Gauntlet of Gorgons
The Id would tolerate no more delay. “Hurry up!”
“I’m ready boss,” replied Engelbrecht, “but first I need a decent run-up. Takes me a while to attain maximum velocity.” And without waiting for permission, he paced back down the corridor. Soon he was out of sight and a few of the members offered the opinion that he had scarpered, but I knew him better than that. He’ll cheat if he can’t do his best within the rules.
Just when my confidence on this matter was waning, there came a curious kind of twanging sound, and Engelbrecht zoomed past me a second later. His little legs were in motion but I can’t say he was really running because he happened to be suspended a foot above the ground. I reckon he broke the sound-barrier as he shot into the room, for the Id’s burnished shield shattered into innumerable long splinters which duelled with Chattox’s spines on the way down. The dwarf ran that gauntlet in less than one blink, though he found time enough to box the Elgin Marbles as he passed them, connecting a tremendous uppercut which knocked them through a window all the way to Greece. I hear they are still there and that the British government has been reduced to begging for them back.
Then he yelled as he landed safely in the adjacent Egyptian Collection and I knew he was still made of flesh.
But the Gorgons weren’t entirely cheated of a prize, for Engelbrecht’s progress through the chamber was so rapid it left an afterimage in the air, and although he never looked at the sisters, his afterimage did. It immediately turned to stone, a solid bridge of obsidian running right through the room, like a solidification of time, for its length was a chronological extrusion of the dwarf, and at every point it betrayed characteristics belonging to him, such as its downward arc and the twinkle in its depths.
I trembled to think what the curators would say when they discovered this anomaly on the morrow, but I was spared my worries as the obsidian bridge started to melt. So much friction had been generated between the body of the dwarf and the musty atmosphere that the heat turned the stone into lava. It puddled over the floor. I was as surprised as anyone when the Id jumped into the room, crouched down in the bubbling liquid and scooped up blistering handfuls of the stuff. Rather foolishly I stepped over the threshold for a closer look, but my luck was in, for the two Gorgons were covering their heads with their wings, terrified of the Id’s countenance.
On the way out, I spied the olive-stone which had been dropped by Skeletal Bartholomew and Louis Aragon and idly picked it up. It was covered in writing, all the stuff about the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome which the Id doesn’t know.
Engelbrecht was in a fine humour during the drive back to Nightmare Abbey. We were at the rear of the convoy this time, and not on a chariot. We shared with Tommy and Chippy and I learned what trick they’d played to fix the game in the dwarf’s favour. The Id was far ahead, already over the curve of the world, and on foot, his guards with him. They were whipping the lava all the way to his estate and they had to hurry before it cooled and set. Just as well, I suppose, for if our host had seen what device stood outside the Museum when he left, he would have declared the event void. But he was too concerned with herding the blazing stream to notice his environment.
It was a giant catapult, of course. At the precise instant in the musical show when I’d anticipated a jape, Tommy and Chippy had slipped out of the amphitheatre to wind the onager, which hadn’t been used since the caber fiasco. They planned to launch a few lions over the heads of the spectators onto the stage, to spice the songs up a bit. But as they were trying to load the machine, the laces of the beasts’ sandals became entangled in the workings. By now the rest of us were leaving in the chariots and the lions scented prey and chased the horses, which is natural for them, having something to do with terror and sublimity. The catapult was heavier and slower than our vehicles which explains their late arrival at the contest.
The onager stopped in front of the Museum entrance, still primed, so when they went inside and saw what was going on with the Gorgons, they suggested to Engelbrecht that he be used for ammunition. A profitable missile he made too, as I discovered to my cost. But I couldn’t deny his triumph and he had enough large bruises from his landing on the Rosetta Stone to make me feel guilty about my annoyance. This time when we ran over a pedestrian, I collected enough blood in a phial to have it properly analysed for a post-code. Details like that bother me.
