Author's note: This is a response to Tipper's poetry challenge: the challenge was to take a poem and write a story inspired by a line, a verse, or the whole thing. I decided to leave my reference to the inspiring poem to the end of the tale - - see how quickly you can guess it!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters to Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any type of profit from this story. It is a work of fan fiction, for enjoyment only.
Not a Christmas CarrollBy KerrAvon
"C'mon Rodney, speak to me!" Sheppard dropped to the thick pine-needles next to the limp form, hurriedly rolling the scientist onto his back. McKay's arms fell bonelessly akimbo as the Colonel's fingertips searched the waxen neck frantically for a pulse. 'There! Thready…but there!' Sheppard breathed a small sigh of relief as he sat back on his heels, rapidly unbuckling his belt to use as a tourniquet. He had no idea if the creature was poisonous, but knowing Rodney's luck, it probably was. Fastening the strap tightly around the unconscious scientist's calf, he was suddenly aware of the native guide kneeling on the forest floor beside him.
"What was that…thing?" Sheppard hissed as he cut open Rodney's pants leg with his belt knife. One minute the three of them had been hiking peacefully through the woods on the long trip back to the Gate, the next they were being attacked by a meter-long, six-legged, furry reptile with giant fangs. The creature easily evaded both the young hunter's spear and the soldier's 9mm sidearm, weaving directly towards the only non-threatening member of their party and locking the aforementioned maw firmly about his ankle. McKay managed to scream, "Get it off!" and shake his leg once before his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed unceremoniously to the ground. The creature released its grip, then departed as quickly and inexplicably as it came, disappearing into the thick underbrush at the side of the path.
"A blemagion mort - very bad. The toxum is lethal." The young man glanced uneasily at the spot where the creature vanished. "They have not been this close to our huttage since last sumtum." Coming to a decision, he rose and headed for the nearby village, calling, "I will rebound with aid!" as he left.
Sheppard barely noticed the departure as he examined the now-exposed leg of his companion; despite the mouthful of teeth he'd seen in the blemagion, only the two front incisors appeared to have broken the skin. Quickly making an 'X' at each puncture, he bent over to suck out the poison, carefully spitting everything to the forest floor. While he knew the current thinking was against the effectiveness of this procedure, he felt compelled to do something. He certainly wasn't about to leave Rodney unprotected while more of those animals might be lurking about, so racing to the Stargate and contacting Beckett was temporarily out of the question.
"Uuughhhh….Wha' happened?" Rodney began blinking and blearily tried to sit up, only to be kept in place by the pressure of Sheppard's palm in the center of his chest.
"You were bitten. Do you remember?" John stared intently into the slowly-clearing eyes.
McKay squinted in concentration, then his own eyes flew open. "Right! Weird, blue, with a mixture of scales and fur….and the teeth! Lots and lots of teeth! Where'd it go? Where is it?" His breath came faster as his memory returned and he frantically tried to see everything in his immediate vicinity.
"Just calm down; it's gone. Orthon headed to the village for help. They'll be here any minute." John kept his tone deliberately low and reassuring.
It wasn't working; if anything Rodney was more agitated than before. "What do you mean, 'the village'? Why not the Stargate? I need Beckett, not some medieval witch-doctor!"
"Look, he took off before I could say anything. Besides, the village is closer - we'll get you safely tucked in, then I'll head for the Gate and call Atlantis myself. I'm not leaving you here with Mr. Teeth out there."
McKay swallowed nervously at the reminder, then allowed his head to fall back as he stared disconsolately up at the overhead canopy of leaves. "I wish Ronon and Teyla were here; we could send them to get help."
Sheppard raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Come on, Rodney. You know if Ronon had listened to any more of their mangled language, he wouldn't have been responsible for his actions!"
Rodney grunted in agreement. "Yes, they have a way with portmanteaus, don't they?"
"What, the word combinations into not-quite-words?" Sheppard snorted. "That was driving Ronon insane. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but knew exactly what they meant." He looked meaningfully in the direction of the Gate. "If I hadn't sent him home, these trade negotiations would have been toast."
"And Teyla?"
"Someone had to make sure he got there." Sheppard's eyes were peeled to the surrounding landscape, where the afternoon light revealed a few innocent-appearing animals, but nothing more. Trying to keep Rodney distracted, he pointed out a couple of small, white, horned badgers happily snuffling away at some nearby rocks and asked, "What did they call those again?"
McKay clearly knew what the Colonel was up to, but sighed and decided to play along. Glancing at the beasts, he snorted, "Toves. We had some for lunch."
