Gabrielle's Train Journey

by Phineas Redux

Gabrielle and Xena find themselves on the morning London commuter train between Mill Hill and King's Cross in April 1927.

'Gabrielle's Train Journey'

By

Phineas Redux

—O—

Description:— Gabrielle and Xena find themselves on the morning London commuter train between Mill Hill and King's Cross in April 1927.

Note:— The technical terms and general nature of the train system have been extensively researched and are as correct as I could make them.

Disclaimer:— MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to 'Xena: Warrior Princess' and I, sadly, have no rights to them.

—O—

Coach BCK1735D had been built in 1905 for the Great Northern Railway and, in this year of 1927, was still going strong with the London and North Eastern Railway. A little battered by age and thousands of passengers it still held together and did its duty by the LNER. Long relegated from the major lines to commuter service in North London, for the last eleven years it had pottered along quite merrily behind its motive force— a J69 class box-like six-wheeled tank locomotive, relic of the old Great Eastern Railway—, until today.

And, of course, its passengers, bank clerks, bank managers, men who were something in the city, and a plethora of female secretaries, all had their particular coach of the six customarily available on this morning service, and their particular compartment. The regulars in fact, for years on end, would sit together; exchanging greetings, discussing some major newsworthy item printed in the 'Times', 'Daily Telegraph', or 'Morning Post', or simply bow silently over the exotica of the morning's crossword puzzle. The coach aforenamed was of this nature; an oasis of quiet respectability—but not for much longer.

All the stock making up the 8.15am Edgeware-Kings Cross commuter train was divided evenly between First class and Third class in a ratio of four compartments each. The passengers hailing from as far afield as Edgeware, Mill Hill, Finchley, Crouch End or Finsbury Park; all being turned out on the platform at King's Cross in good time for a 9.15am start to the joyful working day amidst the fogs and smog of the Great Wen.

Third class was, in fact, a long-held misnomer. What, the inquiring foreigner might be supposed to ask in bemusement, of Second class? There wasn't one; nor had been since the last century. Third was, simply, the Standard class after First. A peculiarity of nomenclature now firmly traditional across all the Big Four railway companies. Those passengers we are presently most concerned with, on the morning of Thursday May 26, inhabit respectively First class compartment 3 and Third class compartment 1—

—O—

"—Devilish dirty business still goin' on in Shanghai, eh." Colonel Parker, late of the 17/21st Lancers and now a stockbroker, hummed and hemmed behind his resplendent moustache in a manner all his companions had come to recognise over the years. "Americans involved now; don't know where it'll all end; a bloody massacre, no doubt."

"Sir,—I mean to say?" Mr Charters spoke up in his thin reedy voice, always a stickler for the uniformities of the social graces.

"No, no; not swearin'." Col Parker let out an amused snort. "If I was swearin' y'd dam' well know it. No, merely statin' the physical nature of the outcome, that's all. Bound t'be fightin'; bound t'be victims, mostly on the Chinese side of course; so, y'see, bound t'be blood, don't y'know. Can't escape the fact. War, a bloody business, I can tell you; not like these shilly-shallyin' modern authors who write chapters about battles, an' not a drop o'blood in sight. Nonsense, absolute nonsense. Why, I remember once, near Jalalabad—"

"Papers still full of this Yank who flew a plane across the Pond." Mr Dickenson, stockbroker in Threadneedle St., darted ruthlessly in, intent on stopping the flow of the Colonel's ample reminiscences before they saw the light of day. "Why there should be such an almighty fuss about him I don't know. What's the point of it, I ask you? I mean t'say, what are transatlantic liners for, eh?"

Everyone nodded sagely at this point, they between them having a sum total of no experience whatever of the new-fangled system of modern air-travel.

