Stirring Adventures and Mad Mods! Saving the world one questionable decision at a time.
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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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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By Madame vonHedwig on Saturday, March 13th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which Madame is fueled by desperation. And coffee.
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Madame von Hedwig scanned the street behind the administrative headquarters of the Armée Aeronautique. The grand façade opened to an expansive court surrounded by other imposing colonial government buildings. They had entered through the front, so she knew there would be no one of use to her there. The back door proved more fruitful.
There were no trolleys or steam cabs to be found in the colonial outpost, but all the pedicab operators nearby spoke French, and they all knew where the airmen went to drink. The boy pulling her chair was young, hardly older than Adolphus, yet he was working late into the night. Madame grossly overpaid him, and asked him to wait for her outside the bar. It was a dark hole in the wall, the first story in the middle of a row of cheaply constructed European-style buildings, elaborate iron railings overhanging the street.
Madame plunged in. She had not slept in over two days, but was fueled solely by desperation. At the sound of the door, all heads turned to examine the newcomer. She did not look around the room or meet any glances, but approached the bar.
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By Madame vonHedwig on Saturday, February 27th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which our distraught parents race for help, and Madame and Chef reach an understanding.
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Only the Schöneluft had the fuel stores and engine power for a run from the Himalyas across southeast Asia to the French capital of Vietnam. She could fly nearly 80 miles an hour under the right conditions, but those conditions had not been met in years. The more children they acquired, the more comforts the von Hedwigs had deemed desirable, and the slower the great airship had become.
With their children’s lives at stake, the von Hedwig parents took no chances. An hour’s work here, in the shadow of the mountain that had swallowed their offspring, could save them hours in flight. Ulrik was securing the Schmetterling inside the tunnel’s mouth to keep it safe from storm and avalanche in their absence. Herr von Hedwig plotted their course to Saigon, and Madame was in the Galley, negotiating with Chef.
They spoke in French, a language Madame spoke fluently, although despite rumors she had carefully started, it was not her native tongue.
“Monsieur, we leave within the hour, and the galley stays here. We need sufficient food supplies for two days brought into the ship in the next twenty minutes. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
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By Madame vonHedwig on Saturday, February 20th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which, although the circumstances are dark indeed, a beacon of hope shines from afar.
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Madame took off the moment her husband was on board. Although she was agitated, her flying was steady, and they soon arrived at the mouth of the tunnel that had swallowed their children. There was no place to land. They anchored, to a stalactite above them and a stalagmite below. Herr von Hedwig rappelled down to the site, bathed in the Schmetterling’s searchlight.
Madame paced between the hatch and the controls, wringing her hands. A dozen times an anxious question leapt to her lips; a dozen times she quelled it. Her husband examined the cave mouth, called for more line, and then went deeper, out of her view. She stayed at the line, alert for any signal from him. At length, one came – again, more line! He was descending. She focused the spotlight down into the blackness. Although her beloved was lost from her sight, she hoped the light would be of use to him. He carried the lantern as well.
At last, the signal to wind in the line. At last he returned.
“The ship was here; they went into the tunnel. There are scratch marks along the floor.”
“Why did they go in there?” Madame’s voice strained with the effort of control.
“The blackguard must have forced them. He must have a yeti or two with him. The children would have overpowered him otherwise.”
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By Madame vonHedwig on Friday, February 12th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which the Fearless Fabricator and his intrepid wife find disturbing evidence.
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Herr and Madame vonHedwig made their way from the mad scientist’s underground lair, trudging toward the surface. They were tired, and mired in thought, but alert for any sign of Montesanto or yeti.
A distant throbbing broke the silence of the cave. Exchanging concerned and puzzled looks, they hurried toward the sound. Suddenly, bright white light flashed against the tunnel wall ahead of them as the throb became a roar. They ran pell mell toward the fading sound, skittering to a halt at the mouth of the volcanic tube they had discovered on their way in. The engine sound that had shattered the underground silence was only a muttering far below them.
The Fearless Fabricator listened intently. There was something familiar about the engine sound, disturbingly familiar.
“What’s that?” Madame pointed down the wall of the volcanic tube. “Was that there before?”
Her husband cupped their lantern in both hands, focusing the light. There was a tiny smear of white clinging to the rock wall, its charred edges blending with the dark rock. When at last he spoke, he could only utter a harsh whisper.
“It’s a marshmallow.”
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By Madame vonHedwig on Sunday, February 7th, 2010
This entry is part of a series, Voyage to Antafrica» In which things go from bad to worse.
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“Stop!” Claire shrieked. “Stop fighting it! Lie down!”
“What?” Mirabelle yelled.
“It ignored me! Get down!”
Gerhardt and Bettina dropped like stones, and the twins followed. The yeti halted, looking around for its attackers. Behind it, Claire crawled across the tilting floor to Adolphus.
“We need engines,” she whispered, “to slow us down when we crash.”
“How about an anchor, to stop us falling?”
Claire nodded, and Adolphus turned to address the ship.
“Has anyone seen the anch-?”
The question died on his lips. The gondola was strewn with debris, and the starboard windows shattered. His younger brother and sisters lay as though dead, and a 7-foot, distressingly not mythological, bleeding, growling, angry animal glared at him from amidships.
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