The Muse

BY SARAH O’DONOGHUE

Author’s note – As it stands, this is an unfinished story. Unfortunately the muse of the title has long since taken flight and writer’s block has hit with a vengeance. After letting the story ideas stay on the back burner for a few months I have had to sadly declare defeat: at least for now. I still hope to return and finish this story at some point, but if anyone else wishes to have a go please email me!

I thought it was about time we brought the lovely Mrs Pratt back into the Legend universe, so I decided to pack Ernest off to San Francisco to see his mom in this story.

Thanks as always to the usual suspects, Steve, Paul, Mark W and Heather for their support, ideas and beta reading (I can’t wait to see your Mother Pratt story Heather!)
Weird inspiration corner…the snake feeding instructions were inspired by an article I read about the singer Alice Cooper who really does scare hotel room maids with similar orders.
And this Legend Season Two story guest star is Alicia Silverstone as Jemima “Jem” Gavin.
Historians note: This story refers back to my previous Legend Series II episode “Uncle Nick” and is set in late 1878

Pratt closed his eyes as he sat at the desk in his room: a story was coming – he could smell it. All week he’d been trying desperately to give voice to the unformed idea that was teasing at the edges of his imagination.

This didn’t happen to him very often. More often than not his ideas for Legend stories came from news events: a child lost down a well, a wealthy woman leaving her fortune to an unlikely cause, an amazing technical advance.

Of course there were his “commissions” as well. Most publishers retained some control over their writers’ work, but few were as demanding and controlling as EC Allen could be. Ever since Pratt had been strong armed into living in Sheridan and taking on the appearance of his fictional hero, Allen had made more and more outrageous demands over his writing.

The nasty business with little Nicodemus Junior two years earlier had only been the beginning. Since then Pratt had had to write a romantic adventure with Legend falling for a pathetic creature that was heavily based on EC Allen’s niece, a serial for the English newspapers where Legend persuaded the Prime Minister that the publishing laws needed to be relaxed for the sake of free speech ( a not so subtle dig at the British publishers of Allen dime novels heavily censoring content), and even a story featuring Legend saving a heroic publisher from his murderous writer.

But every so often a story crept up on Pratt. He would feel an idea forming and for days would wander round in a state of dizzy expectation. He would catch a glimpse of what his creativity was trying to give him and then would lose the tendril of inspiration.

Finally, he could feel that the idea was ready to take form. His muse had spoken!

Opening his eyes, Pratt glanced at the keys of his shiny new typewriter that he had bought with the proceeds of his last sale, a soft smile on his lips. He took a deep breath and began to type.

The sky was an ominous grey. Rain was coming. The air was heavy. Almost as heavy as the heart of a hero.
Nicodemus Legend, that great righter of wrongs stood up, straightening his back and wiping his handsome brow. He had been helping his neighbour, Mrs Riley, to plant potatoes all morning. Despite being in constant demand throughout the West, Nicodemus liked to help regular people too. An honest morning’s toil in the field had left him tired, but satisfied that he had done a good job. But now, something was brewing. He could feel it.
Suddenly Legend stiffened his muscular form as a cold shiver went up his spine…the sound of a gun being cocked came a moment before a barrel of steel was suddenly pushed into his neck…

“Mr Pratt!”

Pratt jumped and stopped typing.

“MR PRATT!”

“WHAT!!!” he shouted irritably. He let out an exasperated sigh, inspiration flying as fast as it had come upon him. He jumped up and stalked to his door, flinging it open with an angry scowl.

Skeeter, odd-job boy at the Silver King and sometime member of the Legend “team” stood in front of him, dripping wet and shivering.

The deep scowl vanished as Pratt’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline with his surprise.

”What the heck happened to you Skeeter?” demanded the writer, not all his malice at the intrusion being forgotten.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Pratt,” started Skeeter, “but Professor Bartok said I was to come and get you straight away. There’s been a tiny accident at the Compound.”

“What kind of tiny accident,” asked Pratt, his eyes narrowing. “The tiny kind of accident that left half the town as a pile of rubble?”

Skeeter squirmed slightly. “Not exactly. The tiny kind of accident where the water pipe under the Compound burst and destroyed all your research archives.”

