CHAPTER THREE: THOSE ARE THE BREAKS
It would be several long moments before anyone moved. When that person did, it proved to be the Captain who had somehow ended up on top of the pile of limbs. “Hrmph,” he noted.
Pulling himself to his feet he began untangling the green limbs from the tanned ones, and soon separated Ghost-Tongue from the Gurglesplat. The Captain could see he was breathing, and quickly pulled forth a vial of smelling salts to wave under the Indian’s nose.
With a jolt, Ghost-Tongue coughed awake and took in a long, deep, breath. His eyes danced wildly in confusion as reality drifted back upon him. “Hold on, old friend,” the Captain urged, gingerly keeping Ghost-Tongue from rising. “You’ve got a bit of bone jutting out from your ankle, and you’re losing enough blood to make a vampire weep.”
“What of the Gurglesplat?”
“Well I’ve never seen one before today but I’d wager its head works best when facing forward. In the direction it’s at now, I’d say that it’s quite dead.”
“Well at least you managed to get the information before killing it. That’s got to be a first,” the Anasazi choked and chuckled. “Now, how about some of your snake oil? As a near-martyr to the Cult of Vaguely, my leg is in need of anointing.”
The Captain began to rummage through his pockets both extra-dimensional and mundane and soon produced a brown glass bottle complete with a fading white label indicating, Vague Enterprise’s Vitality Elixir and Miracle Balm™! The depiction of a serpent entwining a skull just below that declaration stood in juxtaposition to the notion of its being medicine but Ghost-Tongue had survived its effects before so he did not protest.
The Captain then poured a heavy dose of the stuff over the wound and then handed the bottle to his comrade. “Take a nip,” he instructed. The battered Anasazi did just that and handed the bottle back willingly; the intense concoction forcing his stomach and face to contort.
“You won’t be feeling that ankle for too much longer,” the Captain noted and returned the elixir to its otherworldly place. “Somewhere between absinthe and opium, with just a hint of peyote, as prescribed by the finest Huichol shamans, this has to be the finest pain medicine on the globe. What else would you expect from Vague Enterprises?”
“You can hold onto your claptrap, Cap’n,” Ghost-Tongue waved off. “We’ve been down this road before. Besides, it’s already put a brick in my hat.”
“You don’t wear a hat, Jobi,” the Captain remarked. “Perhaps I could tie that brick to your head with all that long hair.”
“If you must.” Ghost-Tongue’s eyes were swimming. Things were beginning to dance about that should otherwise be sitting very still. He smiled.
There was a loud snap and Ghost-Tongue flinched. Looking down at his foot, he saw that the Captain had set his broken ankle. Indeed the snake oil seemed to have worked; otherwise he would have likely passed out. “That looks better,” Ghost-Tongue mentioned, “except for the tiny cypress tree sprouting from my big toe.”
Captain Vaguely looked to the toe and back to Ghost-Tongue bearing his standard huge smile and said, “If we’re already in a spirit world, where on earth is that medicine taking you now?”
“Kansas City,” Ghost-Tongue nodded. “Smells of road apples and white women.”
“Well give my regards to Miss Percy,” the Captain chuckled, now standing and again digging into his pockets. “Now we get to see just how well the newest addition to Vague Enterprise’s line of survival enhancements works in the field. And on actual blood no less!”
“What’s that, Cap’n?” Ghost-Tongue slurred. “I wasn’t listening. This little fellow here says he can lead me to a great treasure. I just have to follow him.”
Looking to his friend expecting to see only a dazzled Indian, the Captain gawked at the sprite now tugging at Ghost-Tongue’s hand and shooed it off by kicking dirt at it. “Flee, you two-ounce pest!” he demanded and returned to his administrations.
In his hand he held a strange brass contraption with six hollow claw-like digits converging through a series of thin brass pipes at a small leather bag in the center. By inserting two fingers and a thumb from each hand into a corresponding claw, with the leather bag between his hands, the Captain began to manipulate the thing whilst simultaneously squeezing the leather bag. As expected, a semi-liquid material spewed from the tip of each claw and congealed into strands of white gossamer.
Kneeling down and taking Ghost-Tongue’s broken ankle into his lap, the Captain began tending to the wound. After a few practice runs, he got used to the motion needed and was able to begin weaving a cast around the Anasazi’s foot joint. It took quite some time to complete, and once complete it was far from aesthetic, but soon it solidified and hardened to a slightly flexible state.
“Voila!” he announced. “One right proper spider’s web dressing courtesy of Vague Enterprise’s Digital Spinneret™!”
“Courtesy of Queen Baku and the lost spider people of Anansesem,” Ghost-Tongue added.
“Indeed,” agreed the Captain and smiled down at his handiwork. Tucking away the web-spewing machination, he stood and said, “Now, let’s see if we can get you vertical.”
Bending down, the Captain reached around Ghost-Tongue’s ribs and helped him to his one good foot. “How’s that?”
“I didn’t know some of these colors existed,” Ghost-Tongue said, his eyes wandering the air before him.
“That’s because, I suppose, some of them don’t,” said the Captain. “Balance yourself, old boy.”
He let go of the Indian for a moment to scoop up his spear and handed it to him to use as a walking aid. “Not much of a crutch, Jobi, but it’ll have to do.”
Ghost-Tongue leaned on the spear shaft in his right hand and flung the other over the Captain’s broad shoulders. The Captain, in turn, wrapped his right arm around Ghost-Tongue’s waist and held Marybelle in his offhand.
“We could just camp here, you know,” Ghost-Tongue noted in a brief respite of clarity.
“Are you cutting shines?” the Captain scoffed. “I won’t remain in this stench a moment longer, much less sleep in it. Besides, this place is now a shallow graveyard and I am no ghoul.”
“A pestilence to my people,” said the Anasazi Indian, “but not a ghoul.”
“Your people slipped off into your Spirit World long gone before any of mine ever set foot in the Americas, so you can throw some water on that particular fire. Come now, my fine Indian friend, and let’s make for Kettle’s Knob.”