The Quiet, the Bold and the Silly

An Iron Age media short story inspired by Anvil's "The Hirelings"

It’s truly a well and awful time when even the sight of newborn spring bunnies playing amongst the clover and dandelions can’t raise your spirits. Doubly so if you are Astley Klunni and thus are an up-and-coming Gaudēre, people who make an art out of whimsy and fun. But try as he might he just not bring himself to feel such godly joy, not now. Not when his greatest idea ever had gone so awry.

It had all seemed so simple and so very easy naught but a day ago. It was the Grand Show, and for a Gaudēre there can be no greater a time. The best entertainers in the land had gathered for it, an event celebrated only every ten years. The crowds had been waiting for so long for the show, and Astley had been waiting to show everyone that he had what it takes to carry on his family’s tradition; despite his lack of traditional Gaudēre talents such as juggling or acrobatics. No, his talent lie in gears, springs and valves, in brass and steel and steam. He had spent months working on his Great Contraption.

And what did he have to show for it? A great smoking hole in the side of the Judge’s Quarter, a hole that even now workers raced to repair with all manner of cranes and machinery. All very mechanical and precise. All very lacking in whimsy, as good construction must be. And it was all his fault that this celebration of fun had gone awry. He had gotten Mister Patches into the Great Contraption, had him fed and watered, groomed and petted. But then, just as it was time for the big show, he had bounded off!

Had he fed him the wrong treats? Made the harness not sufficiently comfy? As Astley tugged upon his gloves and fretted he did not notice the six small shapes approach him on the little grassy hill he had seemed fit to suffer upon.

“Excuse us for the wait, sir, but we’re all here now” said the one who stood at the forefront of the group, the first one Astley locked eyes with as he practically sprang from his inner turmoil, almost smearing his religious face paint when he went to cover his mouth in surprise at his sudden visitors. “P-pardon me, sirs? Do I know you?” he quickly put out as he moved to look upon the whole group; six nearly identical men dressed in nearly identical tall red hats, each only coming up to a man’s thigh in height. Each with great white beards and big saucer ears and with oh so very dour expressions.

“You don’t” the one from before replied in a very matter-of-fact tone. “But your father does. He’s the one that hired us” he continued, moving a stubby hand down to pat at a jingling pocket. “Hired you for what?” Astley asked, these strange half men seeming thoroughly out-of-place among the gaiety surrounding them. The speaker rolled his beady black eyes and sighed. “To deal with what caused that” he said, gesturing to the great smoking hole in the nearby structure with what Astley assumed was what passed for dry humor. “That? But how did you know about that, it just happened! And I haven’t had the chance t-” his response was cut off by one of the other ones raising his hands. “It’s a long story boy, and we’ll have time for it later. For now tell us what you need us to do and we’ll do it” he said in a slightly lighter tone. “As we always have” added the one at the front.

Astley was gobsmacked. Who were these half men? His father had paid them? So many questions, but perhaps they were right. Those could wait.

“It’s like this…” he then said, reaching into his ceremonial overalls to pull out the sketches and diagrams he had for the Great Metal Dog. The tiny man at the front gestured for them and Astley did so. The six half men formed an almost-circle as they all tried to peak over the Foreman’s shoulder, or the shoulder of the man next to him. All the while they all muttered little ‘hmmm’s and ‘ah’s. Before they could get any ideas Astley quickly raised a gloved hand and cleared his throat. “Please don’t destroy it; my best friend is in there and he doesn’t deserve harm!”

“Oh don’t you worry, we aren’t going to hurt him” said the Foreman. “Won’t even lay a finger on him!” said another. “That’s the truth!” came a third. “Then what are you going to do? It’s truly a great machine, nearly five horses high” Astley said in disbelief. “Ah, simple really” came the Foreman. “You got a shop here and some parts?”

It was several hours later when an exhausted Astley and the six half men would emerge from his makeshift workshop the judges had provided him for his act, carrying various gleaming metal parts slung over shoulders or under arms. The two unlucky half men had to assist Astley in rolling a barrel of water across the evening plains, following the massive foot steps left by the Great Metal Dog as it had prowled it’s way across the landscape. At several points they had to navigate the sloshing barrel around the deep steps, and indeed what was a workout for the scholarly Astley seemed to barely phase the stout half men. They kept a pace that astounded him, and he never even saw them grow short of breath.

The march ended hours later as they neared the end of the tracks, having crossed the plains until they, and their quarry, had seemed to end up at the foot of the Old Maw Mountain, a monstrous slope that it would seem even the Great Metal Dog’s large limbs had been bested by. There, in the bright moonlight that had guided their steps, lay the gleaming contraption, like a dog laying in a bed. The smoke stacks on it’s sides still billowed; it appeared Patches was merely asleep within, nestled within his harness.

