Pandora's Closet Part 14

"No reason I can't be the huntsman too," I said and ducked low as he charged at me. In my hand, I gripped the lone weapon I had managed to retrieve from my bag. I thrust it up, and only after I drove it into the beast's chest, did I disappointingly realize was it was. A pen. What the h.e.l.l good was a pen going to do?

The wolf cleared me and practically flew down the rest of the stairs, hitting the wall, spinning, landing on its back at the bottom. It writhed frantically, howling, clawing at its own chest, and smoke began to rise from the small wound I'd inflicted. The smell of acrid burning hair filled the room, and after what seemed like an eternity of screaming, the wolf stopped moving.

I stood slack-jawed, both horrified and pleased by what I had done.

Nana was crying, and my own breath was heaving in and out in great bursts. Outside, sirens went screaming by, and the two of us simply stood over the beast. Tears of relief started running down my face.

Nana stared. "How did you do that? How did you stop that monster?"

I shrugged, stepped over the wolf, and hugged her. I could feel her heart going a mile a minute.

"I have no idea," I said. "All I did was stab it with a pen."

I released her and leaned over the lifeless body. Holding back my own personal squick factor, I pulled the pen free, and lifted it up for examination. I began to laugh.

"What is it, dear?" Nana asked. I was sure I must have looked unhinged. And maybe I was. My mind was still reeling from the events of the past few hours.

"Well," I said when I could finally speak, wiping the tears from my face, "What else does every college freshman have from their Nana but a nice graduation writing set? A silver writing set, to be exact."

"And you said you'd get no use out of such a thing," she tsk-tsked.

I hugged her even harder than before.

"You're sure you're okay?" I asked.

Nana nodded. "That was a pretty fancy move you did on the stairs."

"I guess watching reruns of Buffy must have paid off."

"From what I hear," Nana said disapprovingly, "that's all that's paying off. About those grades of yours..."

"Nana, please," I said, "I just saved your life. Maybe you could call my mom and put in a good word for me?"

She thought for a minute, then smiled. "I suppose I could put in a good word or two for my favorite little Red Riding Hood."

With the mention of that name, I tugged at the zipper on the hoodie once again. This time it came free. The brightness of the Technicolor world faded and things around me turned to normal. The wolf melted into the floor.

I held the hoodie at arm's length.

It was a bittersweet parting; I had loved the way it looked on me, but what I had been through was definitely too high a price for fas.h.i.+on's sake.

The following day I returned to the thrift store, and asked for my money back. Hey, three dollars was three dollars. That was like three meals off the dollar menu or three midnight movies! Besides, I secretly held the wicked desire that that old crone who frequented the place, Mrs. Punzelli, might come back for it.

As I left, I caught the latest breaking news on the thrift store's one working television. The story concerned a pack of wolves that had reportedly leaped from the subway car at the end of the 7 line the previous night. No one had been hurt, luckily, and after dispersing they were all later found surrounding a brick high-rise, barely able to move, and exhausted-from prolonged huffing and puffing, I had no doubt.

ANOTHER EXCITING ADVENTURE OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES.

A TOUCHING GHOST STORY.

by Belle and Nancy Holder [1] [2].

Gentle Reader, You may recall that in our previous story, "The Further Adventures of Lightning Merriemouse-Jones," Miss Merriemouse-Jones had fallen into the clutches of the evil Count Dracurat and his horrid Countess, who blamed dear Lightning for her husband's extramarital misadventures. The lovely young rodentina was rescued by the das.h.i.+ng private detective Quincy Dormouse, a strapping Texan of large fortune. Once Lightning had been restored to her doting parents, Mr. Dormouse began to woo her with all the ardor of a young mammal who has stared death in its beady red eyes and known, down to the depths of his furry soul, that the bell tolls sooner than one can ever imagine and that one must seize the day-or in this case, clasp hands gently-for the impetuous American believed his singular chance of earthly happiness lay in persuading Miss Lightning to be his bride.

As you may also recall, Lightning was quite das.h.i.+ng herself, and no stranger to pa.s.sion-for she had left her family home in the wall of the Summerfield estate when pressed by her well-meaning parents to select a husband and "be settled." Our young heroine felt that the words "settled" and "Lightning" had nothing to do with each other. Therefore, to avoid such a fate mundane, she slipped into the pocket of Maria Luisa Summerfield, who was herself launching into matrimony via an elopement with her second cousin, Juan Eldorado Adelante-Paz.

