Steemjammer: Through the Verltgaat Read online

  Steemjammer

  Through The Verltgaat

  John Eubank

  Copyright © 2014 John Eubank

  PREFACE Copyright © 2014 by John T. Eubank

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form.

  Cover art and illustrations © 2015 by Kyle Owens

  A Steam World Press Book

  Published by Steam World Press

  Preface

  Not long ago I realized that after years of screenwriting, I'd been treating my daughters and son like the proverbial shoemaker, who made his own children go barefoot. I'd never written a story for them. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was something I had to change. Picking our family's favorite genre, steampunk, I got to work creating characters inspired by my children, Ilona, Thomas, and Nancy.

  The transition from screenplay to novel was not an easy one, but when I showed a few hundred pages of an early draft to Nancy, my youngest, she seemed to inhale it, reading it all in one afternoon. "Dad," she said excitedly, "you've got to finish it! I want to keep reading and reading!" Reinvigorated, I continued working on the project and finished a first draft.

  Thomas read it and kept up with the novel through its various drafts, adding comments and making sure I kept the original draft's feel, which he liked. Ilona, who's been studying language arts in college and has a natural flair for language (much better than my own), agreed to edit it, and it was much improved. I want to thank my children for being my inspiration and for helping me finish this project. Without you, it wouldn't exist.

  I also want to thank my wife, Ingrid, who kept up with all the drafts and pushed me to finish this, for all her love and support. Special thanks to my parents and Ingrid's mother, who have always been there for us when we needed them.

  Steemjammer Through The Verltgaat is a work of love written for those nearest to my heart. A sequel, Steemjammer, The Deeper Truth, is already finished and up for sale, and it answers questions left open at the end of the first book. I hope you enjoy adventuring with Will, Angelica and Giselle Steemjammer as much as I have.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  The Dutch spoken in this story may seem intimidating at first glance, but it’s easy to pronounce. Unlike modern Dutch spoken in the Netherlands, the Dutch used in this story is pronounced by the same basic rules for English. Steemjammer, which would be pronounced “stame-yammer” in the Netherlands, is pronounced “steam-jammer” here. "Groes" is exactly like the English word "gross," with a long o sound. The letter w can be pronounced either with a w or v sound (there’s regional variation), and if the reader chooses to stick with the English system (w for w), that’s perfectly acceptable. The Dutch in this story has no silent e, so a word like "Tante" (aunt) is pronounced “Tan-tuh,” with a schwa e sound at the end. The letters ee make a long e sound like in “screen,” ae makes a long a sound like in “say,” and oo makes the same sound you hear in “broom” or “doom.” Single vowels are usually used like short vowels in English, and aa is a more exaggerated short a sound, like we hear in “ah” or “alm” (not like the a in “and”). Dutch is very close to English, anyway, so a lot of Dutch words will seem familiar.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Special thanks to my friend, Todd Axworthy, who invented a science fiction themed board game involving vehicles and a heavy ball. I enjoyed playing it immensely. Todd was kind enough to let me adapt it for use in this series as Steemball.

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  1

  UNSETTLING NEIGHBORS

  2

  BEVERKENHAAS

  3

  A HOUSE OF SECRETS

  4

  THE THING IN THE SHADOWS

  5

  ANOTHER COUSIN HEARD FROM

  6

  A VOICE OF WARNING

  7

  BEVERKENVERLT

  8

  TROUBLE COMES KNOCKING

  9

  SHADOVECHT

  10

  ALFONZ ZELDEMTHOOS

  11

  THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

  12

  TANTE KLAZEE

  13

  NEW AMSTERDAM

  14

  THE STEEM MUSEUM

  15

  CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

  16

  A HARROWING FRACAS

  17

  STEEMBALL AND POFFERJEES

  18

  TURNING A CORNER

  19

  THE HALLS OF HISTORY

  20

  THE HEMEL STEEN

  21

  DOO-LALLY!

  22

  A CHANGE OF PLANS

  23

  A RIGHT MUCKLED GUDDLE

  24

  VERY SPECIAL TREATMENT

  25

  GLASS DRAGON

  26

  TO TELL THE TRUTH

  27

  OBVIOUS SIGNS

  28

  DE PEKOERDE

  29

  TOGETHER WE TRIUMPH

  30

  A RASMUSSEN, FOR LIFE

  GLOSSARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW

  Steemjammer is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  A Steam World Press Book

  Copyright © 2014 by John Eubank

  Cover art © 2014 by Kyle Owens

  Eubank, John

  Steemjammer: Through the Verltgaat / John Eubank

  ASIN: B00REKMJ1C

  ISBN-13: 978-0692369722 (Steam World Press)

  ISBN-10: 0692369724

  First Steam World Press Edition: January 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902042

  Steam World Press, Woodland Hills, Ca

  Chapter 1

  UNSETTLING NEIGHBORS

  “Look at that!” the woman said, scowling over a pair of reading glasses that perched precariously low on her long, hawk-like nose. “Do you see that plume of noxious black smoke?”

