Stirring Adventures and Mad Mods! Saving the world one questionable decision at a time.
Madame’s Desk
Stories of the Steampunk family’s adventures aboard their home, the airship Schoneluft, and missives from Madame vonHedwig, proud mama and extreme botanist.
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which we discover what Claire found.
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“This narrow cave will open into an enormous cavern,” Claire said. “I don’t know how big, I couldn’t see very far because I only have one of Mother’s algae lamps.”
“So that’s where that went,” Adolphus muttered.
“Shhh! Go on, Claire,” Mirabelle said.
“But there was light there! I think there were cracks in the cave ceiling, or vertical tunnels, because there were patches of light beaming down. That’s where these mushrooms are growing. This is one of the biggest. I chopped it down at the base, then made the pole and oars out of the stem.”
“That was clever and brave of you!” Annabelle said.
“It is nice to have a boat that doesn’t leak,” Gerhardt added.
“But next time, please tell us,” Annabelle said. “We were worried.”
Adolphus opened his mouth to speak. There was the muffled thump of a sharp kick to the shins, so all he said was “Ow!”
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which we learn of Claire’s fate.
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Gerhardt was gone. Mirabelle grabbed the net, kicked out of Adolphus’ grip, and leaned over the edge to look for him. She expected to see him bobbing in the current downstream with only the hope of catching onto Claire’s rope to save him, but Claire’s rope was no longer stretching into the blackness downstream. Instead, here was Claire herself, standing in a perfectly round boat with a surprised Gerhardt sitting beside her.
Mirabelle turned back and leaped at her siblings. Adolphus and Annabelle caught her. She grabbed Gerhardt’s shoe and reassured her horrified twin.
“He’s safe! Claire’s back; it’s time to go.”
There was little left on the ship worth taking. They loaded up the rope, the last of the food and tools, the algae lamp and their sodden winter clothing, and last of all the yeti, dragged onto the raft with considerable heaving and ho-ing.
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which Bettina’s excellent idea puts her siblings in grave danger.
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“Net yeti,” said Bettina.
“Yes, dear, it was a nice yeti,” Mirabelle said.
“Net yeti,” Bettina repeated pointing up.
Gerhardt looked up. In the dim light he saw the dark square of the open trapdoor, through which he had ascended many hours, or possibly days ago.
“The balloon net,” he said. “She means the balloon net.”
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which Annabelle loses her composure.
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Adolphus attacked the control panel with hammer and pliers, looking for wire or cable sturdy enough to hold the weight of any of the children. Having been forced to admit that he could not rebuild the airship into a raft before they all drowned, he was working on harnessing himself and his siblings to one or two of the gas balloons that even now kept them from sinking into the underground river.
Mirabelle and Annabelle were helping him, but the younger two were struggling to keep the yeti’s head above the water seeping into their ship. The creature was huge and heavy, and showed no inclination to float.
“If Claire hadn’t taken all the line without a word to anyone,” Adolphus muttered, “we’d be flying out of this mess by now.”
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which there is yet more arguing.
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Bettina came over and wriggled between Mirabelle and the gondola wall. The others paid no notice as their dispute became more heated. They were all shouting, or in the case of Gerhardt, muttering while bailing.
“Why don’t we do what we did before?” Gerhardt said. “Let a little gas out and tighten the net. If it doesn’t unstick us you can go back to yelling at each other then.”
“What if we get unstuck and plunge off the top of a waterfall without enough gas to pull us up?” Mirabelle asked.
“What if we just sit here until we die of old age?” Adolphus sneered.
“Why don’t we push you overboard and see how far to the waterfall?” Annabelle leaned forward, but whatever act of unsisterly violence may have tempted her, Gerhardt interrupted her.
“Claire? What do you think we should do?”
His answer was the rushing of the river and the scraping of the hull.
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» I which, I am sorry to say, there is squabbling.
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There was no more line left, so they untied coils and coils of it from the still sleeping yeti and secured Gerhardt with that. He scrambled up again, let a little gas out of each balloon, and fastened the net closer to the ship.
They sank closer to the river’s rushing water, and were on their way for a while. But before another ten leagues had passed, they were stuck again.
“What else can we pitch?” Claire asked, thinking aloud.
They looked around them. They had thrown all the rugs and blankets out the windows for Ulrik and the boiler crew back on the surface. They had tossed out all the furniture when they’d run aground in the tunnel.