It would be quite difficult to convey, in these more modern and, may one say, permissive times, what a serious breach of decorum an elopement was. But the two young misses were much of the same mind: Lightning herself was being sorely pressed to select a husband from the rats, mice, hamsters, and gerbils who came calling at her Papa's door, and she truly fancied none of them, not even Gerhardt von Ratschloss, who traveled all the way from Prussia to dance attendance upon our young lady. In a similar state of vexation, Maria Luisa would have none other than Senor Adelante-Paz, declaring that she would rather die than be separated from him.

Thus, Lightning and Maria Luisa decamped, and after the wreck of the frigate El Queso, Lightning found herself thrust into the nightmarish world we described at length (four thousand, one hundred words including eeks) in our previous (and may we say, with all modesty, well-received) tale. And when all was resolved-with the death of Count Dracurat, and the restoration of Lightning to her parents-her mama made it quite clear that she thought Mr. Dormouse would make as spectacular a catch for her daughter as a fragrant chunk of Blue Castello perched upon the most devious of mousetraps. [3]

One may recall the thrilling conclusion of our previous story, [4] promising more adventures of Miss Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, and so, we are happy to provide such a story here. We have the means at our disposal to entertain our readers for some time to come, for when Belle was approximately eight years old (she is nearly ten as we write this), we discovered an object of great fascination on the porch of our home. It was so tiny and brown that at first I, Nancy, sans my spectacles, thought it was some sort of bug. But Belle, being keener-eyed and quite knowledgeable in the study of insects, declared it was no bug at all. [5]

She was quite correct: it was a tiny catgut notebook, labeled THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES. Imagine our delight! It is from this volume that we drew the material for our first story, and now do so again for our second. We happen to believe that it was deliberately left for us to read, and we have now accepted the commission to play scribe to this exceptional mammalian adventuress. The JOURNAL is filled with diary entries detailing her many deeds of derring-do, which pose some questions that we have yet to answer. Specifically, it appears that Our Heroine possessed (and perhaps possesses still!) some method of time-travel bequeathed upon her by her raternal uncle, Cheddrick Merriemouse-Jones. He was in his day either an innovative genius of the first water or a crackpot, depending upon whom one asks. He lived in the small English village of Stilton-Upon-Rye... and seems never to have died.

We mention this before commencing our actual story because you will see that our narrative opens in 1940, when Lightning should have been sixty years old, as she was born in 1880. And yet, in this tale, she is still a young, unmarried maiden as fresh as Devons.h.i.+re cream. Indeed, as we began working, we were quite puzzled, and at first we thought the hero of the story was actually Cyclone Merriemouse-Jones, supposed to be a descendant of Lightning's, who is buried in the quaint and lovely churchyard in the village of Neufchatel.

Bewildered, we determined to read the entire journal before we commenced this story, and approximately halfway in we read a trio of entries concerning an invention of her uncle Cheddrick's: a purplish-green taxi cab, which periodically arrived for Lightning at the exact instant that she presented herself at the heavenly Gates, in hopes of that final reward for which all good Christians yearn. It seems to have been the very conveyance by which Cheddrick himself evaded the Scythe of Time that cuts us all down-king or knave, queen or scullery maid-with the possible except of Lightning and her uncle. In other words, we believe that Lightning and Cheddrick both may be actual time-travelers! [6]

When we have fully digested the complexities of Lightning's discourse on the subject, we will happily share them with you, our Devoted Reader. For the nonce, suffice to say that despite the seeming contradiction in time periods, the heroine of this story is indeed Lightning, as a young lady.

Thus a.s.sured, please read on, and enjoy "Another Exciting Adventure of Lightning Merriemouse-Jones" (including, as was the case in our previous work, annotations from Miss Belle Holder.) With great respect, and deep affection, Belle and Nancy Holder, fille et mere.

THE TALE ITSELF.

