Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories Page 4

  “No!” Miranda shouted as a large section of the fallen wall began to stir, loose dirt and stones trickling off its edges. “I will not let this go unpunished!” The chunk of wall floated upwards, then hovered. Another piece began to shift.

  “Please, Miranda, before you go throwing away perfectly good body parts on a pointless gesture.” Poopsie’s voice was clearer now, and Miranda recognized the wheedling tone. She knew it was his own precious body parts he was really worrying about. “After all, we’re the ones who landed in the middle of their pass. It’s not as if they came here just to raze the castle.” A geyser of dirt and stones shot from the hole and fell to the ground, forcing Miranda to hop back two more steps.

  “Are you taking their side?”

  Poopsie clambered from the pit as best he could on his one good leg, covered in dirt but otherwise unhurt. “No, dearheart. I’m just saying you have to see it from their point of view.” The stone slabs suspended in the air dropped back into the hole with a whump.

  “Humph,” she said. She eyed him closely, wondering what part of himself he had sacrificed to escape the rubble. He shook his head like a wet dog, and dirt sprayed out in all directions; it was then she saw his left ear was missing.

  “Just give me a moment to gather my thoughts, and I’ll move the castle like you wanted,” he said.

  There was another thunderous explosion, and part of the castle wall to Miranda’s left cascaded downwards, shattering the glass roof of the aviary. A flock of brightly-coloured birds, including her favourite gryphon, took wing, rising over the wall and scattering on the wind.

  “I’ve decided that I like it here,” Miranda said. “I think we should stay.”

  “Stay? No, don’t be silly.” Poopsie bent down and placed his hand on the ground at Miranda’s feet. “Brace yourself,” he said.

  But before he could do anything, Miranda seized his hair and, in an instant—and at the cost of her big toe—transmutated him to a parrot with a tiny wooden leg.

  “Awk!” Poopsie squawked, flapping his wings and hopping about on his one good leg.

  “There!” said Miranda petulantly. “Now you shan’t be able to work your magic until I release you!”

  Another explosion rocked the castle, and Miranda stepped up to the wall, placing her palm on it.

  “Awk! Miranda, wait!” Poopsie screeched, but it was already too late, for her long raven locks were melting away as she worked her magic, running down her cheeks and neck like trails of blackened butter, leaving streaks that shone darkly in the sun.

  Bertwold watched as a fourth projectile misfired, shattering uselessly against the wall and dropping to the ground in a curl of smoke. Already there were two large gaps near the summit of the wall, and an irregular tear where the third bomb had hit beneath the tower. He did a quick count of the remaining ammunition—fourteen missiles—and decided that it would be sufficient to finish the job. He ordered the men to concentrate their fire to the right of the largest breach.

  “Fur!” Lumpkin shouted.

  The bomb tore up and away, dwindling to a small dot. It struck—but much to Bertwold’s consternation, it neither fell nor detonated. Instead it stretched the dark surface of the wall as if it were made of rubber. A moment later, the wall snapped back in their direction and the black dot began to grow rapidly.

  Oh, oh, Bertwold thought.

  Lumpkin bolted down the road, leaving a trail of florets in his wake. Bertwold overtook him just before the bomb struck.

  He was pitched, head over heels, into a deep ditch they’d been using as a latrine. A series of rapid explosions followed. The ground shook beneath him. Dirt rained down, then smoking bits of debris, sizzling as they extinguished in the fetid water. A moment later a dark cloud boiled around him, choking him and making his eyes water. He struggled to his feet.

  “Sur?”

  Bertwold blinked back tears.

  “Butwuld?”

  The smoke dissipated, and Bertwold could make out the blurry face of Lumpkin, who stood on the bank above him. Lumpkin’s clothes were singed and torn, and the tip of his broccoli was blackened, but otherwise he seemed unhurt.

  “The catapult?” Bertwold asked, grabbing Lumpkin’s shirt and bunching the material in his fist. Then, before Lumpkin could answer, Bertwold pulled himself up the shallow embankment, throwing his foreman off balance, so that, with a yelp, Lumpkin tumbled into the latrine.

