Through Darkest Zymurgia!

A week on Cuprios is much like a week on board ship. One has the same hours of restful tedium in a warm climate, with the occasional spark of light and interest; the same limited circle of acquaintance; the same lack of sufficient fresh water for bathing. The primary difference is that the scenery doesn't change, no matter how long you watch it. This latter circumstance is widely considered Cuprios' greatest defect, but I for one would gladly swap the little scenery we had for a wider range of conversation. On some days we talked politics, lunched, talked hunting, dined, and talked politics. On other days politics were not discussed until after lunch, but the forenoon hours were spent discussing hunting. On the whole, it was an odd thing to spend so many hours on these topics, when Cuprios itself has little politics, and less game. Those hours not devoted to hunting and politics were spent rehashing old sea-battles. Of course we must dine with the Admiral. Of course we must dine with his flag captain. Our social obligations were regrettably numerous and unavoidable.

Despite these dire pastimes, a few sparks of light stand out. The morning after our arrival, I arose late, broke my fast, and went looking for Philpott and Hodgins. I wanted to make sure that they had sufficient occupation for the day. Finally, after a certain amount of hallooing, I tracked down an elderly servant of the Admiral's who told me that all the other gentlemen had gone out. He was, however, able to track down our steward. I inquired after our missing scholars.

"Mr. Carbuncle has gone off to the dockyards, Dr. Thintwhistle. He said he was curious to know what was really wrong with the Spaniel's phantail."

"Ah, very good, though I was more concerned with Philpott."

"He went off first thing this morning, sir. He said he was going to observe the natives."

"What natives, Baxter? No one lives here but servants and sailors, and not a one of them was born here."

"Natives is what he said, sir. He said he wanted to study their folkways, sir."

"Baxter," I said, "do you honestly mean to tell me that Philpott is roaming all about the island looking for natives so that he can observe their folkways?"

"Yes, sir," he said, "Though I think he was planning on going to the area down near the docks, sir."

"Where there are bars and places of ill-repute," I said.

"Yes, sir."

"Filled with drunken sailors and their ladies, no doubt," I said.

"Yes, sir."

"Agressive, uncouth men with a taste for brawling," I said.

"Yes, sir."

"And you let Philpott go down there to 'observe their folkways'? He'll come home in pieces!"

"It's all right, sir. I suggested he take Hodgins with him. To translate, sir." Baxter smiled.

"This is the same Hodgins who nearly started a riot at our last port of call?" I asked.

"But those were Lyricans, sir. These are just honest Anglish sailors. Dr. Philpott will come to no harm, sir."

And no more did he. I did not actually see him, or Hodgins, for some days, though I was occasionally awakened in the wee hours of the morning by bits of The Raggle-Taggle Gypsies and other rustic ballads. I judged from this that young Thaddeus was enjoying his observations immensely, albeit with some loss of objectivity.

The third day of our visit, Carbuncle proposed an excursion "into the country", as he said, meaning a ramble to the Bay of Angels on the north side of the island. Baxter assembled a large luncheon hamper for us, and found a donkey to carry it and a lad to lead the donkey. We saw Willoughby as we were leaving, and called out to him, and the three of us (plus the lad, plus the donkey) set out on the dusty island road.

Willoughby and I fell to reminiscing, as old friends will. "Whatever happened to that old dictator, what was his name..."

"Ambrose Elliot," I said, "that was his name, the old scoundrel. Though I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of him; he was my mentor in mythogeography, after all. If I hadn't gone on that first expedition with him, I might never have gone on any."

"Yes, that old dictator Elliot. What ever happened to him?"

"I thought you knew. He got eaten."

"Eaten? You don't say."

"Indeed, it was on that same expedition. It was his own fault, of course," I said.

"How so?"

"He didn't bring a phantasticist with him," said Carbuncle. "It's a fatal mistake, leaving such things to amateurs."

"That's right," I said, "and he was a bloody arrogant fool as well. You remember, Willougby, we were going to a small island in the South Bundi Sea. The natives were thoroughly delightful people--cannibals, of course, but polite with it. It would never do to eat a guest, you know." We crested a rise, and, catching sight of the bay below, stopped to catch our breath as well. "Well, the Pumbawis, as they called themselves, worshipped a kind of sacred flame. It burned in a valley at the center of their island, rain or shine, and was the source of all fires, whether for lighting, or, ah, cooking. It was sacred to them, you see, because it never went out."

"Remarkable. Some kind of naturally occurring phantasm, was it?"

"Indeed; or perhaps it was put there by some previous explorer in ages past. At any rate, it offended old Elliot no end, you see. He claimed it was impossible. 'A phantasm,' he said, 'must have some source of power. This flame cannot possibly be what they say it is.'" I paused, as Carbuncle muttered "Bloody idiot!" under his breath.