"Oh yeah." Sheppard was continuing to play innocent. "They were pretty good, too." Next he pointed over at several thin, shabby birds with topsy-turvy plumage that seemed to be sulking near a grove of fairly bulbous orange-tinged trees, "And those?"
McKay rolled his eyes. "You know as well as I do that those are boros. The locals breed them for their flightlessness - it makes them easier to catch."
Sheppard nodded in commiseration. "No wonder they look so unhappy." Just then a whistling, snorting, green piglike thing trotted aimlessly past, knocking aside the birds in a cacophony of angry squawks. "Now I really don't remember that one."
"A rath. The thing they plan to roast for the celebration feast I won't be attending because I'll be dead! Now can we stop playing 'Name That Animal'? If these are my last moments alive, I'd just as soon not spend them identifying the local menu."
"Don't worry, Rodney. You're not going to die."
"Excuse me? Unless I'm badly mistaken, I'm the one that was bitten by the poisonous lizard?"
"We're going to get you to help." As if on cue, four tanned, muscular men jogged up with a woven hammock strung on a hand-hewn wooden frame and quickly tucked McKay into its recesses.
"Hey, why can't these guys just carry me to the Stargate?" McKay almost smacked himself for the obviousness of the solution.
Orthon shook his head vehemently at the idea. "No! Only the shoctor knows the cure. McKay must rebound to the huttage."
Sheppard once again stared intently into McKay's eyes as he lay on the stretcher and spoke in low tones that only the scientist could hear. "Look, Rodney, we shouldn't waste time arguing with them. Just let them carry you safely to their shaman. Meanwhile I'll run to the Gate, dial Atlantis, and be back with Beckett and a Puddlejumper before you know it." He didn't give McKay a chance to reply before he called to Orthon, "You take McKay back; I'm going to get some of my people…our shoctor…and meet you there." With a wave he set off in the opposite direction.
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Sheppard paced anxiously outside the home of the village healer, while Ronon leaned with his arms crossed against a nearby post and Teyla placidly observed. Rather than removing Rodney post-haste and returning to Atlantis, Beckett was conferring with the local witch-doctor while the medical team shuttled tissue samples to Atlantis and returned with supplies to work on Rodney here. Meanwhile, McKay's condition steadily declined. Just as Sheppard was about to go and drag Beckett out, the two healers appeared in the doorway. Their grim faces made John's stomach lurch unpleasantly.
"So how is he?" Trust Ronon to go straight for the jugular.
Carson shook his head slowly. "Not well, I'm afraid. He's going in and out of consciousness right now; he may not last the night."
"Then why aren't we in Atlantis?" Sheppard couldn't believe this was happening.
Beckett raised his hands. "Look, I understand how you feel, but it's not safe to move him. Besides, with all the samples I've sent, the toxicology lab is already working full out. There's nothing we can do in Atlantis that isn't already being done here." He glanced towards the wizened old man at his side. "However, the shoctor claims to have a treatment. At this point I'm willing to try anything, and they have lived with these creatures for millennia. It doesn't pay to underestimate native experience. Many modern medicines come from folk remedies."
The balding, bead-bedecked native pulled himself straight and cleared his throat as all eyes focussed on him. "Bites of the blemagion mort are rare, but easily treated with the right curdicine."
"So why aren't you giving it to him?" Ronon demanded, direct as always.
The old man sneered toothlessly. "Because I am missing the most important ingredient; the eyes of a recently-slain woc."
"So we'll go shoot a woc and bring you the eyes. I mean, how hard can it be?" Sheppard shrugged.
The ancient man shook his head but declined to comment. He then produced a tattered scroll from the depths of his voluminous robes and unrolled it. Turning the parchment so they could see its contents, the team noted three crudely-drawn creatures on the page. "These," the shaman explained, "are wocs." "
The beasts were wild amalgams in three sizes. Most closely resembling a dragon, they all had long, sinewy necks reminiscent of brontosaurs, oversized heads with wide eyes and enormous, fan-like wings which still appeared too small for actual flight. To top off the image, they all had huge fangs that hung down over their lower lips and a toothy grin like a crocodile.