  Bertwold staggered up the slope of the bank. Before him, where the catapult and stockpile of ammunition had been, there was an enormous, smoking crater.

  “Got them!” Miranda lifted the hem of her gown and did a little jig. “Maybe now he’ll understand who he’s dealing with!”

  Poopsie shook his head ruefully, ruffling his feathers, scratching behind his left ear with his tiny wooden leg. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he squawked, and flapped onto Miranda’s shoulder. “Please, Randy, just change me back and I’ll get us out of here. Let’s leave before something serious happens . . .”

  Miranda shooed him away with a wave of her hand. She crossed her arms, and her expression hardened. “No. He started it. Now let him finish it—if he can!”

  “What are they doing?” Lady Miranda wondered aloud. For the last five days the annoying humans had left them in relative peace. Poopsie chewed quietly on a cracker, but refrained from commenting.

  Miranda leaned forward between the merlons of the parapet, about to drum her fingers in consternation when she remembered her digits were all gone. It only added to her pique.

  “Awk, Randy,” Poopsie squawked in her ear, “they’re not worth the effort. Awk, awk! Let them be.”

  Miranda winced; every time Poopsie talked he was sounding more like a parrot. And it was getting harder and harder to coax him from the trees.

  “Awk! Change me back and let’s be on our way. Awk!”

  “No,” she said. “Not until this is finished.” She gave him another cracker.

  What were the bugs up to?

  She stared down the valley at the mortals’ camp and shook her head in bemusement. They’d dismantled all their limb-shaped construction vehicles. At first, Miranda thought they’d given in, and were simply packing up to leave; but instead of slinking away, they had erected an enormous pavilion and dragged the disassembled parts of the machines underneath its broad canvases. Miranda bit her lip so hard she drew blood. The pain surprised her, made her curse softly under her breath at the waste of a perfectly good blood wish. It’s their fault, she thought, her anger slowly rising as she dabbed at her lip with a lace handkerchief. And they shall pay.

  Bertwold admired his latest invention.

  It had taken them the better part of a week to build the thing. In the process, they’d had to cannibalize every single construction machine. And they’d also exhausted their supplies. For the last two days his men had worked on empty stomachs and Bertwold had spent almost as much time mollifying their growing discontent as he had spent overseeing the construction work. But it had been worth it, he thought. This was the best machine he had ever built.

  “Fire up the boilers,” he said to Lumpkin.

  At Bertwold’s words, Lumpkin jumped. He looked drawn, and more than a little nervous; this Bertwold could understand, having seen the other men eyeing Lumpkin’s nose hungrily. Bertwold’s own stomach rumbled. For a moment his vision misted over, and he could only see the yellow of a rich cheese sauce running over green of broccoli and his mouth began to water . . .

  He shook his head to clear it.

  Focus, he admonished himself. You’ll need all your wits to operate the machine.

  “Awk!” Poopsie flapped his wings, screeching as he circled the room in agitated motion. “Awk!”

  “What is it?” Miranda sat before her mirror; she had spent the morning in the cellar, rooting through old trunks, trying on wigs.

  “Follow me! Follow me!” Poopsie shrieked. Then he darted beneath the door jamb and flew out of sight.

  Miranda leapt to
her feet and sped after him, out onto the parapet where he perched, his little wooden leg tapping an agitated tattoo on the crenel.

  “Look!” he squawked, pointing a wing.

  Miranda turned. Her jaw fell open.

  The roof of the humans’ pavilion had been rolled back, revealing a huge machine fabricated in the form of a man. It was sitting up, as if it had just woken. Steam curled slowly from vents in its neck. As Miranda watched, there was a piercing whistle, and the machine rumbled to its feet, towering over the camp, its face now level with hers. With a grinding noise it teetered, steadied itself, took one lurching step, then another, walking in an exaggerated gait, moving cautiously along the edge of the oatmeal swamp, heading towards the castle.

  Poopsie hopped on her shoulder. “Quick!” Poopsie screamed in her ear. “Change me back! Change me back! I’ll get us out of here! Awk!”

