Excerpt: Ella Errant

Ella Errant

Elizabeth de Vere-Wingfield Gartner, “lizard breath” to her brother Stephen, “wing nut” to her dad, and Sir Joseph Gartner to her many admirers, was feeling a little green.

Her bed gave another lurch. She closed her eyes, and felt her center of gravity shift more and more to her left and upwards, only to hang for a second before plunging back down then swinging upwards to the right, or port. Or maybe it was to starboard. After 3 months at sea, she still didn’t know which.

It wasn’t so bad here in her tiny cabin, at least not when compared to the terrific storm raging all above on deck. She had tried to take some air during the second day of the storm, but her parapluie had been utterly useless, nearly torn from her hands in seconds by the nasty wind. The deck had tilted almost vertically, the small wooden ship climbing a wall of water such as she had never imagined-and she had a extraordinary imagination. One of the kindly sea men, noticing her clinging to the mast, had hurried her down the hatch just as the Griffon was rolling over the top of the wave. A burst of warm salty water swept her off the ladder and into a soggy heap on the lower deck.

“You’d best stay here miss, under the weather where you’re dry at least” he had said.

Ella reached for her notebook. It was a challenge dipping her quill into the ink pot, but she found that if she waited until the little hang, just before the downward plunge, she could do it without spilling too much. Moving with the rhythm of the boat, she wrote:

‘NOTE - “Below the weather”- a jolly nautical term meaning below the decks, where nothing remotely interesting ever happens.

The first months of the voyage had been spectacular, once they had left the cold foggy waters of England. There had been storms of course - nothing like this one - but storms none the less. At first she had relished the chance to get to know her fellow travelers.

She already had developed some fresh new characters for “Sir Joseph’s” next novel. -A young bookish naturalist, who wanted to follow in the footsteps of Sir Joseph Banks, and travel to terra incognito to describe nondescript plants and animals.

She hadn’t settled on a name yet, although ‘Stephen’ was sticking in her mind. If she named him after her brother, she would have to give him a ridiculous last name, like...Maturin... as revenge for all the times he teased her while they were growing up on the family estate in Oxford.

A wave of nostalgia, almost as high as the one outside the six inches of oak beside her head swept over her and she asked herself once again if this had been a good idea.

“It has” she thought, as she remembered her second character -A mysterious boarder who never left his room. Food was always brought to his door, and a servant picked it up to serve him. There was wild speculation about who he was, a jilted lover perhaps, or a criminal living off his ill gotten gains, but the truth was even stranger than anyone could imagine. He was a Thespian. World famous no doubt, traveling incognito to escape…what?

Elizabeth de Vere-Wingfield Gartner shivered in delight at the thought. Ideas were churning in her head. Plots and characters, sudden twists, and tragic secrets intertwined as her bed shifted all around while she lay still. Soon, she was breathing deeply, dreaming of ancient ruins and giant red birds.
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‘The beetle, although displaying the physiognomy of common black beetles found under rocks in England, exhibits the curious ability to scramble partially up the sides of a glass beaker, only to fall back down before reaching the top. I have observed it in this activity for the past six hours, and have therefore concluded that it is in fact, exactly the same damn beetle that can be found under rocks in . . .

The ship gave a particularly ugly lurch to starboard, bouncing the beaker and its persistent occupant against what passed for a wall, and occasionally during storms like this one, the floor. Meriwether lunged forward, but his own balance thrown off by the wave, he missed and the beaker rolled off the cramped table that held his notebook and ink, onto the repositioned floor. The beaker was tough, the finest shock resistant glass he could afford, so it didn’t shatter. The beetle, finding his invisible wall had suddenly turned into a floor, scurried out of the beaker and into a crack between the floor beams.

“Oh well, At any rate, I was only practicing …” Meriwether muttered as he recovered the beaker and carefully replaced it in his specimen satchel.

The satchel had cost 165 pounds, well over six months of his wages as a junior accountant with Lloyds. The passage to Cape Town had eaten up the remainder of his life’s savings, much to his father chagrin.

