The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) by Ishbelle Bee Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
Machines
An Evening at the House of Loveheart
W e emerge from the darkness . Pink dazzles the night sky as our carriage drives along the country roads. It is the pink of Egypt; it sizzles. I think the pyramids were giant time machines where the King’s body was transported to the Land of the Dead and the black-ooze river of the underworld. I remember seeing the burial chamber of a king and his treasures found by Goliath’s father – ostrich feather fans, ebony statues, a solid gold sarcophagus.
Inside the tombs were magical maps to help the King through the underworld, to help him pass the demons who guarded the doorways. If you failed the test your soul was eaten by a demon.
Why do those words make me think of Mr Loveheart? Is he a king? Is he wandering in the underworld on a quest to keep his soul? Wicked, beautiful, mad Mr Loveheart. You are stuffed with hearts. They burst out of your eyes, fall to your feet like severed heads. Your guts are red ribbons. Your heart is a rose. I can see you, Mr Loveheart. I can see what he has done to you. He has murdered part of you. Buried you beneath deep earth, buried you alive.
You are a forest on fire.
Burn them, Mr Loveheart. Burn them all into nothing.
I remember the Sunday sermons I used to attend with my sisters. The vicar never mentioned magical maps or scarab beetles. He never mentioned the hippopotamus goddess or the crocodile god, the one who gobbled everything up. Instead, he would roll his eyes and point a long, pale finger at a statue of a man nailed to a cross. He talked about pain and hellfire. He talked about sacrifice a lot. I think that was his favourite word.
I bet the Egyptian priests would laugh themselves silly.
I remember the sermons on forgiveness. I remember the rain miserably pounding on the church windows. I remember the long sighs and much rolling of eyeballs of the vicar. I remember wishing he would drop down dead just so it would end, just so it would be over.
I think about those Egyptian priests, who have knives and mirrors in their hands, banquets and harvests, magic books of the dead, dragonflies in their ears and honey on their lips.
I look up at the sky; the pink is disappearing. Egypt is slipping away. I have been dazzled. I have been infected by it. When this is all over I want to go back there and lick the tombs of the pharaoh and dance with the priests.
Mr Loveheart leans over towards me. “Your name interests me very much. Mirrors are portals to other worlds.”
“I would like to see other worlds,” I say.
“Be careful what you wish for.” He winks.
The carriage pulls up in front of the house of Mr Loveheart. It is a fairy tale palace. There are white turrets with secret, slitted windows, battlements for archers and banners, perhaps a princess locked in a tower waiting to be rescued. Other carriages are nearby: guests have arrived to view the machines of Mr Loveheart. I can hear music and laughter within, a rustle of skirts and the smell of cigar smoke. Goliath takes my hand as we enter the kingdom of the wicked prince.
An Egyptian mummy’s sarcophagus perches in the hallway, inspected by a monocle-eyed gentleman as round as an apple, a gentleman whom Mr Loveheart pats on the shoulder and greets enthusiastically. “Mr Orion, a pleasure. You like the Pharaoh?”
Mr Orion raises his bald head. “Really marvellous. What a treat. And you think this may transport me back through time to see Cleopatra?”
“My father believed in these objects and their power. I am simply grateful to be able to get rid of them.”
Mr Orion says, “I am sure we can strike a deal.” His monocle wobbles as he inspects the Pharaoh closely. “Perhaps I need to climb inside to be transported, so to speak?”
“As you wish, dear sir, as you wish,” and Mr Loveheart manoeuvres us around Mr Orion into the sitting room, where a half dozen characters are viewing a great metal spiked wheel with a seat engineered in the middle, which rocks gently
An Evening at the House of Loveheart
W e emerge from the darkness . Pink dazzles the night sky as our carriage drives along the country roads. It is the pink of Egypt; it sizzles. I think the pyramids were giant time machines where the King’s body was transported to the Land of the Dead and the black-ooze river of the underworld. I remember seeing the burial chamber of a king and his treasures found by Goliath’s father – ostrich feather fans, ebony statues, a solid gold sarcophagus.
Inside the tombs were magical maps to help the King through the underworld, to help him pass the demons who guarded the doorways. If you failed the test your soul was eaten by a demon.
Why do those words make me think of Mr Loveheart? Is he a king? Is he wandering in the underworld on a quest to keep his soul? Wicked, beautiful, mad Mr Loveheart. You are stuffed with hearts. They burst out of your eyes, fall to your feet like severed heads. Your guts are red ribbons. Your heart is a rose. I can see you, Mr Loveheart. I can see what he has done to you. He has murdered part of you. Buried you beneath deep earth, buried you alive.
You are a forest on fire.
Burn them, Mr Loveheart. Burn them all into nothing.
I remember the Sunday sermons I used to attend with my sisters. The vicar never mentioned magical maps or scarab beetles. He never mentioned the hippopotamus goddess or the crocodile god, the one who gobbled everything up. Instead, he would roll his eyes and point a long, pale finger at a statue of a man nailed to a cross. He talked about pain and hellfire. He talked about sacrifice a lot. I think that was his favourite word.
I bet the Egyptian priests would laugh themselves silly.
I remember the sermons on forgiveness. I remember the rain miserably pounding on the church windows. I remember the long sighs and much rolling of eyeballs of the vicar. I remember wishing he would drop down dead just so it would end, just so it would be over.
I think about those Egyptian priests, who have knives and mirrors in their hands, banquets and harvests, magic books of the dead, dragonflies in their ears and honey on their lips.
I look up at the sky; the pink is disappearing. Egypt is slipping away. I have been dazzled. I have been infected by it. When this is all over I want to go back there and lick the tombs of the pharaoh and dance with the priests.
Mr Loveheart leans over towards me. “Your name interests me very much. Mirrors are portals to other worlds.”
“I would like to see other worlds,” I say.
“Be careful what you wish for.” He winks.
The carriage pulls up in front of the house of Mr Loveheart. It is a fairy tale palace. There are white turrets with secret, slitted windows, battlements for archers and banners, perhaps a princess locked in a tower waiting to be rescued. Other carriages are nearby: guests have arrived to view the machines of Mr Loveheart. I can hear music and laughter within, a rustle of skirts and the smell of cigar smoke. Goliath takes my hand as we enter the kingdom of the wicked prince.
An Egyptian mummy’s sarcophagus perches in the hallway, inspected by a monocle-eyed gentleman as round as an apple, a gentleman whom Mr Loveheart pats on the shoulder and greets enthusiastically. “Mr Orion, a pleasure. You like the Pharaoh?”
Mr Orion raises his bald head. “Really marvellous. What a treat. And you think this may transport me back through time to see Cleopatra?”
“My father believed in these objects and their power. I am simply grateful to be able to get rid of them.”
Mr Orion says, “I am sure we can strike a deal.” His monocle wobbles as he inspects the Pharaoh closely. “Perhaps I need to climb inside to be transported, so to speak?”
“As you wish, dear sir, as you wish,” and Mr Loveheart manoeuvres us around Mr Orion into the sitting room, where a half dozen characters are viewing a great metal spiked wheel with a seat engineered in the middle, which rocks gently
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