"But isn't that correct?" asked Willoughby. "It's what I've always been taught."

"Certainly. And yet, here was this flame that never went out, and it galled him. All might have been well, but Elliot made two mistakes."

"The first," said Carbuncle, who knows all of my stories as well as I do, "was to forget the primary maxim of Applied Phantastics: if it works, it works...don't break it."

"The second," I continued, "was to talk about it constantly...and worse, to talk about it with the Pumbawis. He sowed the seeds of doubt in their minds, you see, and phantasms are sensitive to that kind of thing. The next rainstorm put it out for good."

"Oh, dear."

"Naturally," I said, "the Pumbawis were a tad disgruntled, and just as naturally, they blamed Elliot."

"As they should," said Carbuncle.

"They required his presence at their next banquet, and that was that. It fell to me to lead the expedition afterwards, which I did with great distinction if I say so myself, and it made my career. So as I say, I shouldn't be too hard on old Elliot."

"Yes, you should." said Carbuncle. "Had the old fool kept his mouth shut and his mind open, that sacred flame might have had hundreds of thousands of cousins by now, and you'd be a wealthy man."

"That is so; and my first act on returning to the University was to find a first-rate phantasticist for my next expedition. Carbuncle and I have been together ever since. I've never since been faced with so potentially lucrative a discovery...but I've not been eaten, either."

"Good luck for you," said Willoughby, "but rather hard luck on old Elliot."

"Actually, I am convinced that some such unpleasantness was inevitable. He'd started being rude to the Dean."

"But Leon, you're rude to the Dean," objected Carbuncle. "You call him 'Eddie'."

"Yes," I said, "but never in public."

By this time we had reached the shore, and found a pleasant boulder, well shaded, on which to spread our lunch. It was to be a lavish meal indeed, and I exclaimed at its size.

"Nothing but the best for your birthday, Leon!" said Carbuncle.

"Why, so it is," I exclaimed, "The 8th of Melee as ever was."

"How old are you now, old friend?" asked Willoughby.

"Tenured," I said. "Remember, once a don gaineth tenure, he ageth not until he is forcibly put out to pasture. Thank you, Thomas. This is a delightful surprise."

"I daresay I can improve on it," he said. "No doubt you're thirsty after that long walk. Would you care for some chilled wine?"

"Get away," I said. "Chilled wine? There's no ice for hundreds of miles, Thomas!"

"Now who has the open mind, Leon? Would I offer you chilled wine if I had none?" And with that, Carbuncle pulled a reddish cylinder out of the hamper; I recognized it to be one of the devices he'd been tinkering with since we left Lyricum Town. He handed it to me. It was surprisingly warm. "There you go, Leon. A portable wine chiller. Happy birthday!"

On closer inspection the object proved to have a hole at one end, just large enough to allow a bottle of wine to be inserted--or removed, which I did posthaste. The wine was nicely chilled, as advertised.

"You've outdone yourself, Thomas." I sipped my wine with great pleasure. Not only was it chilled, I recognized it as one of the vintage Rigolettos from the Spaniel's wine locker.

"It chills whatever you put into it," he said. "The little beastie just sucks the heat out of the inside, and transfers it to the outside. That's why it feels so warm."

"Fascinating," said Willoughby. "How long does it take?" I could hear the money jingling in his head.

"About half-an-hour," said Carbuncle. "I can make it work faster, but the outside gets uncomfortably warm."

"Amazing," said Willoughby. "Have you considered the commercial possibilities?"

Carbuncle had, but was not averse to a bit of advice, and perhaps a bit of capital. After that it was all money and marketing for the rest of the bottle, and most of the next (also nicely chilled). My attention wandered.

At last we packed up the remains of the lunch and placed them on the donkey. On the way back Willoughby regaled us with tales of killings made in the Bundi trade, adding to the air of restful tedium I have already spoken of--until, just as we came within sight of the governor's mansion, there was a loud smashing sound from behind us, immediately followed by a donkey in fear for his life. Willoughby and I narrowly escaped being trampled, and poor Carbuncle was quite thrown into a rather muddy ditch alongside the road. The donkey vanished down the road to the harbor, hamper still on its back.

The lad we had hired to lead the donkey could hardly contain his laughter. He was quite sure that the noise had come from the hamper.

"Oh, dear." said Carbuncle. "Leon, did you put the bottle of champagne in the chiller?"

"I did," I said. "I expected that we would want it when we got back."

"It froze," he said. "It must have. The noise we heard was the bottle bursting." He stood and pondered for a moment, ooze dripping down the front of his white suit. "Yes, that was it. I suppose if I were to... Oh, dear, I hope the chiller is all right! Leon, Willoughby, perhaps I'll see you at dinner. Oh, dear!" And with that he was off, hot on the tracks of the donkey.