“What’s this blather about sailing off to foreign parts” His father exclaimed at the news. “You’ll be eaten by savages, or die of the Yellow Jack I’m sure”

The one thing Meriwether shared with his father was a passion for Sir Joseph Gartner’s series of adventure novels. They had both learned much about the wide world beyond London, through Sir Joseph’s travels. How else would Meriwether have learned about the idoro" bush as the natives call it, and the "wacht-een-beche," or "wait-a-little thorn, and not to mention the "machabell" tree, laden with refreshing yellow fruit having enormous stones – the elephant's favorite food

Sir Joseph’s stories had awakened in the calculating heart of a junior accountant, the desire to see something new. To become something different than the stalwart, cautious son of a Wesleyan Minister.

This was not something he shared with his father, who felt that the novels in themselves were a fine enough escape on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the garden.

His father didn’t even come to see him off as the steamer chugged away from the London docks. Only his mother stood on the shore, waving and waving until they turned a bend in the Thames, and she was stolen from view.

Meriwether crawled into of the marvelous swinging bed used by some of the sailors, called a “Hammock” He had noticed one suspended from the ceiling in one of the old deck hands cabin. “We all slept like this” he had said, “Rows of ten across, all through the main cabin below decks, two and a half feet of space for every man. That was in the old days when all the ships was run on wind and the LORD’s mercy. It took one hundred fifty men to handle the rigging in one of those ships. Now, it only takes 25, though I can’t say I prefer the smoke to the sound of the wind. I have my own cabin now, but I still can’t sleep in one of them bolted down flat beds, even on land.” After twenty minutes of stories, the old hand had agreed to make a hammock for Meriwether, so he could experiment with the device.

He hadn’t slept in the bolted down flat bed since.

He pulled out a dog eared copy of “ Sir Joseph and the Tomb of the Giants”, and read on oblivious to the chaos around him.

The ship lurched again. He heard a thump and a muffled curse from the cabin next door. He frowned.

“A lady shouldn’t talk like that” he muttered putting the book back into the leather pouch tied to his waist. He drifted off to sleep, the ship pitching and rolling all around while he lay snug in his suspended cocoon. “Not un like a chrysalis” he thought, and dreamed of butterflies.
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Jingo Boom-Boom Wash Bucket Esq., Tried out his loincloth for the thousandth time since the voyage began. He stood in front of a full length mirror to capture the effect.

“What do you think James?”

James, ever unflappable, examined the figure reflected in the mirror. A full five foot two inches of dark skin, pulled over a bony frame, except right above the string holding the immodest “modesty flap”, where his stomach tended to protrude somewhat, the result no doubt of too many Canapés.

“The very picture of a heathen savage Sir” James replied. “Perhaps a bone in your nose, or some feathers would complete the um…image”

Jingo looked sharply at his servant, who looked back with earnest interest.

“I can never tell if you’re joking” Jingo said annoyed. ‘But feathers would be nice…See what you can find” he ordered.

“Very good Sir, but I’m afraid Feathers were not on the list of things you provided for the provisioning of this escapade”

“Then go find some” he replied, waving towards the door of the cabin.

James quickly walked out the door to their cramped double berth. He waited until it was closed behind him before he rolled his eyes.

Jingo went back to admiring his form, from one side then the other. Yes, feathers would be the very thing, he thought excitedly.

He walked across the room, banging his thigh against a protruding desk, as the ship gave an uneven thrust to the side.

“Nancy’s Buntlings” He exclaimed, stumbling into his cot, rubbing the offending thigh. “I’ll never get used to this moving room” Fortunately, his ordeal would soon be over. Once they arrived in Capt Town, he would sneak out after dark, and melt away into the forest. It would probably take a few days to find his tribe, but he was sure there would be no problem. Once he showed them the distinctive birthmark on his er…cheek, there would be no mistaking his identity. It had been forty years since he had been taken, and he was only three years old at the time, but surely someone would remember such a distinctive mark. At least that’s the way it always seemed to work in Sir Joseph’s novels.

He smiled, and reached under his pillow to pull out a yellowed copy of “Sir Joseph and the Volcano God” Now, here was a man who understood the savage breast. He found page he had folded over half way through the novel, and continued reading where he had left off…

>> Stephen sprang up with a profane exclamation (if it had not been a safety
razor he would certainly have cut his throat), and so did I, without
the exclamation, and this was what I saw. Standing not more than twenty
paces from where I was, and ten from Stephen, were a group of men. They
were very tall and copper-coloured, and some of them wore great plumes
of black feathers and short cloaks of leopard skins; this was all I
noticed at the moment.