"Does everything on this planet have hundreds of teeth?" Sheppard mumbled to himself as he studied the diagrams. The smallest of the bunch was purple and had furry, slightly webbed feet and a lithe, muscular body that ended in a prehensile tail. The medium-sized beast was pink, had frank flippers, and the tail was more reptilian and clearly scaled. The largest was the most dragon-like, almost entirely covered in scales, with huge, bulbous, forward-facing eyes and antennae topping the skull. Dark green with a scarlet chest-plate, its front extremities ended in exaggerated, long, slender digits that reminded one of fingers, each tipped with a wicked-appearing claw that could disembowel its prey with a thought.
"The eyes of any of these will suffice. There is a special process to remove the eyes for the curdicine, or they are useless. Best if you simply return with the whole head." At that the shoctor produced three short swords from another fold of his robes and handed them over. "You'll find these blades best for the purpose."
Ronon whipped out one of his own innumerable knives. "I think this will do," he growled.
Putting a staying hand on the Satedan, Sheppard muttered, "Take the thing so we can get on with this."
Ronon nodded, then seized the short sword with ill grace. "Where do we find these creatures, anyway?"
The old man assumed a mysterious air. "Deep in the tulgey wood," he intoned. As Dex narrowed his eyes angrily, the shaman pointed to the edge of the forest. "Out there. They like the thick groves."
"Helpful," Sheppard sarcastically grunted. Turning to the rest of his team, he instructed, "OK, spread out. I want everyone back by dark. And be careful; who knows what other dangers might be out there." So saying, the three split up and headed out into forest.
After an hour the Colonel found it progressively more difficult to move quietly, and winced as another twig snapped beneath his booted foot. A flock of the unhappy dust-mop birds startled at the sound, running frantically in all directions as they cawed loudly in irritation. Jerking his gun up at the disturbance, Sheppard somehow managed to refrain from discharging his weapon, then took a deep, calming breath. Puffing out his cheeks, he let it go with a soft audible whoosh, then continued on his way. A couple of the lime-green pigs wandered aimlessly past, snorting and snuffling a whistled greeting as they meandered by. Sure enough, a few yards further on was a thick grove of the bulbous, blobby trees that seemed so prevalent on this planet, and that the swine seemed to prefer. Gazing sharply at the underbrush, Sheppard picked out a subtle movement. He eased closer to the source, bringing his weapon up and sighting carefully along its barrel. A violet flash erupted from the low-lying shrubbery and fled through the trees, allowing the colonel just enough time to recognize the woc-like shape without being able to get off a shot. 'Damn,' he cursed under his breath, yanking down the weapon and taking off in pursuit. The chase led through a dreamscape of inverted foliage and compound creatures, until the colonel had to admit that he'd lost track of the small woc despite its intense coloration. He leaned straight-armed against a vaguely orange tree trunk to catch his breath, praying fervently that Ronon or Teyla were having better luck. Panting, he watched a florescent-pink cross between an ostrich and a peacock strut through the trees ahead, proudly unmindful of the intruder in its territory. Sheppard remembered the old adage that anything that brightly colored didn't need to hide to protect itself, and decided to give the animal a wide berth when he continued on his way.
As he rested, his ears picked up an odd sound, rather like the babbling of a small stream over smooth stones. The sound was accompanied by a crashing through the vegetation; clearly the approaching creature had no reason to hide. As a matter of self-defense the soldier raised his weapon, ready to take out the threat the instant it made itself apparent.
The rumbling, gushing noise grew continually louder as the animal drew closer to Sheppard's position. John squinted and adjusted his aim just as the beast broke through the canopy, eyes flashing and smoke snorting from its nostrils. It towered a full three feet above Sheppard's head in all it's emerald-and-scarlet-scaled glory; catching sight of the smaller man, it reared onto its hind legs and whipped its fanged visage to confront the threat, roaring the song of a flooded river. Its wings beat the air furiously, levitating it slightly higher into the air while blowing soil and evergreen needles into the Atlantean's face, causing his eyes to water and his vision to blur. This was the largest of the woc species in all its horror.
Before it could escape, John pulled the trigger, carefully aiming away from its head so as not to injure the eyes. Blue blood erupted from the hole in the center of the monster's chest as the creature's eyes glowed angrily and it headed towards him. Sheppard rapidly emptied his entire clip into the animal, then was forced to dodge behind a tree trunk as he reloaded. Seemingly oblivious to its injuries, the woc whirled on a dime, slamming its muscular tail into the tree Sheppard had crouched behind, snapping it in half and catching his shoulder a glancing blow. Even that indirect strike was enough to flatten the pilot, gun skittering away from nerveless fingers. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly retrieved the weapon from the mossy undergrowth and slammed home the magazine. Turning to face the approaching behemoth, he took careful aim and fired again. He was almost through the second clip when, abruptly, the woc's eyes glazed over and it stumbled. Staring about the glade in confusion, the creature paused its watery cry and fixed its gaze directly on the mammal below. Then, without another sound, pearlescent lids slid shut over the burning eyes as the beast crashed lifelessly to the ground.