"Can quite see the need t'go from London to Paris by plane, if in a hurry." Mr Charters spoke up again; his minor tone betraying the fact he was manager of the Daile St. branch of the Northern Amalgamated Bank, W1. "But for purely personal reasons? As going on holiday to Biarritz, or whatever; well, I mean to say. Also, what about all the luggage? These planes can't cope with huge amounts of luggage—"

"—or cargo, come to that." Mr Laidlaw, a big strongly-built tall man in his early fifties and something in the City in Shipping, grunted knowingly. "They'll never take over from shipping, or road transport, come t'that."

"Well, a solid train's good enough for me." Mr Plaithely, a chief-accountant in Rudgely's of Park Lane, pursed his thin lips. "Takes you from A to B; or, in this case, Finchley to Kings Cross, and no questions asked—except by the ticket-collector, of course, if you're trying to pull a fast one."

Here the First class compartment echoed to the censorious grunts and mumbles of half a dozen respectable travelers, none of whom would ever have thought for a moment of boarding their chosen mode of transport without a valid ticket.

—O—

"—oh, 'e were awful." Miss Granger nodded knowingly to the other young secretary sitting by her side. " 'ands like a bloomin' octoplus, 'e 'ad. I didn't know where t'look, I assure you."

"—pus, Miss Granger."

"Wot, Mr Hardinge?"

"Octo-pus." Mr Hardinge, Assistant Head Accountant at Promley & Cateret, stockbrokers, Cushing Lane, W1, nodded sagely. "A form of life to be found in the sea, mostly consumed by the Italian nation, I believe."

"Aarr, wouldn't like t'eat one o'them." Miss Jones, secretary in Amoury's, Fleet Street, W1, shook her head and made a face expressive of dislike. "All those slimy arms, and what on earth would it taste like? No, not for me. Steak an' onion's good enough for me."

Compartment 1, in Third class, was replete with its usual morning cargo of sleepy-eyed workers heading to their various cubby-holes in dark offices in even darker lanes and side-streets in the City. The bench-seats, facing each other, were less comfortably cushioned, and the general facilities generally less comprehensive, than their betters in First; but everyone got along well enough.

"Had a funny dream two days ago—or should that be nights?" Mr Kentham, sub-editor of 'Macauley's Monthly Magazine', Fleet Street, W1, twisted his lips sourly. "Dreamed I was the Brobdinag of Brobdinagia. An' my personal wizard told me my future wealth an' happiness depended on the Star of Carcasia being left to me in the will of the late Khazia of Khar. There's a horse called Star Carcasia, it was runnin' at Newmarket in the 2.30 Sprint, yesterday."

"Oh, Mr Kentham, you didn't?" Miss Granger spoke sadly, knowing perfectly well the fool had.

"Yep, you've found me out, dear Miss Granger." The culprit shook his head and had the grace to blush. "Came in second last, of ten. So much for my pound."

A low growl of disbelief shimmered through the compartment. Really, everyone was obviously thinking to themselves, Mr Kentham's passion for the horses was definitely getting the better of him—where would it all end?

Feeling himself the arbiter of good taste and moral tone in the carriage Mr Hardinge pursed his lips and gazed sadly at the poor sap—after all, if you hadn't the sense not to throw your money away on the hosses, what had you sense for?

"I always think it a wise axiom to never expend excess wealth on any subject you will not gain some form of immediate positive interest or advantage from." He paused, to look suitably above such common influences. "As Mr Micawber so wisely noted, "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen, nineteen, and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery."

"The moral of which diatribe, I take it, is your requesting me kindly to desist and refrain from the only sport which touches my heart, Mr Hardinge?"

"Well, ummph, harrumph." Caught out in the open, as it were, Mr Hardinge took cover behind his 'Daily Mail', never being one for an argument.

It was at this point that the gentle quiet ordinary morning journey along the Line towards King's Cross took a sharp bend into the fantastic—initiated, apparently, by none other than Mr Kentham.

"By and by, apropos of nothing in particular," The Sub-Editor always prefixed his statements with this form of exordium. "I had the luck to come across a fine, perhaps a very fine, thing the other day. Have it with me, as I speak, in fact. Mr Coalsham, at the Mag, having expressed an interest I thought I'd just bring the toy in today to show him."