25 September, 1940, London Town.

They call it the Blitz! In the language of our Enemies, that translates as "Lightning," just like my name! And it is very like lightning, this nightly barrage of explosives loosed upon poor, dear London. Herr "Furrer" Adolph Ratler, who is surely the most evil creature ever to run the wheel of Life, has dropped bombs for over a fortnight on the beautiful warrens and mazes of the very seat of Civilization. His h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n minions, the bloodthirsty Katzies, fly in a parade behind a sinister black aeroplane unmarked save for what we a.s.sume is a registration number: 070617. No one knows who the pilot is, but he is merciless, shedding bomb after bomb upon the helpless populace as if it is his life's work. And so it is; many lie dying, or dead, and no one is spared, be he King Rat or common field mouse. Some say that the war will end when the pilot of the black aeroplane is killed. But others say that this unholy war will never end.

As for me, I count myself as the recipient of great personal tragedy. I am bereft. I have hastened to find my family's London mousehole a ruin. Nothing can be saved-not the beautiful pianoforte in the drawing room, nor the exquisite tea service Mr. Dormouse presented my dear Mama in the halcyon days following my deliverance from the evil Count and Countess Dracurat. All appears to be gone, lost to enmity and flame. I shall dig through the debris with a heavy yet hopeful heart, on the off chance that something remains of my family's precious mementoes.

Hark! On the radio, we are warned to remain indoors! The brown-pelted Katzenjammers have landed at the White Cliffs of Dover! I hear their jackboots on the pavement outside! We are undone!

26 September, 1940 As I cower in my family's destroyed mousehole, I have found something! It is an olive-green metallic trunk, which was stowed beneath the attic eaves next to the chimney. It appears that when the bombs. .h.i.t, the bricks tumbled in such a way as to create a protective wall over the trunk, not unlike a Sumerian corbelled arch, and so it was untouched. I have cleared a s.p.a.ce such that I may drag it out and am now endeavoring to open it. Fingers crossed that something of value lies within-nay, not of financial value, but which may bring some measure of happiness to poor, wretched Lightning!

And so it did, Dear Reader. Let us describe for you in these next few pages what she indeed found, rather than put you to the task of deciphering more of her journal entries. For alas, there was another stupefying Blitz attack, and a battle in the streets between the Katzenjammers and various English ratriots-those deemed too old to go to war, but nevertheless eager to protect their kith and kin. Amidst the chaos, it took our brilliant but pressured young lady some time to discern what exactly she had found inside the trunk, and by what means she should employ it. We hesitate to publicize that her immediate entries after the above couplet became a bit rambling; and those further on might stir pangs of utter disbelief and incomprehension. There too, as we are cognizant of the many demands placed upon our readers' time and attention, we ourselves shall attempt to summarize precisely what next occurred.

You may recall from your studies in school that the Great War, known also as World War One (1914- 1918), was believed at the time to be the war that would end all wars. It was also a time of quite colorful personages, including the World War I Flying Ace, Count Orloff von Limburger, known far and wide as the b.l.o.o.d.y Rat Baron. He won at least eighty air combats and was so beloved by his people that he was asked to retire rather than continue to fight, but he refused.

Von Limburger sustained a serious head wound on July 6, 1917, and was ever after much changed. He became distant, unemotional, and utterly devoid of humor. It was whispered that he was himself no longer, but a phantom. This caused joy among his own forces, but dismay among the Allies-for who could kill a ghost?

Yet he was killed... or so it was a.s.serted... on April 21, 1918, from a lone.303 bullet (that is to say, from a Vickers-Maxim machine gun.) It has never been conclusively proven who exactly killed the b.l.o.o.d.y Rat Baron, although credit was given to a Canadian named Brown. However, in Miss Lightning's family, the author of von Limburger's demise was firmly believed to be Edam ("Eddie") Merriemouse-Jones, whose plane went down in the wilds of Gouda shortly thereafter and who was never seen again.

After the war, however, some of Eddie's personal effects were sent home in the selfsame olive-green trunk that Lightning retrieved during the London Blitz. In this trunk lay his most beloved object, a WWI brown leather bomber jacket painted with the initials, BRB in scarlet, through which a black slash had been painted. However, in the interior pocket of the jacket, Lightning found the fragments of a sealed envelope, which appeared never to have been opened. She hesitated not at all, but ripped it asunder at once.

Inside lay portions of a moldering letter, which read: ... I did not kill von Limburger. I thought I had him in my sights, but the plane I shot down contained a mouse who very closely resembled the b.l.o.o.d.y Rat Baron. But it was not he! However, his death was proclaimed, and it was attributed variously to Brown, to me, and others.