  Miranda raised her arm to bat him away, then stopped abruptly. “Okay,” she said. She plucked him from her shoulder with her good arm—the one with two remaining fingers—and he yelped, a strangled sound that Miranda felt vibrate through his windpipe. She closed her eyes and concentrated; her arm began to dissolve, to fuse with Poopsie.

  He grew.

  Already larger than Miranda, he continued to grow with each passing second as her arm disintegrated. By the time she was up to her elbow, he was a forty foot high parrot, his wooden leg the size of a small tree. When she finally withdrew, only a small flap of flesh left where her arm used to be, Poopsie’s head extended past the castle’s highest tower.

  “Now,” Miranda shouted, pointing to the man-machine. “Get him!”

  Poopsie blinked, once, twice, and cocked his head. His eyes were dull and remote, and Miranda could no longer detect any sign of human intelligence in them. “Poopsie?” she asked. “You there?”

  Poopsie screeched, an ear-splitting reverberation that shook the castle down to its foundations. He launched himself from the parapet, his wings beating so hard that Miranda was nearly blown from the wall. He swooped past the machine, and dove towards the clutch of workers in the encampment. At the last second he banked and climbed into the sky, a tiny figure with a bright green nose struggling in his talons. In seconds he’d dwindled to a small dot on the horizon.

  Oops, Miranda thought.

  As if enraged, the man-machine leapt forward, its whistle shrieking in anger.

  The parrot was monstrous, huge, large enough to knock even the machine over.

  Bertwold watched it dive towards him and he froze, his hands on the levers, unable to move. It grew larger and larger until he could see nothing else, and he covered his eyes, waiting for the moment of impact that would topple him to his death. But nothing happened. Or at least nothing dire. The machine rocked gently as the parrot swooped past. When Bertwold lowered his arm the eyeholes showed only empty sky. He pulled a lever and the head swung round a full circle. But the bird was nowhere to be seen.

  “Right,” Bertwold said. “That’s it for you.” He reached for a lever.

  The motors roared; steam vented in screeching whistles. The machine jerked forward, breaking into a mechanical trot. Then it lurched sickeningly. Although the engines continued to bellow, the machine had come to a standstill.

  Bertwold grabbed another lever, pulling sharply on it; the machine roared even louder, and this time he could hear its metal joints squeal deafeningly under the stress. A rivet popped out of a plate above his head, and shot across the chamber, ricocheting off the opposite wall, and clattering noisily to the floor. Bertwold eased up on the lever, and the machine seemed to sigh; then it settled on an awkward angle, the landscape ahead of him tilted a few degrees. What the . . . ?

  Bertwold unstrapped himself and took two quick steps to the right eyehole. Far below, the machine’s feet had already disappeared, swallowed in the golden brown, lumpy earth.

  Bertwold cursed aloud. In his anger, he’d forgotten about the rotting oatmeal!

  He dashed back and worked furiously at the controls, but no matter what he did, no matter how hard he pushed or pulled the groaning levers, he couldn’t free the machine’s legs. His beautiful new machine continued to sink. As he sweated and cursed and sweated some more, the landscape rose, bit by infuriating bit, before him.

  Bertwold stood beside his machine, just beyond the edge of the deadly oatmeal. Only the machine’s head was visible, its chin nestled firmly in the brown morass. Bertwold felt like crying. Instead, he continued to brush oatmeal from his jerkin in as dignified a manner as he could muster. It left sad brown streaks wherever it touched.

  Down the road, the encampment was deserted; his men had abandoned him. One giant parrot and they fled like frightened children. Bertwold shook his head. He had expected better of them, especially Lumpkin, always faithful Lumpkin. Oh well, he thought. Wherever he’s gone, he’s probably better off now.

  “Halooo . . .” The voice startled Bertwold. It was a woman’s voice, a mellifluous, lilting tone that made his blood quicken. It had issued from behind the castle gate. “Is anyone out there?”

  Bertwold turned and cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  “Um,” the voice began. “I’m in a bit of a fix. I was wondering if you could, uh, possibly give me a hand.”

  Bertwold strode up to the gate. In its centre was a square peephole that was shut. “What sort of help?” When there was no answer, Bertwold said, “Why don’t you open the gate?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” the voice said. “You see, that’s my problem.”

