Young Writers Society

                                                         PORK EPIC #3

Small townships passed beneath the airship on its cruise through the sky, appearing to those on board like models. Pines among them was the only one who had ever been so high. Low-lying clouds scudded across the surface of the ship’s massive gas bag.

          A single day had passed of Pines’ ‘fantastic journey’ and already the tension was suffocating like a noxious gas. Pines himself had retreated to the crow’s nest atop the gas bag itself where he could seek, for a short while, some solitude.

          Mostly, he wanted to be away from that hound, Lola.

          “Pester, pester, pester!” he murmured to himself. “Doesn’t she appreciate this is the mother of all adventures? The excitement lies in the journey.”

          “Not this one,” Lola’s voice announced.

          Despite having thought that he was becoming accustomed to the woman’s uncanny ability to appear when he least suspected and usually least desired, Pines jumped nonetheless. The circumstances were grating on his nerves. He was supposed to be the shocking and unpredictable one!

          What was that old saying about a woman scorned? Pines found himself distressed with the penetrating stare she wore.

          “Mister Pines,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. She raised her index finger.

          Oh lord, Pines thought.

          “You can’t keep this up. If we have to, we can simply turn the ship around and go back to Lod! Is that what you want?”

          Pines mumbled something about the likelihood that they would do that anyway.

          “Speak up, Mr. Pines!”

          He glanced up at the magnificent azure sky, decorated with white cotton clouds and the haze of distant birds. The stunning panorama did little to settle his nerves. Within, that stubborn wall slowly collapsed. It was time he divulged his little secret.

          “We are headed for Fituaga,” he said, turning away from her. He found it would be easier to watch the slowly growing mountains.

          Lola blinked. Then she burst out laughing.

          Pines’ first thought was that she was mocking him for a fool. He faced her again, ready to spill some defence or another for his cause, yet she beat him to the mark.

          “That’s all?” Lola asked, looking charmingly confused.

          Baxter Pines was shocked. He had just spoken the dreaded name of Fituaga, a name that had featured in all the newspapers a decade ago, a place ravaged by war and sickness and god knew what else, a chaotic hellhole that mothers still sometimes used to scare their children, and this woman laughed?

          “You, Miss Kibble, are insane.” Pines tweaked his moustache and scrunched his nose up with a disdainful snort, the sort employed by aristocracy and the incredibly rich.

          “No, no, it’s just that I’ve always wanted to go there!” Lola explained vibrantly. She grinned up at the sky.

          “You are incredibly insane.”

          “Mr. Pines, let me remind you that you’re the one who chose it as our destination.” Lola planted her hands on her hips indignantly.

          Pines smiled and shook his head in a way suggestive that he had something further to say on the matter, but he kept silent. He felt he had revealed too much for the time being. In all aspects of life, especially as an aviator, he had found that some things were better kept to himself.

          An awkward silence blew in like a fog between them. Lola ran her fingers through her hair and looked around. That was when she first noticed the machine gun. There were two, in fact, one on each side of the crow’s nest. Both had a long, burnished chrome barrel, set upon a stand by which they could be swivelled around to aim wherever necessary. Ammunition feeds disappeared into the top of the airship.

          “Wow,” Lola whispered. There was little else she could say.

          Pines took the cue. “I have some connections in the military. You’ve met captain Bullworth, no doubt?” Bullworth was the soldier in charge of the group of five Pines had hired as a sort of guard.

          “Yes. Is it true he once killed a pelking?”

          “Ah yes, Bullworth and The Pelking,” Pines recited. “I believe he did.”

          The incident had occurred several years ago, reported of course in all the newspapers. Many of the details were unclear—although Bullworth himself would profess unconditional heroism—yet the infallible core of the story was that Bullworth, while indeed an imposing and powerful man, had unaccountably managed to slay a pelking. Pelking were massive, armour-backed beasts of the woods, occasionally causing trouble for small villages and therefore unduly feared and despised.

          “The press made a fiasco of it, as usual,” Pines said casually. “You would be wise not to raise the matter with the man himself. He can… talk.” He adjusted his collar and grunted disapprovingly.

          A large pink head appeared at the ladder. Huge pointed ears were the dominating features. It was Jules, the navigator.

          “Sir,” Jules said hurriedly. “We’re being followed by a land vehicle.”

          “Ah?” Pines said. “What does it look like?”

          Jules obviously found the question a difficult one to answer. Slowly, he managed to formulate a description.

          “It’s large, silvery, all sorts of things sticking out off of it. Lots of steam and smoke. Ghastly, sir.”

          Pines groaned and wiped his hand across his face.

          “We’re in for trouble.”