My superiors knew that I knew I had not rid the earth of von Limburger. Therefore, I was pledged to silence, as the populace of London had suffered grievously at the hands of von Limburger, and morale would plummet if the truth were known. I have been ordered to say nothing, and I will not; and I swear upon my loyalty to Crown and Country that I will secretly devote my life and those of my descendants, to hunting down von Limburger, and ending him once and for all!

Imagine Lightning's shock! But her opportunity to consider the import of her find was abruptly terminated by the sounding of the air-raid sirens for yet another furious attack!

Bombs rained down around the young lady, smas.h.i.+ng the chimney and extant walls to bits! Boom! they sounded, all but shattering the place, and the nerves of Lightning, trapped inside!

Despite the possibility that Katzenjammers awaited her outside, Lightning determined that her best course was to scurry to the nearest air-raid shelter, and so she held Eddie's bomber jacket over her head to s.h.i.+eld herself from falling debris. However, there were skirmishes in the street, and as the falling bombs. .h.i.t, the windows of the shops exploded; Lightning quickly put on the jacket, the better to protect herself as she ran for cover.

A moment here, as we caution you, Gentle Reader: This is indeed a ghost story, and there may those among you for whom this tale is too oversetting. If so, please move on to lighter fare, as we are determined not to s.h.i.+rk our duty in the presentation of this story.

For in the very moment Lightning put on the jacket, she found herself seated in a Sopwith Camel, directly behind her forebear, Edam Merriemouse-Jones himself! Like him, she wore the attire of a bomber pilot, complete with goggles and a silken scarf wound 'round her neck. The synchronized twin-mounted Vickers were rat-a-tatting at an enemy plane, and Lightning ducked down to avoid a return volley.

Forthwith, the Sopwith shot up into the clouds. The enemy plane did not follow. And there, Eddie turned round, saw Lightning, and looked quite pale and astonished.

He said, "How came you here, and who on earth are you?"

"No one on earth," Lightning replied, a bit sa.s.sily, despite her own astonishment (for she was, indeed, an intrepid adventuress and given to quick-wittedness even in the most perilous of circ.u.mstances). "If you are Edam Merriemouse-Jones, then I am Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, your relative." And she proceeded to describe how it was in London, and how she had come across his jacket.

As they flew through the gray mist, he shook his head and said, "Then it is true, and I have known it for some time, though I could scarce accept it: I am a ghost, and I have cursed myself for all time. Alas! For I swore I would kill Orloff von Limburger, but he is dead already!"

"I beg your pardon?" Lightning asked.

Gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, Eddie explained, "On July 6, 1917, von Limburger was shot through the head, and I and many others believed he had died. But he came back to the skies-much changed-and rumors spread that his evil masters had taken his body and performed blasphemous rites over it, creating the ghostly apparition that continued to mow down the valiant and the true! When I felled that mouse who resembled him, I wondered at the time if it was some ruse to throw us off his scent, but I did not dream that he had become a monstrous, undead killing machine."

He regarded young Lightning. "That you are here, in my jacket, tells me that my vow to kill him is impossible to keep, and thus I am doomed to fly throughout eternity, fighting a war that will never end."

Lightning was very sorry, both for himself and for her own sake, and she wondered aloud if she, too, had perished-in her case, during the most recent wave of the Blitz.

"What do you speak of?" he asked her, and as she proceeded to explain that England was again at war, he gnashed his teeth once more and raised his paws to heaven.

"Why do you misuse us so unfairly?" he cried. "How is it that British mousedom is so cruelly tormented throughout the decades of this century? Why were our trials not brought to an end on July 6, 1917?"

As Lightning bore witness to his anguish, his words caught her attention: for she remembered in that instant that 070617 were the numbers on the mysterious black aeroplane that led the bombing runs on England!

She cried out, "Mr Edam, I have had a startling revelation!" And she described to him the strange registration number on the black aeroplane.

"It is the date when von Limburger was killed!" she concluded. "And you swore to defeat him upon the lives of yourself and your descendants-and I am here!" Her beady eyes shone.

"I believe I have been sent to help you defeat the b.l.o.o.d.y Rat Baron, once and for all!"