  A month into her retirement, Waverly Norman had just moved into her aged mother’s house, and things were not going as planned. Having taught sixth grade English for 37 years, her life - her existence - had revolved around strict schedules and lesson plans. Lectures, tests, homework, and essays: her class had been a paragon of order. What she saw across the street assaulted her structured world view in almost every way imaginable.

  “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, crossing the front yard to get a better view.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, she cut a striking figure. With black hair that she’d steadfastly permed over many years into a virtual helmet, she resembled an NFL linebacker more than a grade-school teacher. Having an iron will to match, she’d made grown men cry and had terrorized generations of school children. Former students swore her dark, penetrating eyes could fire laser beams.

  “Ron?” she called. “Do you see it?”

  Her white-haired husband, a semi-retired architect (“He’s been mostly retired,” she was known to quip, “since 1980.”), merrily scattered chemical pellets on the grass from a rusty coffee can. He’d noticed some dandelions and was engaged, as he imagined it, in a form of “airplane-less crop dusting.”

  “Ronald?” she raised her voice. “Ronald Norman?”

  He continued flicking his wrist, sending bursts of Weed-n-Feed here and there. Was he really, she wondered, making airplane noises? She decided he must have been trying to hum a Tony Bennett song.

  “Seaman Third Class Ronald Norman!” she barked.

  “W
hat, dear?” he said, jumping a bit and seeming to return from someplace far away.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “No. Bad tinnitus today, like the bells of Notre Dame are in my head. Ding dong, ding dong.”

  “You should see a specialist.”

  “What ‘special fish?’”

  “An ear doctor. An otolaryngologist.”

  “‘Ode to Larry the Geologist?’ Don’t you mean Larry the Cable Guy?”

  “You’re impossible!”

  Her glare was fierce enough to peel paint off a wall. It was his luck that he’d turned his head and gone cheerfully back to weed eradication.

  He’d understood her perfectly, but he’d recently invented a selective hearing loss, blaming it on ear damage he’d received firing ack-ack guns in the Navy. In truth he’d served as a typing clerk and had never fired an ack-ack gun in his life. His hearing was fine. His only loss was tolerance of her long-winded tirades.

  “If you could block out the hunchback’s bells for a moment,” she grumbled, her face glowing red like a boiler about to explode, “those horrible people across the street are going to burn down their house. Not that this would be any great tragedy, but they already pollute enough!

  “Steamfoozle. Is that their ridiculous name? Steamfunkel? We’re overrun with foreigners, I tell you ….”

  ***

  Though Ron tuned out his wife, she did have an audience. A somewhat small, wiry man in a shiny green coat with epaulets and tails had been silently creeping through the vacant lot next door. When her booming voice caught his attention, he snuck closer, trying to absorb every word.

  Reaching the white picket fence, he hid himself in a shrub which, through no fault of its own, was called a fothergilla bush. He shoved back his brass-framed goggles and lifted the flaps of his leather flying cap so he could better hear. Given the power of the woman’s voice, it proved unnecessary.

  ***

  “How can anyone stand this?” Waverly droned, uncaring if Ron heard her or not. “Smoke billowing day and night from that enormous chimney. What a rambling, ramshackle dilapidation – and they have the nerve to call it a house! It’s a cross between some bad modern art sculpture and a train wreck, if you ask me. Is that really an igloo slapped on the side? It’s a disaster!”

  Ron nodded to keep the peace, but in truth, he’d been stealing glances at the peculiar house all morning. The first thing that had caught his eye was an enormous gear leaning against the wall. Did it serve some purpose, he wondered, or were they storing it there?

  The building itself drew his attention. With a mixture of Crusader fortress and Victorian styles, it had a crenellated stone watch tower, a beautifully carved double front door, and a brass cannon sticking out a gun port on the second floor. Rather than an eyesore, he found it intriguing. Every angle invoked some sense of old Europe, of history.

  He agreed with his wife that the rusty iron smokestack was odd. It rose from the center of the house about fifty feet in the air, but at least, he thought, its emissions were too high to bother anyone. He found the igloo particularly intriguing. How did they keep it from melting? He wanted to meet the residents and explore the place. Fear of Waverly, however, held him back.

  “They could mow their lawn,” he offered, worried that if he didn’t say something critical, she might suspect him. Their grass did seem high, but he could tell by his wife’s expression that he’d somehow triggered her.

  “Lawn?” she exclaimed. “What lawn?”

  She pointed forcefully across the street, as if he might somehow have forgotten the subject of her ire.

  “Don’t you ever use your eyes?” she continued. “Those are crops! What kind of people grow wheat in their front yard?

  “And garden gnomes, dozens of them. If there’s anything I despise, it’s those idiotic idols to bad taste. One of them moves – battery powered junk. Almost gave me a heart attack.