“No!” barked Pratt. He turned away in shock, then, gathering his thoughts he snatched up his coat from the bedside chair in his room.

“That’s why I’m soaked, Mr Pratt”, continued Skeeter in a nervous manner as Pratt prepared to leave his room in a hurry, “The Professor, Mr Ramos and me have just spent the morning trying to make the piping system up there more efficient. Professor Bartok had come up with an amazing invention to…”

Pratt appeared back at the door and pushed a hand in front of the younger man. “I don’t want to know, Skeeter, I really don’t want to know. Bartok and his ideas have got me into so much trouble over the years… just get me back up to the Bartok and Ramos Laboratories on the double!”

“I’ll go and fire up the velocipede!” called the younger man as he turned and started back down the stairs.

“Oh, and Skeeter,” Pratt called to the fast disappearing form, “grab a towel!”

The early fall day was cool and overcast as the two men hurried to the Compound in record time. They had just driven over the crest of the hill by the Compound when Pratt pulled the velocipede up sharp in horror.

He’d seen the rather messy results of many of Bartok’s inventions that had gone awry, but nothing quite as bad as this. It appeared as if the entire Compound had seen the worst of Noah’s flood but hadn’t been allowed into the Ark. The ground was invisible under a huge newly formed lake and occasional fountains jetted at random intervals into the grey sky.

Pratt stood up and took his hat off, pushing a stray lock of hair away from his face.

“What the heck has he done this time?” the writer breathed. He looked down at his companion.

Skeeter was actually smiling. “Oh great! The water’s going down!” he remarked cheerfully.

”Going down?”

“Oh yes, Mr Pratt. It was a lot worse an hour ago.”

Suddenly a tall figure clad in oilskins could be seen wading out from the main laboratory building.

”Ah! Ernest! Glad you could make it!” shouted Janos Bartok as he waved to the new arrivals.

Pratt didn’t even try to respond over the distance between himself and his colleague. Pouting, he climbed out of the dry velocipede, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and waded out to his friend.

Pratt gritted his teeth as he felt *something* float past his leg. He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t want to know.

Finally Pratt was within a few feet of his scientific consultant.

”Hello Bartok, ” he growled.

Bartok appeared rather sheepish despite his undignified appearance. “Hello, Ernest. Nice day, isn’t it.”

Pratt’s face darkened even further.

Bartok cleared his throat nervously, but decided to press on.

“I assume Skeeter has already told you what caused our little mishap,” he began. Pratt nodded.

Bartok took a deep breath. “Normally Ramos and I would turn off the water supply before conducting any repairs or efficiency checks, but testing the pressure limitations of the old lead piping to ascertain whether it was practical or even necessary to replace them with my new alloy required us to measure the actual flow….”

Pratt held up his hand to stop the verbal deluge. “I get the point Bartok, but what…about… my…research…archives? I only gave them to you because I didn’t have room for all the cases at the hotel and your *repeated* promises that they would be safe!”

“All destroyed.”

”All of them?! That’s ten years worth of work! Down the drain! *literally*!!! How could you!”

Bartok gulped. “We forgot they were there”

“WHAT!” Pratt exploded. “Bartok you’re a scientist for crying out loud. You *know* how important research is for progress. I wouldn’t start a fire in my hearth with *your* notes stacked up as kindling and then go ‘oops!’ How could you do this to me!!!”

Pratt threw up his hands in despair and seemed to lose all fight. “That’s it Bartok. All my newspaper articles, all my Legend publicity photographs and sketches. All my contracts, earning reports, patent certificates on the Legend name, my continuity notes, my original manuscripts…everything. All gone.”

The writer swallowed hard. “I’ve lost everything, Janos. How can I write another Nicodemus Legend story ever again?”

“Oh come on, Ernest, surely it’s not *that* bad.”

Pratt glared. “Think of it from my point of view, Bartok. Nicodemus Legend is an evolving character. How am I supposed to continue to move him forward if I don’t have access to all that has gone before?”

At that moment Huitzlilpochli Ramos’ head popped out of the building behind where Bartok and Pratt were having their confrontation. He was clad in waterproofs as his colleague had been, and had his arms full with a multitude of soggy papers that he had obviously been able to salvage from the water.