Everyone in the compartment bucked up at this; he having a reputation for disturbing the dust in all sorts of junk shops and second-hand shops across London; generally coming up with the most outré objects, which seemed to give him much enjoyment. Over the years his companions on the morning train journey had been exposed to all sorts of curiosities, ranging from the commonplace, to the exotic, to the plain ridiculous. So they all leaned forward on the LNER's uncomfortably upholstered benches, facing each other across the compartment, and gazed at the paper-wrapped object Mr Kentham now pulled out of his capacious leather briefcase.

"Ooh, what was that?" This from Miss Granger, who turned away from the window she was seated beside, hand over eyes as if blinded by the sunlight. "Coo, red, an' blue, an' golden sparkles. Quite made me blink. Strange."

Nobody else having noticed anything out of the ordinary, they pigeon-holed this outburst as Miss Granger's personal mirage and continued enraptured by Mr Kentham's mysterious parcel.

This he proceeded to unwrap before his wholly enthralled audience. The paper covering came away in swathes, which he folded into carefully neat squares; he being a man of precise habits.

What then stood revealed was a large flat metal ring, of around a foot in diameter. The ring itself seemed to be a couple of inches in width, with some form of incised or engraved insignia all round its circumference. As Mr Kentham gripped the object in one hand and moved it about the spectators saw it was relatively thin, perhaps quarter of an inch, or a trifle more, and didn't seem all that heavy.

"What is it?" Mr Hardinge, roused from the leading article of his revered newspaper, raised an eyebrow at the rings' owner. "Queer sort o'thing. What's it for?"

"Dun'no.—er," Mr Kentham, caught out in this vulgarity of speech, took effective counter-measures instantly. "That is to say, I have no concise idea of its particular use."

"Why'd you buy it, then?" Miss Granger was a girl with a pragmatic outlook on life; the joys of mystery, fantasy, and Art passing over her head unnoticed and unmourned.

"I, er, just liked the cut of it's jib, Miss Granger." Mr Kentham had engaged in this form of Socratic dialogue many times before with the young lady, and knew he was probably on a hiding to nothing; but his better,-gentlemanly,-nature pressed him to attempt an explanation, at least. "It has style; made by an exquisite artist, obviously. It has historical provenance; at least, the junk-er, antiques-shop owner, told me it was several hundred years old. It's, as you have all already discovered, a talking-point. And it only cost me one pound six shillings and sixpence; a bargain, in fact."

"So what're you going to do with it. Mr Kentham?" Miss Jones, from the bench opposite, regarded the object with little interest. "Hang it on a wall, or something?

There was a slight pause here, as the train pulled into Crouch End station, but thankfully no-one of the new passengers entered the hallowed space of Compartment 1, Third class. There were the usual bangings and jerks as the steam engine gathered its strength and continued its odyssey towards the Grand Capital with increased enthusiasm as the journey headed towards its close. The conversation taking-up where it had broken-off.

"Hardly that, Miss Jones." The Sub-Editor shook his head, as at a naïve girl. "This is the kind of thing to be placed in a showcase, and reverently taken out on special occasions for the delight of connoisseurs."

At this point the train gave a prolonged shudder, the compartment—indeed, the whole coach,—seeming to rock on the rails as if buffeted by a gale. Everyone was thrown against each other in a bumping squealing mass for a few seconds before recovering their composure and equilibrium.

"God, what was that?" Miss Jones again took up the part of astonished spectator.

"Must-must have been a new set of points." Mr Hardinge gave the first explanation which came to mind.

"Dam' nearly threw the train off the line." Mr Kentham, still grasping his newly acquired toy in an iron grip, ran his other hand through his grey hair heaving a sigh of relief the while. "Good job we aren't going very fast."

"Talking of which," Miss Granger now stepped in with a queer tone in her voice as she glanced from the compartment window to the seated passengers. "why is it suddenly night-time outside? It's only ten to nine a.m. by my watch, but it's pitch dark outside—look. And the compartment lights have come on, as y'can see."