  “They keep livestock. Think of the piles of manure. No electricity or running water, and they have children in there. Imagine the filth.

  “Something has to be done. One day Mother’s house will be ours. Ron, don’t you have any desire to protect your future property? Ron?”

  Dazed, he wondered how she could get out all those words without seeming to breathe. He then found himself distracted by a threat to the flower beds. Aiming a spray can at the pansies, he shot jet streams of aphid poison.

  “Pew pew pew,” he said, mimicking the noise that ray guns made in science fiction movies. “Pew pew pew.”

  “Good lord!” she huffed and stormed inside, slamming the front door so hard that it cracked.

  The gunshot-like noise left Ron’s ears ringing in earnest. As he shook his head, a blur of motion caught his eye. In the lot next door, he saw a short man pop out of a bush and vanish behind a hawthorn tree.

  Ron blinked. Leather flying cap, thin moustache, and a shiny green coat, the apparition reminded him of The Beatles in brightly colored marching band uniforms.

  “Sergeant Pepper,” he muttered in shock. Had he really just seen a leprechaun? Waverly had warned him about the poisonous chemicals he used. Did they cause hallucinations?

  Dropping the can, he hurried inside. Herbal tea, he considered, remembering a box sitting in his mother-in-law’s pantry. People said the stuff cleansed the body of toxins. He resolved to guzzle a gallon of the stuff.

  ***

  For a moment the green-clad man feared he’d been discovered and froze, pressing himself against a tree trunk. When the door slammed shut a second time, he bolted through the empty lot into thick woods.

  “Not to worry,” he whispered. “Safe now.”

  Having lived alone for years, he’d been talking to himself more and more. He worried for his sanity. So close, he thought, to finally escaping this waking nightmare, yet the slightest mistake could bring disaster.

  He’d seen this house from the air some time ago but had been too afraid to investigate until now. The large smokestack and igloo should have been proof enough, but the sizeable woman’s attempt to recall their name had confirmed it. At last he knew their hiding place.

  A wave of anxiety shook his body. How he wished he had more self-control. He’d already taken bold steps, he reminded himself, but this – this would mean facing him! The mere thought made his knees quiver.

  “No need to rush,” he whispered, scurrying like a rat through the trees. “Take your time. Do it right.”

  His panic subsided. He’d wait and watch. The moment would present itself, and then, he’d strike.

  Chapter 2

  BEVERKENHAAS

  RING RING RING! WHEEEEEEEET! CLONK CLANK, CLONK CLANK! In the house with the towering smokestack, the hour struck. With it, a clamor of bells, whistles and gadgets erupted throughout the rooms as dozens of cuckoo-clock-like contraptions came to life. Unlike ordinary timepieces, these were powered by steam - steam that came from a large boiler in a brick-lined basement and flowed throughout the house in a tangle of metal pipes.

  One pipe ran up a wall by the main staircase to a clock. That it was a clock, however, had to be taken on faith, as the contraption lacked hands, numbers, or any features normally associated with a timepiece. Instead of a face, someone had fashioned a rocky mountain peak with a dark cave. Out flew a shiny mechanical green dragon on a rod, flapping its wings. It breathed three little puffs of steam, one for each hour past noon.

  The pipe continued down the hall into the library, which held an even stranger timepiece on a table. An army of colorfully painted tin gnomes marched out of houses in their tiny porcelain village and traveled down little bronze tracks to work on wheezing, spinning machinery. How one was supposed to tell the time from this remained a mystery, since the owners had long forgotten.

  The pipe traveled to the living room and crawled up the high walls to a copper fixture at the center of the ceiling. Dangling by a flexible tube was a miniature war zeppelin made of hide, mahogany and brass. Vapor blew out little jet nozzles, and it
circled the room, firing three loud steam-blasts from a miniature silver cannon.

  Throughout the house, belt drives, clockwork style gears, and bicycle-like chain drives cluttered the ceilings and lined the walls. Pulsing, noisy, filled with machine smells and moving parts, the house seemed to have a life of its own, and thus it had a name: Beverkenhaas, which translated literally to “working house” or “house of works.”

  It was Dutch, according to the head of the household. When a woman from Amsterdam had told him it wasn’t real Dutch - or any Dutch she’d ever heard – he’d suggested it was perhaps “a rare type of Old German from the Black Forest,” which only confused her further.

  Throughout the day, Beverkenhaas’s devices whirred and thumped, with the occasional hiss of steam, filling the rooms with an eclectic symphony. To an unfamiliar eye, the arcane machinery seemed to serve no practical purpose. But the contraptions kept the house’s residents quite comfortable, at least most of the time.

  September was one of the hottest months of the year in Ohio, but in spite of a roaring fire in the basement and pipes circulating scorching steam, Beverkenhaas stayed quite chilly. In fact, the cooling system was behaving erratically that day, and the temperature had dropped to forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The inhabitants had to wear thick, handmade wool sweaters.