“I may be so bold, Mr Pratt, this accident, unfortunate as it is, may prove to be a blessing in disguise.”

The writer threw a scowl in the Aztec’s direction. “Convince me, Ramos.”

Ramos waded over to join them. “If you think about it, Mr Pratt, your readers only know what you have chosen to reveal about Nicodemus Legend through your books. By simply re-reading your published work you can get an overview of the storyline and continue accordingly. Of course your notes could have aided you in formulating narratives, but they could equally have weighed you down. You now have a chance for an entirely fresh direction.” His eyes twinkled, “That can only help your sales.”

Pratt frowned. Ramos had found his weakness by mentioning his sales figures. Sales meant money which meant keeping him in liquor and cigars for a while longer. His eyebrow quirked , but still kept his scowl. “What about all my contracts, Ramos?”

Bartok jumped to his colleagues’ defense. “Surely EC Allen would be able to furnish you with duplicates, Ernest.”

“Yeah, but do you know how much he’d make me grovel to get them?” retorted the writer.

Ever the diplomat, Ramos thought quickly. “What if Professor Bartok and I approach Mr Allen and secure copies of everything you need, while you take time out to gather your thoughts?”

”You mean a vacation,” said Pratt suspiciously. ”Why not, Ernest?” asked Bartok. “And remember, you haven’t visited your mother in San Francisco for a long time. Why not combine a vacation with a visit to her?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth the scientist knew that he had said the wrong thing. Pratt’s face darkened once more. “There’s a reason for that, Bartok. You know my mother tries to boss me around whenever she sees me. It’s taken every excuse I could come up with to get out of seeing her for the last year and a half.” ”Yes, but she must miss you,” noted Ramos, “Why not go down to San Francisco, reread your dime novels and work on rebuilding your notes? You wouldn’t need to stay in your mother’s house – you could stay in lodgings, and I am sure the change of scenery would be welcome for you.”

Pratt was beginning to soften. “I suppose I owe her a visit,” he admitted grudgingly, “and I’ve got a new story idea that I need to get down on paper.” He looked up, “but I’m still not letting you two off. You must contact Allen and get copies of all my contracts. That crook will swindle me for every penny he can given the chance. I need to keep everything I’ve ever signed.”

Bartok nodded. “Agreed.”

Skeeter had finally joined them in the recently created lake, but had started to visibly shiver from the cold, water he was standing in. Pratt’s anger had kept him oblivious to the discomfort, but even he was beginning to wish for protective oilskins like those the scientists were wearing.

“Do you think you gentlemen can finish this on dry land?” asked the younger newcomer, “I’m soaked and I can’t afford to get sick. I get my wages docked from the Silver King for every day I miss work.”

Bartok allowed himself a small smile. “Of course. The farmhouse has missed the flooding and Ramos and I have rescued all that we will be able to today. We will let the rest of the water drain and continue salvaging in the morning.”

The four companions sploshed over towards the house at the edge of the Compound. As they were walking, Pratt drew Bartok to one side rather sheepishly. “I’m sorry Bartok, I’m complaining about what I lost in all this, but what about you and Ramos? Was any of your work destroyed.”

Bartok shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Despite all of his selfish bluster, Ernest Pratt cared more for other people than he would ever admit. “Fortunately no, Ernest. The pipe burst in the stores building. My electrical storage units were in there, but high enough to be protected. We only had firewood, old equipment, and your notes on the floor.”

”It looks like most of the buildings have been damaged.”

“We don’t think it is as bad as it looks. The lower floor of the main laboratory has been flooded but I had turned off the generators for maintenance earlier today. Helen was storing some experiments on the upper floor so of course they were safe. Ramos’ laboratory was out of the reach of the floodwater, as was the office. The transportation hangar and garage had over a meter of water in them earlier, but Ramos and I are confident that everything is still fully functional.”

He looked over at his friend as they approached the farmhouse. “I will have to take back your velocipede for a few days though, Ernest. We cannot use those in the flooded buildings until we have run some maintenance checks so your velocipede is our only guaranteed transport at the moment.”