The group in the compartment switched their interest from the antique curiosity to the strange state of the weather outside, each peering through the glass as if entranced.

"Is it heavy dark cloud?" Mr Kentham essayed this first attempt at an explanation. "Heavy rain in the offing, as it were?"

"Nah, that ain't cloud, that's actual darkness." Miss Granger sat back from an extended examination of the state of affairs outside to sweep her friends with an appraising look. "Something's gone terribly wrong, I think."

"But we still seem to be moving, though." Miss Jones glanced from side to side, going pale as she did so. "I mean, I can feel the rocking an' whatnot. Surely if there was anything really wrong the guard, or driver, would stop the train?"

"One is led to suppose so." Mr Hardinge never liked making a personal statement which could later be brought forward against him, but this seemed a special case. "Something, ah, out of the ordinary certainly appears to be taking place. I would suggest calm, and no rash actions, until we hear from persons in authority exactly what is occurring."

"Sit still, y'mean?" Miss Granger had as much gumption as the next City secretary. "An' wait till something else happens? Hmm, I'm not so sure about that, Mr Hardinge; shouldn't we at least go out in the corridor, an' see if the other compartments have any suggestions?"

Mr Hardinge, from his expression, obviously considered such an action on a par with Hannibal crossing the Alps. But before he could put his arguments against unconsidered activity into words the necessity was taken from him in a startling manner.

From outside, in the corridor linking the sets of compartments in the coach, came the sound of a woman shouting orders, in a deep tone of voice.

"You take this end, Gabrielle; I'll take the other, this way." The woman's tone, deep and full of authority, gave the sense of someone used to action, orders, and active involvement in any emergency. "Don't bother bangin' on these doors; just barge in an' see what's what. Y'know what t'do if ya find it?"

"Course I do, woman; gim'me sense for that. OK." These words delivered in a higher, though still resonant, tone by another second unseen female.

The next moment the compartment door swung aside with a rattle, and the seated passengers caught the first glimpse of their mysterious visitor. And she was something to take the breath away from even the most reserved and resilient City worker.

Standing a little over five feet in height, the woman now showed herself to be blonde with short cropped hair reaching only to her neck. Of small form, she was of excellent physical build; this easily seen because of the fact she appeared to be wearing next to nothing. On her upper reaches, which were well-formed, full, and delightfully proportioned, only the smallest of, ahum, brassieres performed the duty of covering—a duty only just adequately exercised, within the meaning of the term. Not to put too sharp a point on it, Mr Kentham and Mr Hardinge's eyes both popped in amazement.

On the woman's lower reaches a skirt of the shortest possible nature held sway; revealing legs, though stocky, of generous and delightful sweeping form. Her revealed chest and, er, lower body just above the skirt waistband, revealed powerful muscularity of unusual distinction. But what captured the attention of all in the compartment were the two long-bladed knives strapped to the woman's high-sided leather boots.

At least, one was still in situ, tied by a couple of thin leather straps to her right boot; the other presently twirling idly in her left hand as she, now fully inside the compartment, raked the passengers with a steely green-eyed gaze. Within seconds her whole attention was attracted to the object still held in Mr Kentham's paralysed hand.

"Well, well, would you look at this—treasure trove, at the first attempt."

While speaking, the young woman raised her eyes from the circular metal object to focus on the face of the man holding it. Her expression, especially to the unfortunate Mr Kentham, had all the cosiness and friendliness of a grizzly bear about to indulge its grosser tastes.

The woman stepped back a pace, till she stood in the corridor once more, though still blocking the door to anyone wishing to make a quick exit. She glanced back the way she had come, then let rip with a loud shout which rang in the ears of the somewhat frightened passengers.

"Hey, Xena; got it. Found the dam' thing. Wan'na come an' claim owner's rights, or what?"