Keeping his weapon trained on the woc, Sheppard gingerly approached the carcass and nudged the head with his boot, watching for any signs of life. When none appeared, he holstered the 9mm and produced the large knife that the shaman had provided. He grasped the hair-like projections from the animal's scalp and stretched out the neck. The first strike of the blade made a curious snickt sound, then snact as he pulled it out. With three or four more well-placed blows, the woc's head was detached and Sheppard was thoroughly spattered with the aqua ichor that constituted woc blood. He stared at it momentarily in disgust before shoving the head into the burlap sack he'd brought for that purpose.
Touching his radio, he broadcasted, "Ronon, Teyla, return to the village. I've got what we need." Then he took off at a run for the settlement and his waiting friends.
The sun was just touching the horizon as he pounded on the door of the shoctor's hut, dripping bundle tucked securely under one arm. The door flew open to reveal the wide-eyed healer, who broke into an excited babble as Sheppard shoved past him into the dim room.
"You have one? Yes?" The wizened man pointed eagerly at the blue-soaked bag.
The colonel shoved it unceremoniously at the healer as his eyes sought out the tableaux on the far side of the room. Beckett sat in a straight-backed wooden chair beside an equally-simple bed, adjusting the flow of IV fluids coming from a bag hanging from a peg in the wall. A cardiac monitor, pulse oximeter, and automatic bloodpressure cuff were stacked incongruously on a nearby table, readings appearing dangerously low even to Sheppard's untrained eye. Approaching the sickbed, Sheppard kept his voice low as he stared worriedly at the pale, still figure within it. "Hey, doc. How's McKay?"
Carson looked up at the pilot with worried eyes. "Not too well, I'm afraid. He's mostly out of it now, though I have the fever and pain controlled with our Earth-based medicines. He really needs that antidote."
Sheppard jerked his head back towards the table where the shoctor was busily working and muttering to himself. "I got a woc's head for him. Any idea how long this concoction takes to brew?"
Beckett glanced at the preoccupied healer, then replied dubiously, "Well, I know he's prepared everything else, to expedite the process." He smiled crookedly at a memory, "He seemed quite convinced that, not only would you return successfully with what he needed, but that you, personally, Colonel, would be the first to arrive." Just then Rodney began to moan and thrash weakly in the throws of a nightmare. Beckett gently laid a hand on the sick man's forehead, calming them both. Sheppard pulled up a second chair on the other side of the bed and settled in to wait.
The delay was gratifyingly brief; the shoctor had truly only needed the final ingredient before completing the antidote, and appeared at Rodney's bedside momentarily with a steaming cup clutched carefully with both hands. Proffering it to Beckett, he instructed, "The poisory victim must gobbleth this curdicine entirety."
Carson's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I think he means McKay's got to drink it all," came the gruff explanation from the doorway, where the Satedan stood, haloed by the early-evening light. He moved inside, followed closely by a lithe Athosian form.
"Oh, aye." Beckett reached up and carefully took the mug. "Colonel, if you would be so kind?"
John nodded, then gently grasped Rodney's shoulder and shook it. "Hey, McKay. Time to wake up…"
Rodney's eyes flickered open blearily. "Wha….?"
Sheppard slid an arm behind the scientist's shoulders, maneuvering him into more of a sitting position as Carson brought the cup to the patient's lips. "Come on, now, Rodney. Drink up."
It was a reflection of the seriousness of his illness that McKay initially did as he was told, without protest. However, after two swallows he pushed the mug away, grimacing. "What is this stuff? It tastes like soup made from dirty athletic socks!"
Carson blanched as he thought of the ingredients, not the most loathsome of which were the 'dragon' eyeballs. Aloud he replied firmly, "I don't care what it tastes like, it's the antidote to that poisonous lizard that bit you, so you'll drink every drop or we'll put a tube down your gullet."
Rodney scowled but, given the alternative, complied, draining the cup Beckett still held to his lips. Once finished he screwed up his face and allowed Sheppard to lower him back to the pillows, muttering, "That had to be some relative of Haggis, didn't it?" before falling asleep.
Sheppard anxiously caught Beckett's eye. "How soon until we know anything?"