Pratt had sobered somewhat as he had heard the extent of the damage. “Sure Janos.”

As they entered the farmhouse Ramos went on into the kitchen whilst Skeeter began to ignite Bartok’s electrical lighting system. Pratt got a fire going in the hearth and soon the house was well lit and warm enough that everyone was able to dry out.

As it was now dark, Skeeter and Pratt decided to stay over at the Compound for the night and return to Sheridan the next day; they already had spare rooms allotted to them from the occasional times when this had been necessary over the years of the Legend team’s operation. To make up for his earlier hissy fit Pratt offered to make dinner and over a meal of an exotic stew that the writer concocted from a recipe he had learned from a European ladyfriend, the four men discussed the flood damage, Sheridan, and of course Legend.

Mellowed by good company and good wine, Pratt found himself crawling into his spare room late in the night. His last coherent thought was wondering how on earth he had been talked into confronting the dreaded Mother Pratt once again.

Just a few short days later the writer found himself swinging his bags down from a steam train in San Francisco. He sighed, shaking himself from the inevitable lethargy that long journeys always brought on and tried to recall his alcohol-fogged memories of the layout of the city. He had decided not to contact friends ahead of arriving, wanting to get straight back into writing and assembling his thoughts. He knew of a few old drinking pals from his journalist days who would let him stay with them so he kept his plans open.

And then off course there was his mother. Pratt sighed as he looked around the concourse, trying to catch a hansom driver’s eye. His bags weren’t especially heavy but was too tired to struggle through the city on foot. He knew he would have to face Mother Pratt sooner or later but he really wanted to make it…

“Ernest!!! Darling!!!!”

Pratt cringed. Oh no. She’d found him already!

Fixing a smile on his face Pratt turned to face the diminutive lady who had just appeared at his side along with a giant olive skin man covered in intricate tribal tattoos.

“Hi mom,” he sighed resignedly. “How d’you know I was coming?”

“Oh that charming Janos Bartok sent me a wire this morning, dear. He said that you were on your way and so Potatua and I decided to come and meet you.

Pratt looked up at the menacing figure next to his mother.

“Hi Mr Potatua ,” he managed. Potatua looked down at him, his facial markings distorting as he frowned. Pratt looked quizzically at his mother.

“Potatua is a Maori artist, Ernest,” said Mrs Pratt by way of explanation. “He came to America after the New Zealand wars hoping to start a new life.”

“It is an honour to meet the son of my charming new friend, Mr Pratt,” said Potatua in a deep, booming voice. “Your mother has helped me to contact possible patrons for my work.”

Pratt managed a watery smile. “Well, mom loves to help struggling artists Mr Potatua,” he said. “I’m glad she’s been able to assist you.”

The Maori helped Pratt with his bags, and together the three of them made for the hansoms waiting at the front of the station.

“I’ve prepared your old room for you, Ernest,” said Mrs Pratt, taking her son’s arm.

“Well, to be honest, Mom, I was thinking of staying with my old friend Michael Gavin from the San Francisco Chronicle,” started Pratt, mentally kicking himself for sounding like a whining teen. His mother always managed to make him feel thirteen again.

“Nonsense, Ernest, you’re staying with me,” said his mother. “I’m sure you won’t mind sharing with Albert, will you.”

Pratt stopped. “Albert!?” he demanded.

Mrs Pratt rolled her eyes and gave her son’s arm a tug. “Oh don’t worry Ernest. You and Albert will be great friends.”

Pratt knew he had to be patient with his mother, especially after all the problems he had caused her with his gambling debts a few years earlier, but even so the hansom ride was extremely trying. As the cab took them through the city streets Mrs Pratt tried to talk her son into meeting Miss ‘Whatever’, the beautiful eligible daughter of Mr and Mrs ‘So-and So’ “Who would make a wonderful companion for you Ernest”. They didn’t arrive at the family home a moment too soon.

Struggling down the steps, Pratt heard a very familiar Irish lilt. “Well, hello again, Ernest. I’m glad you finally remembered where we all lived.”