—O—

Xena, meanwhile, had other matters under consideration; to wit, whether to whack the irritable man in the First class compartment she had just entered with the flat of her sword or—much more satisfyingly—the sharp edge.

"Listen, bozo, I'm the one askin' questions around here—you just sit still, an' take note o'what I want, OK?"

Her unexpected irruption into their settled world had given the group of respectable gentlemen a shock of no little moment. Suddenly faced with a living breathing Valkyrie straight out of Wagner's 'Ring Cycle', and dressed appropriately, none of those present could do more, for the nonce, than stare in amazement. Mr Dickenson, always being of an atrabilarious temperament, had been the first to speak his mind, with some censoriousness—which words he had immediately regretted when viewing the facial expression of the lady to whom he had so unwisely spoken.

"—er, er,—"

"Maybe I'd better make myself clear, right?" Xena, when riled, was a sight to behold; usually of terror, to those opposing her. "I've lost something of great necessity to me. I know it's on this dam' moving contraption—"

"Train, Miss—" Col Parker sought to gain the high ground.

"Shut up." The Warrior Princess not being in a conversational mood. "What it is,-this thing I want,-is a large flat-sided round metal ring. I'm bein' so exact—are ya all listenin'? Y'dam' well better be,—because the term chakram is most likely unknown territory t'you lot.—"

"An old fighting weapon." Col Parker, not to be outdone in military matters, even in present circumstances, ruffled his bristly moustache. "Thrown at the enemy like a spear or knife, causing deep slashing wounds—Antique."

"Oh-Ho, an old soldier." The tall dark-haired woman paused to gaze at the seated man with some interest; her attitude changing to one of restrained respect. "Well, yeah; you're right; a chakram. It's mine, an' I want it back, pronto. That's the situation in a nutshell; so, where is the dam' thing?"

Mr Laidlaw stepped into the breach; after a lengthy silence had begun to become awkward, if not actually angst-ridden, to all in the compartment, not least Xena.

"It is not our habit to go to the City of a morning, armed to the teeth." The shipping magnate considered whether he was simply digging his grave deeper than need be, but carried on anyway, in a spirit of British phlegm and imperturbability. "Neither with pistols nor knives, never mind ancient weapons of dubious nature."

The strange woman, dressed as she was in a shockingly short leather skirt, heavy leather boots, and showing a décolletage of astonishing breadth and depth wholly unsuitable to public occasions, regarded her interlocutor with sneering contempt—then she reached an arm back over her shoulder and drew, from an hitherto un-noticed back-sheath, a long-bladed sword of evil menace, which she proceeded to point upwards but ever so slightly in the direction of the seated passengers' heads—her patience, what little she might ever had had, obviously having reached its limit.

"D'ya know it'd take me, oh, four breaths t'skewer the lot'ta you—every one." This notice of her expertise having the effect of all there under threat leaning back on their bench-seats away from her. "Now, I'm gon'na give ya all one last chance—have any o'ya seen my dam' chakram, or haven't ya? Think careful, I bite when riled—and, by Hera, I'm riled right now."

—O—

There was a long pause while the blonde-haired, green-eyed woman tilted her head, listening for any reply from along the train's corridor.

"Dam, nuthin'. Must'a gone through t'the next coach. OK, so it's up t'me, then."

With this she stepped back into the compartment, sticking one boot in the lower corner of the sliding door to keep it open; regarding Mr Kentham, and the circular metal ring in his hand, with something between distaste and the longing look of a hungry hyena. Being a woman, when heated, of few words, she held out a hand in his direction and made her requirements manifest.

"Gim'me."

The Sub-Editor was, of course, in a state bordering on terror. The woman, in her extraordinary dress and waving a clearly dangerous edged weapon about, was obviously insane, and likely capable of anything. What to do-what to do.

"Give it to her."

"What, Miss Granger?"

"Give her the dam' ring thing." Miss Granger could see the lie of the land as well as the next City employee. "She wants the dam' thing; so, give it to her. Then maybe she'll go away happy."

