t trust the likes of him. It was him who brought the demonically possessed diesel engine to the railway. He got rid of it eventually after its evil ways were exposed but I can’t trust a man who deals in satanically controlled rail equipment.” as he spoke the yokel lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner.
“SIR Largehat, you say? It is hard to imagine a man with a knighthood knowingly dealing in occult engineering. What sort of fellow is he, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Well, I don’t like to talk ill of my betters, sir but this Sir Largehat speaks with a broad Liverpudlian accent sir. I don’t know where he got that knighthood but he was born as common as I am.”
“Egads, he sounds frightful. Must be some sort of new-money, jumped up civil servant with no breeding and delusions of nobility. Hopefully he will stick with his trains!” stated Harry definitively but even as he spoke the road swept by a railway siding in which two tank-engines sat. The nearest one was painted bright blue and as they passed it Harry had the distinct feeling he was being watched, as if, within the bright primary colours of the iron contraption lay a dark intelligence, forever scheming, forever plotting.
Harry shivered and as the cart pulled away the evil spell seemed to lift.
Finally they reached Awfulplace Hall. Harry finalised the transaction and submitted a rating of the driver on his Uber app.
Before he reached the door a beautiful woman stepped forward. She had raven black hair, skin as pale and as translucent as the white bits in a marble tabletop and piercing green eyes like emeralds illuminated by emerald lighting in a green field in Ireland on Saint Patricks day on a planet with a green sun and photographed through a green-tinted lens and then photoshopped to look a tad more green. She wore a sheer dress, that was as sheer as the cliff of the Isle of Sodar and as diaphanous as a butterfly’s wing especially altered so that the butterfly could look stunning at a really fancy cocktail party or maybe on a red-carpet walking into an Oscar ceremony.
“Welcome to Awfulplace Hall. I am Lady Arden and you must be Heinrich’s old college chum Harry Dockworthy.” she enunciated in a voice like hot chocolate poured into a silk lined glass.
“It’s ‘Henreid’ actually,” said Harry correctively, “and where
is he? The peasant fellow says he has disappeared?”
Lady Arden stepped closer to Harry. “He was murdered!” she whispered conspiratorially, “By Percy!”
“Percy? Who is this bounder.?I shall whip him with my cane and then frogmarch him to the authorities!” exclaimed Harry.
“Sush! They will hear us!” warnedLady Arden in a voice like a velvet kitten, “Percy isn’t a person, Percy is a,..you know, a…” Lady Arden then made some choo-choo noises and mimed wheels on a track going round-and-round and then pumped her fist up and down and went “whoo-whoo, whoo-whoo.”
“Egads woman! Are you trying to tell me that Henreid was murdered by a train!”
“No, he was murdered by an ENGINE. A train is the engine plus the carriages. I have absolutely no reason to think the carriages were involved. Arabella is quite charming and we often have nice chats.” explainer Lady Arden didactically.
Lady Arden ushered Harry indoors.
“It is not safe to speak of this here. Meet me in five minutes in the old chapel. It is a magical place. We could maybe drink some wine, hang out, talk things over. OK?” stated Lady Arden in a more cheery manner.
Harry felt bombarded with emotions. Henreid murdered? Train engines possessed with intelligence? A man with a Liverpudlian accent being knighted? What mad world had he entered when he landed on the Isle of Sodar. It seemed so tranquil, so picturesque, so trapped in a past arcadia to which Harry’s heart and ideological leanings had always yearned. Yet somehow imbued with a sinister, perhaps diabolic strand of evil.
Five minutes later, Harry made his way into the chapel but no sooner had he stepped inside than the heavy oak doors shut behind him. With a metallic clunk a key was turned from the outside and Harry found himself locked inside.
“I say! What the deuce is going on!” shouted Harry at the door.
“You foolish oaf!” cried Lady Arden’s voice from the other side of the door, “It was I who lured Heinrich to his death at the hands of Percy!”
“Heinried, his name is Heinried, not Heinrich. Everybody makes that mistake.” corrected Harry, “But why Lady Arden! Why sacrifice your husband to that demonic train?”
“ENGINE you ignoramus, not a bloody ‘train’.” shouted Lady Arden. She paused then sighed “Laird Arden never loved me. This was a marriage of convenience. It was always you he loved. Eventually I found true love in the arms of Percy. Percy was kind, charming and loyal. Finally Percy and I plotted to kill Laird Arden and take control of Sodar.”
“Lady Arden murder is wrong and your love for a train (sorry engine) is unnatural and an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Now let me out!”
“Never! You will starve to death in there and don’t think anybody will come looking for you.” with that she laughed demonically and left Harry to his fate.
“Do not despair.” said a gruff voice behind him. Harry turned and saw an extraordinary sight. Lying on a small altar was a walrus bathed in light.
“Greetings Harry Dockworthy. Fate and a stupid plot about talking trains have brought you to me.” said the walrus, “My name is Pete. I am a magic walrus who is charged with helping out the members of the Dockworthy family in their hour of need.”
“Oh excellent. Can you open the door?” asked Harry.
“The door is not your need Harry. Your need is the deep and unresolved feeling you have for your friend Henreid. If only the two of you had acted on your feelings then you would be together now, living a happy and comfortable life in Oxford. Instead Henreid is dead and you are locked in a faux-nineteenth century folly designed to look like a ruined gothic chapel talking to a walrus. Your life choices have not been good ones Harry.” explained Pete, somewhat condescendingly.
“It is true!” cried Harry, “I let my confused bigotry blind me to my own emotions! Even though this may sound like a tacked on ending to turn my life story into some sort of unsubtle message-fiction of the kind I deride, I can’t help but acknowledge the truth of your words!”
“OK then. It is time we got out of here!” said Pete.
“But where will we go?” asked Harry.
“Harry, what day is it today?” queried Pete.
“Tuesday?”
“Which Tuesday is it Harry? Come now think! You used to know the liturgical calendar backwards!”
“Why it is Shrove Tuesday of course! In all the excitement I forgot that it was the day before the Catholic Feast of Ash Wednesday that marks the start of Lent!” exclaimed Harry.
“And what does that mean?” asked Pete socratically.
“Pancakes!”
“Yes, and what else?”
“Um, not sure.”
“Think French.”
“Mardi Gras?”
“Which means we are going where?”
“Um, New Orleans?”
“Nope! You and I are off the Sydney LGBTI Mardi Gras in Australia!* The happiest party in the Southern Hemisphere!”
“Yay!!!”
Pete and Harry had a great time. Harry learnt a lot about himself but is still thinking through his own sexual identity. Naturally he mourns Henreid but he thinks he can move on now.
The Isle of Sodar was eventually conquered by a robotic clone of Alec Baldwin.
*[Editor’s note: actually this is usually held on a Saturday https://www.mardigras.org.au/ ]
What You Have Missed: Previous Volumes of There Will Be Walrus