Pratt looked up in astonishment. “Zarelda!” He dropped his bags and fairly sprinted up the steps of the house to hug his mother’s diminutive housekeeper. “Zarelda! How are you?” he asked.

The petite woman smiled. “Much better for seeing you, Ernest,” she said aloud as she pulled the front door closed behind her. Then she pulled him closer, whispering, “Your mother’s awfully glad your back. She’s missed you terribly.”

Pratt sighed, and keeping his voice at the same low pitch answered, “I know.”

By this time, Mrs Pratt and Potatua had come up to the front door. “Isn’t it wonderful to have Ernest back?” said Pratt’s mother. “How long are you going to be able to stay?”

“Just a few weeks, mom,” said Pratt. “This time is really for me to get some work done. I’ve got some deadlines coming up from EC Allen, and if I don’t meet them I’m going to be in a whole heap of trouble.”

Mrs Pratt smiled, taking her son’s arm once again and sweeping him into the house. “Don’t worry, Ernest, you’ll have as much peace and quiet as you want. Remember, this is your home as much as it is mine.”

Pratt looked around the parlor, taking in the multitude of strangely-dressed people perched on any available surface, sipping tea and eating cake. The buzz of conversation died away instantly. Pratt gulped. “One of your soirees, mom?” he asked.

Mrs Pratt laughed nervously, “Well, you’ll have peace and quiet most of the time dear, I promise.”

Social niceties forced Pratt into making small talk with his mother’s guests, including Mr Potatua, but as soon as he possibly could, the writer escaped upstairs to his old room. He sighed as he opened the door. Everything was as he remembered it from years ago. Flopping down onto his bed he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He was just slipping into a light doze when he remembered his mother’s warning that he’d be sharing the room with someone called Albert. He opened one eye suspiciously. His was the only bed in the room, so where was this Albert sleeping?

Suddenly, he spied a large wicker basket in the corner of the room. Cautiously approaching he lifted the lid and then jumped back a moment later with a most un-Legend like scream.

There, in the basket was the largest snake he had ever seen in his life. Wide eyed and sweating, his pulse racing, Pratt looked around the room for anything he could use as a weapon against the reptile, only to spot a noted pinned to a cardboard box with airholes on top of the dresser. The box appeared to be squeaking.

Edging closer, Pratt gingerly picked up the note, noting the way the squeaking in the box appeared to get louder. What had his mother done?

Dear Ernest (it read).

I hope you’ve met Albert. He belongs to a friend from India. Albert is completely harmless, but please feed him one mouse every morning. Mr Pradesh, his owner will be along to collect him next week.

Mother.

He read the note and then dropped onto the bed in despair. “I have to get out of here!” he whispered.

A few hours later, after the soiree had concluded, Pratt joined his mother for a wonderful dinner that Zarelda had prepared. As soon as he could do so politely, he withdrew and headed into the centre of San Francisco, hoping to bump into some friends in his old haunts.

A few hours later, the writer was making his way rather unsteadily down Main Street from his fifth port of call that night. He had met some rather interesting people, (particularly of the fairer sex, he thought smugly) but none of his old journalist buddies. The moon was now high in the sky and Pratt knew that he should be making his way back home.

The alcohol in his system had warmed and cheered him, and so he decided to take a pleasant stroll round to the old San Francisco Chronicle building, where he had started his illustrious writing career several years ago. Pratt smiled as the familiar shape loomed in the darkness, the unusually edged roof glowing with the moonlight, backed by a thick sea mist rolling off the Pacific Ocean. Pratt smiled. He had enjoyed his time as a reporter. Despite his success as a Dime Novel writer, he wouldn’t change the time he had spent as a journalist for anything. The years he had spent ekeing out a living on any story thrown his way had been good and challenging.

Still in a nostalgic haze Pratt decided to take a stroll along the wharf on his way back. He was just turning away from the Chronicle building when he caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye. He frowned. The night watchmen that had always been present during his time on the paper didn’t seem to be around and turning back, Pratt could see an unmistakably human figure clambering out of a second floor window.