  “Then at least open the peephole so I can see who it is that I’m addressing.”

  “Oh well, if you insist!” The voice sounded annoyed, almost petulant. There was a rasping sound followed by a grunt. Then the small wooden square swung inward. Bertwold’s heart faltered. Framed in the opening was the beautiful face he had watched through his telescope, although now a wig sat askew atop her head. Bertwold gaped; the woman blushed. Then she inclined her head in a fetching manner, hiding her eye patch in half-shadow. Bertwold sucked in a sharp breath.

  “I’m afraid I can’t open the door,” she said in a forlorn voice that rent Bertwold’s heart. “I’m trapped.” She stepped back and he could see that she had only one arm, and that arm had no fingers. “I managed to pull the bolt on the peephole with my teeth, but the gate is barred.” She gave him a melting look. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own way in.”

  Bertwold’s heart sang in his chest.

  Fall was nearly played out and winter would soon be upon them; large flakes of snow drifted down and settled on the ground. The pass, paved road and all, would soon be closed until spring. Miranda stared at the castle, at her castle, and the causeway that had been cut through it like a tunnel, and felt a brief, almost imperceptible, flash of something that might have been anger.

  But it passed quickly.

  As if sensing her agitation, Bertwold reached out and put his arm around her shoulders. She turned and smiled at him.

  It had been his idea to come back here, and she could see it troubled him no less than her. The way he had looked at his machine, or the head of it anyway, that poked above the ground in the midst of the inexplicable broccoli patch. It was, she thought, quite clever, still widely regarded as his best work, something of which he could rightly be proud.

  “Ready?” she asked, and he nodded.

  They walked back to their carriage. When she reached out to open the door, he closed his fingers over her wrist. “Problems?” he asked.

  She drew her brow up in puzzlement.

  “The cold,” he tapped her arm. “I was worried about the temperature. How’s it holding up?”

  She flexed her arm, curling her fingers, all five of them, into a fist and released them. An almost inaudible whirring followed her movements. “Works perfectly,” she said, reaching out and pulling his head to hers until their lips touched lightly. “Just like magic.”

  Originally published in On Spec Fall 1994 Vol 6 No 3 #18

&nb
sp; Robert Boyczuk has published short stories in various magazines and anthologies. He also has three books out: a collection of his short work, Horror Story and Other Horror Stories, and two novels, Nexus: Ascension and The Book of Thomas, Volume I, Heaven (all by Chizine Publications). More fascinating details on Bob, and downloads of most of his published work, are available at boyczuk.com.

  Casserole Diplomacy

  Fiona Heath

  Edna was doing the dishes when the aliens knocked on the back door. She was in the kitchen at the back of the house, facing the woods instead of the highway that cut through the isolated area she had lived in for most of her sixty years. A little television sat on the counter near the sink. Images whirled by on the screen but the volume was so low Edna’s slightly deaf ears caught only the occasional car crash or gun shot. She preferred it that way, only keeping the TV on for company with Jonno gone and the kids so far away. The kitchen was clean and well kept.

  The walls with their faded orange floral paper and fake wood cupboards were scrubbed and almost shiny. The captain’s wheel clock hung on the wall beside the embroidered Lord’s Prayer Edna had made for her thirtieth wedding anniversary. Cat and mouse ceramic salt and pepper shakers stood on the speckled Formica table beside a book of crossword puzzles. Yellow nylon curtains, closed against the night, hid the array of Florida seashells on the windowsill. The seashells were mementoes of Edna’s only trip in an airplane. The sea in Newfoundland only gave up broken shells and driftwood. Edna liked the creamy pink of the southern conches and would often sit at the table absentmindedly stroking the shells as she did her puzzles.

  She had been cooking all day and was just finishing cleaning up. Tomorrow was the Bonavista Ladies’ Social and she had made her best dishes for the luncheon. Edna was renowned on the peninsula for her cooking. Years ago, her bakeapple pie won first prize three years in a row at the County Festival. That was when there were still bakeapples to be picked in handfuls off the roadside. These days she only ever collected enough for a few pies and a single freezer bag for winter.