Carson shrugged. "According to the shoctor, he should start improving immediately." He glanced up at the little native, who was nodding and grinning ear-to-ear.
"Yes, yes. Your friend is saved! O frabjous day!" He threw his arms around a startled Sheppard, then announced, "The partaking feast will revelbrate both our agreecian and your comrade's salprieve. I will tell the folkmen." Bowing deeply to the group, he backed out the exit and into the evening air.
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"Come on, do I really have to go?" Rodney whined to Elizabeth again before boarding the Jumper to head back to Carrollis. He had recovered almost as rapidly as he had been struck down and now, a week later, had been medically cleared to participate in the feast.
Snagging his elbow, Weir propelled her Chief scientist up the ramp. "For the last time, yes you do. To a great extent this party is to celebrate your survival as well as Colonel Sheppard's 'dragon-slaying' ability, not to mention our new trade agreement with these people. You don't want to jeopardize all your hard work, do you?"
Rodney looked over at the pilot's seat, where Sheppard sat grinning with his arms crossed, clearly enjoying Rodney's discomfiture. Swinging around to the controls, he reassured, "Look, I'll set down as close to the village as I possibly can, and Teyla, Ronon and I will guard you every step of the way. You'll be perfectly safe from those toothsome animals."
"Besides, even if something were to happen, you're travelling with your own personal physician," added Beckett from the co-pilot's chair.
"For all the good that will do me; their shoctor was the one who supplied the antidote, you quack!"
"Then it's good that he'll be there, too," retorted Beckett sarcastically.
Before things could escalate, Weir nodded to Sheppard and ordered, "Let's go!" The pilot smirked and hit the throttle.
In the end, Rodney had to admit that he was glad he'd come. The food was excellent, the natives carefully adhered to his dietary restrictions, and only the prettiest of the native women had been sent to attend to his every need throughout the meal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so well in the Pegasus Galaxy. During the evening they'd been entertained with a steady stream of dancers, singers, and storytellers, each better than the last. However, as the group finished desert, the shoctor stood to announce the final balladeer.
Clapping his hands to get everyone's attention, he boomed, "To commemohonor the bravitude of the Slayer," he gestured grandiosely towards an embarrassed Sheppard, "Our Chief Bard has composed a pallad for the ages!" He resumed his seat as an odd, thin, tall, beaked man in a feathered cape took the center of the room. Without further ado, the minstrel launched into his verse.
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the boro-goves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
'And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.'
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe." (1)
The minstrel paused solemnly with his final note, head bowed as thunderous applause rained down. The Atlanteans, as one, stared wide-eyed with open mouths for a full beat. Weir, characteristically, recovered her composure first.
"Thank you for that…frabjous pallad," she smiled, circumventing an awkward moment. Raising her glass, she toasted, "To the Chief Bard!"
"The Chief Bard!" echoed the room enthusiastically, resuming the party atmosphere and allowing the remainder of the guests to regain their equilibrium. The evening wound down rapidly after that, and with much handshaking and laughter, the Atlanteans were escorted to their Jumper. Farewells were said, promises made, and finally the rear hatch closed.
Elizabeth settled back in her chair with a sigh, closing her eyes in relief. It had been a long…strange…evening. A throat clearing caught her attention, and she opened them to see a confused Sheppard glancing back at her.
"Yes, Colonel?"
John shifted uncomfortably as he headed the Jumper towards the Gate. "Well…it's just that…haven't I heard that last song somewhere before?"
Weir sighed, "Yes, colonel, you have. We could gyre about this all night, but I'm equally outgrabe." She closed her eyes once more to the confused stares of the entire group and smiled. 'I'm going to have to reread Alice in Wonderland,' she thought. 'Who knew the rabbit hole lead to the Pegasus Galaxy?'
The End
(1) Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
Author's note: The poem actually occurs in Through the Looking Glass, but we can't expect Weir to know everything, can we? I tried to stick to Humpty-Dumpty's explanation of the words as much as possible when defining raths, borogoves, toves, etc. The pink bird is my idea of a Jubjub bird, and Sheppard does well to stay away from it. I decided that wocs come in three sizes, the largest being the 'Jabber-woc', which I described fairly closely to the original book illustration (I added the color). I didn't have Sheppard encounter a 'frumious Bandersnatch', but the bulbous orange trees are, of course, Tumtums. The title of the story itself refers to Lewis Carroll, the author of "Jabberwocky", and the inspiration for this piece. It was written for fun, and very quickly, so I hope you enjoyed it anyway!