Pratt quickly crouched down behind a crate and watched as the black – clad figure grabbed a rope dangling by the window ledge and start to clamber down it. The writer was torn. He had got into enough late-night scrapes in the building when he was working there, and had usually had his shenanigans abruptly halted by one of the zealous night watchmen that were forever prowling around, but the whole area was deserted. Pratt made a quick calculation and realised that the figure had just emerged from the Editor’s office, not the writer’s department. Something strange was going on.

Pratt decided that this probably was a real burglar, and that he was probably the only one around to do something about it. Cursing the day he’d decided to become more like Nicodemus Legend, Pratt stood, and squared his shoulders, slipping into the shadows and edging towards the building. His right hand went to his belt where his fulminator was always hooked, and he remembered with a start that he had left it on it’s lowest stun setting guarding his bags from the unwanted attentions of Albert. Now he really was in trouble.

The burglar was now only a few feet above the ground, head hidden beneath a black mask. Carefully positioning himself, Pratt waited until the figure touched the ground, and then he leaped forward, tackling the smaller figure to the ground with his bodyweight.

The figure under him shouted in shock and the next thing Pratt knew a foot had connected with his shoulder and he roared in pain, his grip on the robber loosening. The figure in black jumped up and went to kick him again, but Pratt managed to sweep his own foot out and trip his assailant up. The burglar went down.

Quickly lest he lose the advantage, Pratt crouched over and pinned the burglar’s arms back, noting absently that the slender wrists were more likely to belong to a woman than a man. With a hard tug, he pulled the mask up and looked down into the face of a young woman, her eyes blue and angry, her long blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun.

“What are you doing?” demanded Pratt.

The young woman’s eyes went wide with shock and before the writer could stop her she had jumped up. Pratt braced himself ready for another scuffle, but before he knew what was happening the woman had flung herself into his arms!

“Wh…?” he exclaimed.

”Uncle Ernest! My hero!” the girl squealed. “I’m so glad it’s you!”

Pratt tried desperately to peel the woman off him. “Who the heck are you?” he demanded when he had finally succeeded.

The woman’s face, just moments ago set in an expression of arrogant determination, was now alight with pleasure.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr Pratt, this must seem awfully strange to you! My name’s Jemima Gavin, and I’ve wanted to see you again for so long!”

Pratt was now thoroughly confused. “You have?”

“Why sure! I’ve read all your books,” stated the blonde, her voice lilting with a charming Southern accent, “I’m just like your character, Nicodemus Legend.”

“I somehow doubt that,” said Pratt suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

“What I mean is that I’m an adventurer,” she clarified. “Daddy told me all about how you and he used to work together on the Chronicle, and when I found out about what was going on at the paper, I knew that I had to take up the cause and stop it before anyone else got hurt.”

Now Pratt was thoroughly confused. “What was going on? The cause? Your *daddy*?”

Jemima nodded enthusiastically. “Michael Gavin,” she declared.

Now Pratt was numb. “Michael Gavin!” he repeated, “You’re Mick’s *daughter*”

“That’s right,”

Pratt tried to think through his still slightly alcohol fogged haze. “Well then Miss Gavin, I think we had better go and see your father about what you’ve been up to right away!”

The Gavin residence was less than a mile from Mother Pratt’s house, so the writer was hardly inconvenienced in his decision to escort Jemima home. They arrived sometime after midnight, and after much beating on the front door, were finally let in by Ernest’s old friend, who hadn’t even realised that his daughter had snuck out of the house. She was packed off to bed in a perfunctory fashion, and Michael Gavin and Pratt sat down to renew old acquaintances.

Gavin didn’t seem at all surprised by his daughter’s exploits. “She’s such a wild thing,” he sighed, pouring a whisky for his old friend as he collapsed, still slightly dishevelled from sleep, in the easy chair across from where Pratt was sitting.

Pratt shook his head. “When did your daughter get to grow up Mick? Last I remember she was a little blonde whirlwind always asking me to come to her dolly teaparties!”

Gavin smiled to himself as he cradled his own glass of liquor. “That was a while ago, Ernest. She was just leaving for boarding school when you left the Chronicle, my friend, and that was in late ’70.”

Pratt gulped. “Has it really been eight years?!”