As soon as Lightning uttered those words, a tremendous mist rose around the Sopwith Camel, followed by a ferocious thunderclap. She covered her ears with her paws and shut tight her eyes... and when she opened them again, she found herself in the front seat of the Sopwith Camel, quite alone... approximately ten thousand feet above the ghastly catillion of Katzie bombers unleas.h.i.+ng yet another barrage of bombs over London. And there, at the head of the flotilla, flew the black plane numbered 070617-the plane of the ghastly von Limburger!

"Edam Merriemouse-Jones!" she cried, looking about. "Where are you? What shall I do?"

Then she tingled from head to toe as if she had been struck by, well, lightning-as if volt upon volt ripped through her slender, dainty frame. The brown leather bomber jacket crackled, energizing her and guiding her in her ensuing actions: she pushed the Sopwith down into a death spiral, aiming it directly for the black aeroplane!

"For Crown and Country!" cried the voice of Edam Merriemouse-Jones, deep within Lightning's being. "It will take a ghost to kill a ghost. Though it may mean your own life, are you with me, young la.s.s?"

"Yes! Indeed!" Lightning cried. "I am!"

Her entire being filled with fursome terror and ecstatic joy as she allowed her relation full use of her limbs and faculties, preparing to dive-bomb into the black-cloaked plane of Orloff von Limburger.

The Sopwith Camel shuddered and whined as it hurtled through the English night. The other planes flying with von Limburger fired at her, but she and Eddie together dodged them all handily. A bullet zinged less than half an inch from Lightning's silky cheek.

Faster she fell, faster and faster, the Sopwith Camel screaming toward its target-a bomb itself now, racing to smash into the enemy!

Lightning prayed, and she thought of her dear Mama and Papa, and the Summerfield family, and of dear Quincy, who had never understood why she could not be settled. She kept her eyes wide open so that she could witness history-and the liberation of her relative from his ghostly torment!

"Eek! Eeek! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!..." she squeaked, while flames blazed on the wings of her plane as she dive-bombed toward von Limburger's deathly craft.

IMPACT!.

And before she could add the "k" to her final eek, Lightning Merriemouse-Jones stood before the graceful white gates billowing with mist and listened to the exquisite soprano chorus...

... when suddenly, the purplish-green taxi pulled up beside her, and the pa.s.senger door opened. [7].

REVOLUTION: NUMBER 9.

by Judi Rohrig.

Not far from where Rose crouched in the dark, the leafy limbs of the thick bushes and low trees of the woods surrendered to harried chopping and hacking. The Bachyrita posse was in a fevered frenzy now, closing in fast.

Rose tried not to breathe, but her chest swelled and sank in ways she couldn't control after all the running. And even if she were able to stop her desperate gasping, surely the rataplanning of her heart would betray her. Not that her pursuers would "hear" the palpitations. The Bachyritas' BrainPods would "see" her, though. That's why their posses were known as "pit vipers," because they could pick up her body heat through their sensors. Neither the dark nor the thick growth of the woods would offer Rose much in the way of cover from these snakes.

Here in the darkness, they would hold the advantage even if they hadn't dragged a Franklin along.

Rose lifted her head, squinting, begging the dim light to make meaning of the shadows. She'd been through this area before, and if she could just get to the river, she could connect with those still fighting for something that mattered.

But the knots in her deltoids and calves were screaming their exhaustion. She'd be lucky if she could even make it to the river. Forget getting across the d.a.m.ned thing.

How much time did she have left? A few minutes? Then she'd have to face them, face the death she'd been running from since just before dawn.

A single fiery torch glowed brighter between the trees. Yes, they had a Franklin with them. That could be good. Those "real eyes" might actually slow them down. The flame from the torch in all this jumble of trees and thick bushes might confuse the Franklin.

Rose scrambled under the brush. Perhaps a few rabbits and squirrels could be startled from their havens, providing a muddled set of p.r.i.c.kles for the vipers' super-functioning BrainPorts.

Sharp thorns and ragged branches ripped at what was left of her already tattered jacket. She clasped her hands over her chest, not to still her ka-thumping heart but to secure the small case she'd tucked under her s.h.i.+rt. Inside the case was the real object of the Bachyritas' pursuit, and it was more than just a part of Exhibit Number 9.

"This way!" The words bellowed through the shadows of the trees.