In front of them stood a youth of aboutseventeen, his hand still raised and his body bent forward in theattitude of a Grecian statue of a spear-thrower. Evidently the flash of light had been caused by a weapon which he had hurled.

As I looked an old soldier-like man stepped forward out of the group,
and catching the youth by the arm said something to him. Then they
advanced upon us.

Sir Henry, Stephen, and Oompah by this time had seized their rifles and
lifted them threateningly. The party of natives still came on. It
struck me that they could not know what rifles were, or they would not
have treated them with such contempt.

"Put down your guns!" I halloed to the others, seeing that our only
chance of safety lay in conciliation. They obeyed, and walking to the
front I addressed the elderly man who had checked the youth.

"Greeting," I said in Zulu, not knowing what language to use. To my
surprise I was understood.

"Greeting," answered the old man, not, indeed, in the same tongue, but
in a dialect so closely allied to it that neither Oompah nor myself had
any difficulty in understanding him. Indeed, as we afterwards found
out, the language spoken by this people is an old-fashioned form of the
Zulu tongue, bearing about the same relationship to it that the English
of Chaucer does to the English of the nineteenth century.

"Whence come you?" he went on, "who are you? and why are the faces of
three of you white, and the face of the fourth as the face of our
mother's sons?" and he pointed to Oompah. I looked at Oompah as he said
it, and it flashed across me that he was right. The face of Oompah was
like the faces of the men before me, and so was his great form like
their forms. But I had not time to reflect on this coincidence.

"We are strangers, and come in peace," I answered, speaking very
slowly, so that he might understand me, "and this man is our servant."

"You lie," he answered; "no strangers can cross the mountains where all
things perish. But what do your lies matter?--if ye are strangers then
ye must die, for no strangers may live in the land of the Kukuanas. It
is the king's law. Prepare then to die, O strangers!"

I was slightly staggered at this, more especially as I saw the hands of
some of the men steal down to their sides, where hung on each what
looked to me like a large and heavy knife.

"What does that beggar say?" asked Stephen.

"He says we are going to be killed," I answered grimly.

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Stephen; and, as was his way when perplexed, he put
his hand to his false teeth, dragging the top set down and allowing
them to fly back to his jaw with a snap. It was a most fortunate move,
for next second the dignified crowd of Kukuanas uttered a simultaneous
yell of horror, and bolted back some yards.

"What's up?" said I.

"It's his teeth," whispered Sir Henry excitedly. "He moved them. Take
them out, Stephen, take them out!"

He obeyed, slipping the set into the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

In another second curiosity had overcome fear, and the men advanced
slowly. Apparently they had now forgotten their amiable intention of
killing us.

"How is it, O strangers," asked the old man solemnly, "that this fat
man (pointing to Stephen, who was clad in nothing but boots and a flannel
shirt, and had only half finished his shaving), whose body is clothed,
and whose legs are bare, who grows hair on one side of his sickly face
and not on the other, and who wears one shining and transparent
eye--how is it, I ask, that he has teeth which move of themselves,
coming away from the jaws and returning of their own will?"

"Open your mouth," I said to Stephen, who promptly curled up his lips and
grinned at the old gentleman like an angry dog, revealing to his
astonished gaze two thin red lines of gum as utterly innocent of
ivories as a new-born elephant. The audience gasped.

"Where are his teeth?" they shouted; "with our eyes we saw them."

Turning his head slowly and with a gesture of ineffable contempt, Stephen
swept his hand across his mouth. Then he grinned again, and lo, there
were two rows of lovely teeth.

Now the young man who had flung the knife threw himself down on the
grass and gave vent to a prolonged howl of terror; and as for the old
gentleman, his knees knocked together with fear.

"I see that ye are spirits," he said falteringly; "did ever man born of
woman have hair on one side of his face and not on the other, or a
round and transparent eye, or teeth which moved and melted away and
grew again? Pardon us, O my lords." >>

... Jingo’s hand fell to his side, dropping the book to the floor. He smiled, and dreamed of feathers and leopard skin loincloths…

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“The Bleeding idiot” muttered James, as he walked down the companionway of the violently moving ship. He strode confidently, his knees naturally bending with the rolls and jerks. It was a useful talent, especially at tea time

“Where am I supposed to find feathers on this leaky dinghy”? He regretted speaking facetiously, but sometimes it was too hard to resist. Particularly when his master was in one of his “Native” moods.

