Steam Submarine Zelf

  ~

  Evans said, “Only problem is, I don’t have a clue as to what ‘Eaglets’ could mean.”

  Zev Solomon said, “Eaglets... Hmmm.... Well it rings a bell for me.”

  “What do you mean, Zev?”

  Zev screwed up his eyes.

  “Something maritime. The name of a ship... Wait a minute...”

  “How do you know? I mean, goodness grievous, you’ve been in Bedlam for eight years...”

  “My first posting, when I was a... never mind... You knew, before I realised I was a... You knew I trained to be a chaplain for the navy didn’t you, Evans, for a short while? Before the other... While I still felt I could do that sort of thing, you know... Isn’t the HMS Eaglets a shore establishment of the royal naval reserve? I think the Eaglets is still docked at the Salthouse, up on the Mersey river. One of the sailors came to visit me once in a while at Bedlam. Reckoned I helped save his marriage. Hmpph. If he only knew what I really was, he wouldn’t believe that any more. He said the Eaglets was still there, at the Salthouse.”

  Evans said, “Well, well. That’s something I didn’t know. The Salthouse. That must be where she’s docked! Hmmph. There was a puzzling thing from around there the other day - someone found an injured man on the docks, telegraphed it through to the Office... Let’s get going then! Up to Liverpool, on the triple!” He wrenched the steering wheel around, fired up the engine, and we bumped over to the other side of the road and began heading west.

  On the road to Liverpool we soon got stuck behind a large truck, with a very large, iron, cylindrical object on the back of it with bolts and pipes sticking out all over it. Evans, who seemed to know nearly everything about cars and trucks, and a lot of other things, said, “Leviathan. Can haul one hundred tons. That’s a large boiler on the back of it. Probably going to be part of a ship, or something, up at the dockyards. It’s really parading in our rain, isn’t it? Wouldn’t want to try to pass that, with this wet road.” The rain was pelting onto the car and the roads were all shiny.

  I asked him, “How do you know so many things, Evans?”

  He adjusted his glasses modestly.

  “Read a lot of books, lad. Read that in Popular Mechanics I believe.”

  George said, “I don’t think we ought to try passing it, sir. I’ve got no way of telling what’s coming the other way. We ‘ad enough close calls for my taste yesterday, and it’s not as if she’s leaving without us, is it, sir? I mean, it’s not going to make that much difference if we’re an hour or two later, is it?”

  Evans said, “I hope not, George, I hope not...”

  He looked at me for a moment.

  “Do you know, lad, we ought to find a name for you. No point calling you ‘lad’ all the time, is there?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Couldn’t we wait until I remember what my real name is?”

  “You wouldn’t have any inklings would you? It might be handy to have a name you know - I mean, if we’re running away from bandits who are firing revolvers at us, you might want to have an honorific so that when someone yells ‘Duck!’ you can be sure that they’re talking to you.”

  It did seem like good, practical advice in the circumstances.

  Evans continued, “Think about it, lad. See if you can come up with a name that you feel comfortable with. One that feels like you. And then we can get used to calling you that name, and if there happens to be a moment when something untoward is happening, we can say, “you”, by which I mean, the name you have given yourself, ‘Run! They’re after us!’”

  I asked, “Who are the people that shot at us yesterday, the people that seem to be following us?”

  “Well, lad. I think you might know, somewhere deep in the recesses of your memory. I feel that the answers are there. If I tell you, it might be too much, it might... overwhelm you... You have wierd, unsettling, bizarre memories, no? Is that not so? Things that can’t possibly exist?”

  “Perhaps...” I didn’t want to admit to too much, in case he changed his mind about putting me into Bedlam hospital.

  “For instance - strange plants - like mushrooms, but instead of just one top, they have multiple tops? And funny insects - bees without stings - things that are like a cross between a spider and a fly - and things like spiders but with too many legs and eyes? And people - like people - but not human - trolls, elves, dwarves, and... others. People who seem to be half animal and half human.”

  How had he known this?

  “Evans,” I asked him, “Do you have imaginary memories like those? It’s not just me?”

  “Wellll.. Yes, I do, but they’re not imaginary, lad. I remember things like that, only because I’ve actually been there.”

  For a moment I could barely speak. My jaw dropped open with amazement.

  “What do you mean? Are you saying it’s a real place?”