Gavin nodded. “Oh yes. Remember you sold Solitary Knight of the High Plains and as soon as it had turned a profit you took that fellow Clemen’s advice and quit your job.”

“But I remember your wedding like it was yesterday, Mick!”

Gavin smiled ruefully. “Eighteen years ago, my friend. Katie and I had ten years together before the accident. That was why I sent Jem away. She needed some stability in her life. This old hack couldn’t give her that.”

Pratt frowned. “That’s not true. I remember you adored her. She needed her father just as much as she needed a mom.”

The journalist sighed. “Well, she’s seventeen now. Doesn’t seem to need any parents.”

“Seventeen?” Pratt was shocked. “She really has grown up.” A sudden thought struck him. “Darn it Mick, I’m getting old. I could have kids her age now!”

At this Gavin couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh come on, Ernest! Don’t start that! You’ve had a great life. You’re doing some incredible things in Colorado. You know, I’ve had to write up some reports for the Chronicle on the great Nicodemus Legend’s exploits of the last few years.”

The writer visibly cringed. “It was so much simpler when I could just write the darn stories. Now everyone wants me to live them too!”

Gavin nodded seriously. “Exactly, Ernest. Face it. People need a hero, and Jem has needed one more than most. I’m glad that you found her tonight. She’s really starting to worry me.” At this Pratt frowned and gestured for the other man to continue.

Gavin sighed and took a gulp from his whisky glass. “She worships you, Ernest, or at least Nicodemus Legend. When she found out that her “Uncle Ernest” from childhood was writing she started to read all the Legend books. After all the pain she had been through I guess she needed a hero. You fitted. So since she moved back here last year she’s been doing all kinds of crazy things trying to be like Legend, and how she’s imagined you to be.” Pratt shook his head. “Oh no,” he sighed. He had encountered this kind of extreme hero worship before in “Nicodemus Junior”, but this was far more serious and potentially very dangerous. As his old friend continued to talk Pratt tried to maintain a focus on what was being said.

“…and after she’d done that she stumbled on a late night meeting between the Chronicle editor and the San Francisco Police Chief at the office when she came to meet me after a writing deadline. The paper’s finances have been pretty bad for a while and Jem had decided to investigate, for my sake.” He sighed deeply and pulled his fingers through his hair before continuing. “Anyway, Jem thinks that she saw money change hands, and heard several prominent City citizens mentioned, so now she thinks that the editor and Police Chief are in on some great blackmailing racket. It’s crazy, Ernest! She was probably trying to get some evidence when you caught her earlier.”

The writer thought hard as he sipped his drink. “It sounds like I need to have a little talk with Jem, Mick. I’ve been through the hero worship phenomenon before, and I’m sure I can handle it. Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can to get her back onto the right path, and if it sets her mind at rest I’ll ask a few questions over at the Chronicle offices. I can always say I’m doing research for my next book,” ‘which isn’t too far from the truth’, he thought silently, “and see what I can find out.”

Mick’s worried expression lightened. “Thanks, Ernest. That sounds like a really good idea.” He ran his hand over his head once more, a nervous gesture. “I just want Jem to settle down a little. She’s become such a wild thing, I’m so worried that she’ll get herself into some deep trouble and not be able to get out again.” Pratt smiled reassuringly. “Well, Uncle Ernest will certainly do his best.”

After a late night and a copious amount of alcohol Pratt found it very difficult to rise at an early hour, but full of good intentions and a determination to fulfil his promise to his old friend he managed to rise not long after eight. After gingerly grabbing a mouse from the box in his room and tossing it in Albert’s direction as he raced out of his bedroom door in terror, he had a simple breakfast with his mother and headed out into the cool, crisp air.

After hearing about Jem Gavin’s activities the previous night, he decided that the sooner he could clear up this matter of possible bribes being taken by the Police the sooner Jem could let go of her Legend fixation and get back into a normal life. Therefore, he decided that the direct approach was probably in order, and so headed straight for the Chronicle offices to see the Editor....

TO BE CONTINUED....?

This story copyright 2002 Sarah O’Donoghue. As with everything else on the Steampunk Central Website no profit is derived from this work, and all contents are for entertainment and educational purposes only. See main index page for full disclaimer.

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