At least he wouldn’t have to put up with it much longer. All he had to do was endure the tiresome prattle until Cape Town, where he would be released from his obligations. Master Wash Bucket had already signed the promissory notes, transferring his remaining fortune to his faithful servant James. After all, he wouldn’t need it anymore in the trackless wilderness. James smiled.

‘I hope an Elephant sits on his sorry…”

“Oh, Good Day Mum” he exclaimed, as the only woman on board the ship blocked his passage. She was quite damp, her hair stuck to her face, and her layers of clothes leaving a trail of puddles wherever she stepped.

“Do NOT go up there” She exclaimed, pointing her umbrella over head. “It’s not fit for man or beast”

“Quite right Mum” James tried to step past her before the inevitable questions started, but it was too late.

“And how is your master today? She asked innocently. ‘I trust the weather has not oppressed him”

“He is quite well Mum, but as I believe I have mentioned before, he does appreciate his privacy” He added the last part hoping she would get the point and stop her questioning. She didn’t.

“It’s quite late to be wandering around below decks” , “Are you looking for the Captain?” she asked.

James was struck with a small inspiration. “No Mum” he replied, In Fact, My master is in need of something, but I’m afraid I will not be able to find it on this ship.”

‘Whatever could it be? “She asked, moving in for the kill. His answer took her quite aback.

“Feathers” he said simply

“Why would he need feathers?”

James was ready for this one. “For his (ahem) Costume Mum”

“Wait right here…”

Miss Wingfield went into her cabin, and soon came out again, clutching a handful of lurid red down

“Will this do?” she asked. “It’s all I have. My pillow is stuffed with them. They were a gift from an …admirer”

“I’m sure they will do just fine Miss Wingfield, I am in your debt”

“Not at all sir” she said, blushing. “Pray have a good evening”

“And you as well” he replied, bowing to take his leave.

“Hah, let her chew on THAT for a while…” He thought, as he made his way sure footed and steady as any seaman, back to the master’s cabin.

His master was quite asleep when he returned, snoring thunderously in the cramped space. James opened his Valet’s chest, and removed two small balls of wax. He carefully placed them in his ears. Some of the sound still roared through, but at least he would be able to sleep when the time came

HE removed the down from his vest pocket, and placed it carefully in a drawer of his valet chest, except for three small pieces of fluff. He drew a length of thread from another drawer, and carefully sewed the fluff together into a small red bundle. He did the same with the rest of the down, until twenty five tiny tufts were strung all together. It would make an absurd looking headband, just the sort of thing his master would picture on the head of a savage.

James smiled again as folded the fluff into the drawer.

He extinguished the lamp, and found his bed in the darkness. His foot kicked against something. He felt its form, and realized that his master must have been reading one of THOSE books again. He rolled his eyes for the second time that day, confident that his master couldn’t see them.

He had nothing but contempt for the fictive personage of Sir Joseph Gartner. Whoever was writing that drivel had obviously never even set foot off his estate. It was all made up, every blasted story. The writer had obviously read some books about flora and fauna of distant lands, but interspersed between the sparse facts, was pure fabrication, and the books were so bloody predictable. The natives would eat you as soon as look at you, but as soon as “sir Joseph” showed some slight trick of modern technology, the natives would practically fall at his feet and proclaim him a god. Showing once again the superiority of English culture, which every heathen savage on the planet secretly wished to be a part of, even if that part was only as a servant, or an amusing sideshow at some traveling circus.

He wanted to throw the book out the portal into the storm raging outside, but instead, he opened the drawer to his master’s night table, and slipped it inside. As much as he would like to publicly denounce the stupidity of the novels, he recognized that he did, in a strange way, owe his future fortune to them.

“After all” he thought as he lay in his cot. “if it weren’t for Sir Joseph’s books, My master would still be delivering anthropology lectures in Cambridge, and I would be stuck on that blasted foggy rock, instead of moving closer every day to a rich, warm future.

He sighed, smiling as he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a modest estate on the veldt.
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