They stopped about fifteen feet from their target, the half men conversing in low tongues that Astley could not understand. “What’s the plan then? I got you the parts, you promised to explain it” he asked the seemingly tireless half men as they went about filling bronze basins with water and setting out the steel components. “It’s quite simple” said one of them who had not spoken before, “your dog couldn’t hear you over the noise of that big clanking suit. But we’re making something he can’t miss now” he finished, and Astley could swear he saw a wry smile on his little mousey face. “Just follow what we do and you’ll catch on, you’re a bright lad like your grandfather” said the Foreman as he came and poured another basin of water. “And his grandfather! Remember he had that idea for the boat?” said another, and all of them gave a gruff laugh at a joke Astley did not understand. But what would a Gaudēre be if he asked for a joke to be explained?

It took the remainder of the night for them to assemble their solution, and as it grew complete Astley did indeed get it. And he had to suppress a great laugh at the cleverness of it, only smarting ever so slightly at the fact he had missed the idea. But something troubled him as he looked upon the small vehicle, with it’s great squeaking wheels and steaming furnace. There was only one seat. “Will you not be riding with me?” he asked the half men as he helped to screw in a bolt.

“No, you won’t need us for it” said the Foreman as he prodded one of the circular wheels to insure it was squeaky enough. “And besides! The Klunni aren’t the only clan we’ve got a pact with!” came another, who Astley recognized as the most light hearted among them. “Lots of business this time of year” came another, a quiet one. They all nodded at that assertion and seemed pleased.

“How much is my father paying you? I’ll double it, I can afford to sell a few inventions. You’re the best workers I’ve ever seen, I’d love to have you help me in my shop” Astley offered as he reached into his overalls to produce his coin pouch, though the Foreman raised a hand to stop him. “Not how we do things. Besides, we don’t take the payment personally. You’ll figure it out” he said, and the way he looked at Astley told him it was final. “Now get on that thing, sun is coming up”.

It was the third day of the Grand Show and the more esoteric performers were showing their acts. Grand Gaudēre Esuma lay back in his squeaky chair as he looked down into the ring on which the current applicant was showing his performance: a slapstick show where he claims to be assailed by unseen winds and invisible boxes. This was his thirteenth year judging and, though it pained him to admit it as a follower of the Laughing God, things had gotten rather droll. Perhaps it was having had to oversee the repair work on the wall that had sucked the mirth from him. Or perhaps this year’s esoteric acts were simply bad.

It was then that he heard the rumbling, though perhaps felt more than heard. The rafters which supported the judging platform were starting to shake. The audience below seemed to feel the same, many of them standing up from their seats and looking about, disrupting any minute cheer the performer may have felt. The rumbling grew stronger and stronger until, with a mix of horror and annoyance, Esuma knew just what it was.

He stood up from the chair and ordered the workmen to quickly clear the seats by the still only half-repaired wall. And just in time it turns out as the worker clowns had only just gotten the section cleared when a great squeaking figure bowled right under the wooden planks, a horn tooting as he did. Then came the crashing as the mighty metal beast gave chase, moving through the repairs as if they weren’t even there.

The squeaking figure made it’s way to the center of the tent, dancing under the spotlight to show just who and what it was. It was indeed young Astley Klunni, but he rode a truly strange vehicle. Only two wheels kept him a loft as he drove it around, and with each turn of the wheels a great squeaking could be heard. A squeaking that the metal dog seemed to chase.

And then it hit him. And he laughed, despite the damage. Despite the future headache. Because what better way to make a giant metal dog chase you then by riding a giant metal bone?

The show was on then and Astley made sure not to let this second chance go to waste. He used the vehicle to lure Patches through a series of deft turns and swoops, darting between it’s legs to get it to lay down and ramping off the sidelines in order to make it roll over. People in the crowd seemed to love the sheer spectacle of it, a giant clanking dog that played just like a puppy. By the time he had gotten it to sit by rolling over it’s back feet he knew just what he had to do for his final trick.

“Ladies and gentlemen! For my last trick you shall amazement! You shall see flight! You shall see fancy! And you shall see the most important part!” Astley called through the amplifying metal shell the half men had mounted by the steering prods. People stood up to get a better view as he spun the craft around one last time, racing up the dog’s tail and right up it’s back, dodging steam spouts and smoke stacks. He knew Patches had this; it was his favourite trick after all. He ramped up the great metal neck and up the head between the ears, then with a final toot of the built in horn he rode straight off the nose

The dog let out a tinny metallic bark and sprang forward to grab the bone, pulleys and gears whirring as it did it’s first, and probably last, jump of it’s life. Two great bursts of steam erupted from the sides of the dog’s head as it opened it’s metal jaws and caught the craft and it’s rider, then two bursts of smoke followed as they closed.

Everyone was silent then, as the metallic mutt stood there with the oddly shaped vehicle hanging from it’s jaws. Fearful eyes glanced up and down to the sandy floor below, both hoping and fearing to see Astley’s remains. But there was nothing. And then, after a big burst of steam from seemingly every crevice of the metal dog, all was quiet again.

Then, from beneath the dog’s tail, emerged the polka dotted form of Astley Klunni, holding Mister Patches…the cat.