“Water!” Annabelle seized a small barrel. “There’s plenty of water now, let’s dump it. There’s another one over there.”
The second barrel proved not to be water, but a sharp-smelling, eye-watering alcohol.
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» Which contains a bit of fishing, a bit of cartography, and a bit of trouble.
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Image rjstyles' flickr photostream
Every time the tunnel branched the children stopped the ship and got out to examine their choices. They looked, listened, and smelled, straining for a hint of the Earth’s surface. For the most part, they just picked a random way. Whenever they made a choice, Gerhardt marked the tunnel.
He was out of marshmallows, but now that they could disembark he marked the wall with paint or chalk or whatever else the little ship could spare, signing GvH, so his parents knew where to find them, and so their path of discovery was marked for posterity.
“Perhaps we shall go down again,” Gerhardt said, “and find the center of the earth like Professor Lidenbrok.”
They were not going down, but up, ever so slightly, for the rest of the night and into the third day, when the smooth walls of their volcanic tunnel opened into a natural cave. The cave branched off their tunnel to left and right, but they could not get out and examine the cave to decide which way to go. The floor of the cave was covered with water!
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By Madame vonHedwig on Saturday, April 17th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which the children run aground.
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They fell for two days according to Adolphus’ pocket watch, which was miraculously unharmed in all the excitement. They were tense, tired, grubby, irritable, and out of cookies.
Adolphus was once again at the controls, Mirabelle watching the tunnel with him.
“We’re not going straight down,” she said.
“No, the tunnel’s curving. I’ve swung the aft engine pods straight back to keep us away from the wall.” He fumbled at the controls. “There, I’ve got the lights on back there. Would you go watch that wall?”
“Of course. How shall I signal you? I don’t want to shout or whistle, Claire’s just fallen asleep.”
“Is there a light back there? If you flash a light I’ll see the reflection in the window here.”
Mirabelle walked around her twin and moved aft. Annabelle was once again applying her tweezers to the yeti and strange moss that grew into its skin. Concentrating on the yeti helped her forget her motion sickness, so she had made sketches, measurements, and taken extensive notes on the creature. She had even opened the cupboard and questioned Count Montesanto on the moss, but found him most unhelpful on that topic, although perfectly willing to expand her vocabulary of Italian obscenities. (She took extensive notes on this topic as well.) At this point, she had most of the moss removed, but the yeti still did not wake.
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By Madame vonHedwig on Saturday, April 10th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which the children fall and the Count is ingrateful.
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The children fell and fell. It was exciting at first, until it was not. Then Claire tried to make it interesting, shouting out a five second geolologic commentary as they fell through successive layers of rock. Other than the fabled treacle layer (“Ooh, Sir Pratchett was right!”) the others were not amused, and the budding geologist had enough difficulty controlling their fall without analyzing strata.
Then she realized, after the first hour of their descent, that they were burning through the little ship’s fuel supply far too quickly. If they ran out of fuel, they would crash against the tunnel wall or floor, if it had a floor. To preserve fuel, they had to let themselves free fall, engaging the engines in short bursts only to slow their descent and avoid the walls of the tunnel.
Then it became a dreadful trip. The ship dropped like a stone, then slowed with a jerk as Claire brought the engine pods to bear. Even Mirabelle, who enjoyed the sensation of falling (being greatly addicted to carnival rides), was miserable after the first hour. The others felt worse, and poor Annabelle felt quite sick. After four hours, Claire realized something else.
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This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which we find out how Herr von Hedwig came to be dancing with La Belle Capitaine.
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An hour before, in the office of the Commander…
“Oui, oui, Monsieur von Hedwig, she is a remarkable flier. And I must admit, a natural-born leader. Men would follow her into hell itself.”
The Commander of the Armée Aeronautique in Saigon stared at his brocade curtains as though they might tell his story for him.
“I would follow her into hell,” he muttered.
Behind him, Herr vonHedwig silently riffled through the papers on the Commander’s desk. He didn’t have time for reminiscing.
“Why then did you not promote her? Because she is a woman?”
“That is a complication, but not the reason, though that is most likely what she thinks. No, Monsieur, it is because she is American. She has served most loyally, yes, but how can I give a foreigner authority over so many French?”
Herr vonHedwig sighed, running a hand through his hair. His fingers got caught. The hot Saigon night was curling his already thorny hair into brambles. He extracted them, and captured his wild mop under his hat.
“Where is her racer berthed?”
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