The unfortunate magazine editor now found himself in that unenviable position, equidistant between Scylla and Charybdis. For what seemed an almost eternal moment of indecision he looked from the secretary to the unwanted intruder and back; obviously wholly unable to make a cool logical decision if his life depended on it—which, to most of his startled companions, was clearly the present scenario. But, after a few seconds of this stalemate, if not Mexican stand-off, the blonde warrior-like interloper took matters into her own hands.

Baring white teeth in a restrained snarl, making everyone sit back on their benches in sudden fear, she stepped forward, grasped the top segment of the metal ring in a strong clasp, and jerked it gently towards her a couple of times.

"Let go, or I'll cut your dam' fingers off."

Mr Kentham let go.

Raising her trophy high in her right hand, to the level of her face, she grinned with an awful, apparently demonic, sense of victory at the seated spectators of this frightening experience. Then she stepped back into the corridor, nodding at the hypnotised passengers as she left as quickly as she had appeared.

"So long, thanks for the gift; been looking for the dam' thing everywhere. Xena will be so happy. Xena. Xena, where the Hades are you? Gods, she's never around when y'really need the gal. Oh, bye."

The compartment door slid shut, and the group of city commuters were left alone to their own surmises,—the dream, or nightmare was over.

—O—

"Look, it's daylight again."

Miss Granger's words seemed to galvanize the other passengers, as they turned to gaze, somewhat stupidly, out the window at the bright morning sunlight. This time, when a shower of scintillating sparkles of multi-coloured light shimmered past the window on the outside—like a meteoric display in the sky—everyone saw the spectacle, reacting with the same level of shock and wonder. Then came a sudden unexpected shudder as the train appeared to cross another set of badly-laid points on the track.

When they had all gathered themselves together again, after bouncing and bumping against each other, everything seemed wholly back to normal.

The first to move, in a spirit of heroism he had up to that point thought completely beyond him, Mr Hardinge rose and slid the compartment door aside to step into the now empty corridor. Then he turned to the seated group anxiously awaiting his news.

"Nothing. Nobody. All quiet. She seems to have left. Though how she did so, on a moving train, is beyond me."

There was a short pause, while everyone considered the ramifications of what had just taken place in the confined limits of the train and their compartment.

"The Guard'll never believe this." Miss Granger put her statement out with the finality of General Haig issuing a military communique.

"Mr Kentham?"

"-er, yes, Miss Jones?"

"Where did you find that dam' metal ring thing? Which shop?"

"Oh, a dirty little junk-shop down an alley on the Edgeware Road. Why?"

"Don't ever go back there, Mr Kentham, that's all."

"Umm."

—O—

The wood stood all round the glade in a green glory of heavy thick leaves in this, the veritable Ides of Summer. The quiet tinkling stream some distance off gave a delightful feeling of coolness in the fresh mountain air. The horses were comfortably tethered nearby and the little campfire sat ready for the evening. The shower of golden and pink sparkles, which always accompanied the multifarious voyaging's of the Lady Who Was Love, had only just finally dissipated on the perfumed air, while Gabrielle and Xena stood together on the short turf, grinning at each other.

"Well, you got your chakram back, at last."

"Yep, Gab."

"Don't look so pleased about it." Gabrielle tossed her short blonde hair; the soft rays of the afternoon sun shimmering through her locks like a silver sea. "If it hadn't been for Aphrodite, an' her sending us way into the future, you'd never have gotten it back. So much for Ares' sense of humour, eh?"

"I got a bone t'pick with that lummox, gal,—you bet." Xena accompanied this dire statement with a long glowering dark frown.

"Well, not tonight, darling." The Amazon Queen could see the pragmatic side of life with clear transparency. "What I want right now is a quiet relaxed afternoon in the shade of these trees, reading Sappho; followed by a nice night in my blankets, if you get my meaning, lover."

"A nice night in your blankets, Gabrielle?"

"Yup."

"Never heard it called that before."

"Har-Har."

The End.

—O—