  “Indeed it is. And Trogthen is the tongue that many of them there speak - the language that troll was speaking at Bedlam hospital, in the Doctor’s office - and you know Trogthen, don’t you lad? You know how to speak it; you understood what he was saying.”

  I thought about it. How did I know I really understood it? Perhaps I only thought that I understood it.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “How can you think you understand it? Either you do or you don’t.”

  Zev, who hadn’t spoken for a while, said, “Traaliges 'üle bij nikke 'e trilfame rovane 'ülees 'e beîl'f 'fafe. 'Fœes sagja fodahønd.”

  The troll’s god be not the eternal one, but is a mere statue-idol. So say the writings.

  Without thinking I replied, “'Üiölrekees fodahønd? Whæees Lostashüs þeü?”

  Which writings? What does all that have to do with you?

  Zev laughed. I suddenly had the terrible fear that I had merely spewed out gibberish, that the meaning of these words was nothing more than an illusion, a creation of my own mind.

  Zev kept laughing, though, and I immediately got annoyed with him and said, “What are you laughing at? What have you got to laugh at, just out of Bedlam? Are you insane?”

  He stopped for a second, and I suddenly realised what a rude thing I had said. But then after looking at me quizzically for a moment he suddenly burst into an even louder fit of laughter.

  He gradually gained control of himself.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked again.

  “He speaks Trogthen better than I ever could, like a native. I could never get a hang of the subtleties of the tenses and moods - the grammar is far too intricate for me. He speaks it like a native!”

  Evans said, “You can tell that, just from one short phrase?” He sounded a little skeptical.

  Zev nodded quickly.

  “I can. He’s spoken it for years. His mother tongue, perhaps.” Then he chuckled again. “Or he learned it very young, anyhow.” He looked at me, and seemed uncomfortable with the way that I was looking at him. “I am just out of Bedlam, you know... Not surprising if I seem a little... unused to company. Hardly ever laugh when you’re in there. And when you do, you’re only laughing at the folly and pointlessness of it all. And the nurses and the doctors... They all take themselves too seriously, you know, as straight as poles, although there’s the odd worthy one among them.”

  As we approached Manchester the clouds momentarily cleared and the crescent moon was setting behind us, illuminating the trees with a soft, silvery halo.

  We arrived in Liverpool at least an hour later than Evans had hoped.

  “We’ll start at the HMS Eaglets, George. Take us to Salthouse Dock, if you would be so considerate.”

  George reached into the glove compartment and brought out a large folded map. He unfolded it and examined it for a moment. “Oh, I know where it is - near the Customs House. Have to get onto Hanover Street... That won’t be a problem sir. There’ll be parking at Customs House - it’s only a short walk from there.”

  Evans said, “Keep it up, George, and keep
that meter running. Remember, the Bureau is paying for it. It’s not coming out of my pocket.”

  “Alright, sir.”

  There seemed to be roadworks and building everywhere as we drove through the town. We had to take three detours, because of roadworks, but we finally arrived outside of Customs House. George parked the taxi and Evans, Zev and I got out.

  Evans immediately asked a passer-by who looked as though he knew where he was going where the HMS Eaglet was. He pointed to an alleyway that went along the eastern side of Customs House and said, “Oh, aye, just down there.”

  We went down the alleyway and found the entrance to the Eaglet; it was brightly lit. The common room was clearly labelled and we went in. There were three reserve sailors there playing darts and drinking pints of Luixlip. Evans went and bought a pint each for him and Zev, and he got me a lemon squash. The sailors were friendly and they leaped into a conversation right away, asking Evans and Zev in the most unobtrusive manner what their business was in Liverpool.

  Evans said, “Oh, we’re looking for a friend. The ship’s supposed to be docked here at the Salthouse, actually.”

  The sailors asked what the ship looked like. Evans said, “Hmmm. Like a steamer, really, but somewhat like a submarine.”

  “We haven’t seen it, but mind you if it is a submarine it might not be visible anyhow, because it’ll be underwater.” They chortled a bit about this. I think they thought Evans was pulling their legs.

  When they were finished chortling Zev said, “Anything... strange happen here in the past week or two?”

  “Actually, it did,” said one of the sailors, sitting down at the table. He indicated for Zev, Evans and I to join him so we all sat down. There was a pile of newspapers on the floor next to him and he starting rifling through them. He found the copy of the Liverpool Herald from Monday October 28th, and threw it on the table in front of Evans.

  “Look at this.”

  We looked at the article, “Wolf Lady caught on camera.”