Gauntlet of Gorgons
How deep an impression this blather made on the Id is difficult to ascertain. I suspect not much. But it’s an academic question, because Engelbrecht suddenly jumped up and cried: “Culture be rotted! What we want is action!”
I slapped my brow in despair, though I could hardly help but feel a measure of admiration for the tiny fellow. There was a low murmur of anguish from the audience as the Id kicked over a platter of Pullum Anethatum and tore off his wreath. “Action, you say? Very well. I shall provide it in dark abundance.”
And he made a gesture which brought guards running with whips. The amphitheatre was cleared in a minute and we were all herded back onto the chariots. Then with an exhortation to follow him, our host set off at a stupendous rate across the fields. There was no moon and the rubber scythes were useless against the local brambles. More than one chariot tipped into an unseen ditch and we lost a dozen club members leaping the first hedge. But Engelbrecht stood on tiptoe and peered over his rail as if he was enjoying a leisurely tour, while the Id’s wild laughter from ahead provided the only clue as to in which direction we were headed.
Presently the lights of a big city twinkled on the horizon and I understood we were being driven into the heart of London. As the urban glow grew brighter, I noted that right at the rear of our convoy was a vehicle which didn’t resemble a chariot. It was too far behind to make out details. And now we had entered the outlying suburbs of the metropolis and I was so embarrassed by the disapproving stares and tongue cluckings of pedestrians that I bowed my head and looked at my feet. The rest of the journey wasn’t too eventful, though we ran someone down on the Hammersmith flyover, or so Engelbrecht claimed, but I don’t trust his geography, and when I checked later the blood on the wheels had more of an Acton consistency to it.
At last, after what seemed an age, our chariot stopped and the guards who held the reins allowed us to climb down. I was with the dwarf, Nodder Fothergill and Skeletal Bartholomew, and because all three are of slight girth, my muscles weren’t too stiff. The same can’t be said for those members who had to share with Dreamy Dan and his attendant visions, all six hundred of them, some fatter than mirages even, and now these unfortunates came limping and staggering along, calling out for Dr Sadismus, the surrealist surgeon, to put them right, unaware that he was in one of the vehicles which hadn’t made it.
We were standing in front of the British Museum in Russell Square, but the building was locked up for the night. The Id was busy picking the lock on a side-door with a toga-pin and when he finally managed to force entry, he beckoned for us to follow. It was rather eerie inside with all those dinosaur bones creaking in the cooling air. I had to restrain Engelbrecht from letting fly with his trident at an Archaeopteryx fossil which he insisted was giving him a challenging stare. Fortunately, the exhibits soon became more abstract and his passion vaguer, and before he actually killed anything on display, the long undulating line of intruders had tiptoed to the threshold of the room containing the Ancient Greek Collection and were gathered in a semi-circle around the Id, who held a finger to his lips.
The only sound came from the spitting candles fixed to the spines of Chattox, the pet hedgehog of Tommy Prenderghast, which the Id had requisitioned as a source of illumination, tugging him along on a leash. Tommy himself was nowhere to be seen. I attempted to peer past the Id into the shadowy room, but he shook his head and I wisely drew back. I already knew what was in there anyway, so I wasn’t put out by this rebuttal. It was Engelbrecht who shattered the grim hush of anticipation.
“What’s the new game, boss?” he shouted.
The Id frowned so deeply that his face was pressed into his double-chins and his ensuing chuckle was muffled. “Why, nothing more than Running the Gauntlet.”
“Let me at it!” the dwarf replied.
I nudged him to keep quiet, but it was like trying to discourage a bad cold from setting up home in a nose. I suppose Engelbrecht’s compressed audacity keeps him safe from a comprehensive thrashing. If Charlie Wapentake spoke to the Id like that he’d be out on his ear, if he was allowed to keep one, and none of the other clubmen, not even the Oldest Member, would dare to hope for better treatment. But the dwarf has the pluck of a giant and the popular theory is that it has been coiled down tight to fit inside him, and anybody who ruptures him is liable to cause an explosion. Fanciful, I know, but too neat to be just a metaphor.
