Ballykillduff Steampunk

The Steampunk Daleks of Ballykillduff

Prologue: A Strange Copper Glow

On most Tuesdays in Ballykillduff, nothing more dramatic happens than the post landing in the wrong cottage and the weather deciding to be three kinds of rain at once. Mrs. O’Toole hangs out washing and scolds the sky. Old Seamus McGroggan studies his pipe as if it might tell him who ate the last custard cream. And young Mick—ambitious, daft, and acrobatic—tries to cycle backwards down the main street while balancing a loaf on his head. (It is, he insists, “training for the circus.”)

But on this particular Tuesday, at precisely half past eleven, a copper light spread over the village like someone had polished the clouds. The hens went quiet. The sheep froze mid-chew. Father O’Malley paused with the parish bell rope in his hand and whispered, “Saints preserve us.”

Then came the sounds:
HSSSSSS… CLANK-CLONK! WHOOOOMP-TCHAK! TOOT-TOOT!
Gears rattled. Pipes sighed. Something big exhaled steam with the weary dignity of a very old kettle.

Mrs. Byrne put down her shopping basket. “That’ll be the weather packing in for the year,” she said.

“Or the circus,” said Mick hopefully, wobbling.

A shadow rippled across the crossroads. And through the copper-coloured sky, down they came: brass-plated, rivet-studded, monocle-winked, stovepipe-hatted… Daleks.

“Ah,” said Seamus softly to his pipe, “we’re doomed so.”

The first of the strange machines landed with a THOONK that made the turf stacks shiver and the pub sign spin half a turn. Its dome lifted a fraction; a curl of steam puffed out like a sigh of satisfaction.
“ATTEND!” wheezed a crisp, Victorian voice through a whistling grille. “THE AGE OF STEAM COMMENCES.”

“Will it take cash,” Mrs. Byrne whispered, “or does it run on scones?”

The brass teapot-on-wheels swivelled its monocled eyestalk. “WE REQUIRE… TEA.”

“Right,” said Mrs. O’Toole, squaring up. “That we can manage.”

And Ballykillduff held its breath.

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Chapter One: The Landing at the Crossroads

The first Dalek was followed by three more, clattering down like a parade of particularly self-important samovars. Each wore something decorative: one with a stovepipe hat bolted to its dome, one with a little copper cravat, one with a dangling gauge that went PING whenever it felt like it, and one with a tasteful smear of soot that it clearly considered rakish.

They formed a neat line at the crossroads. Steam curled from vents and tiny brass doors. Gears clicked. Somewhere inside, a kettle boiled.

“OBSERVE!” cried Stovepipe, who was obviously the leader. “WE CLAIM THIS VILLAGE IN THE GRAND EMPIRE OF STEAM.”

“Does the Grand Empire of Steam include the post office?” asked Mrs. Byrne. “Because the queue there is a disgrace.”

“ALL SHALL BE IMPROVED BY STEAM.”

Father O’Malley stepped forward, vestments fluttering in the copper light. “Now listen here, mechanical visitors. You’ll find Ballykillduff is a peaceful parish—except on darts night—and we don’t hold with conquering.”

“HERESY: NON-STEAM.” hissed Cravat, producing a telescoping arm that ended in a gleaming teaspoon. It stirred the air menacingly. CHINK-CHINK-CHINK.

Young Mick, overcome by the occasion, attempted a backwards wheelie. The second Dalek exhaled a triumphant HSSSSS! and blew him clean off his bike into the nearest haystack.
“Mmff,” said the haystack, indignantly.

Seamus McGroggan approached with the ancient dignity of a man who has seen far worse (he hasn’t). He circled the nearest Dalek and tapped its brass with a knuckle. TONK.
“Well made,” he admitted. “Do you do kettles to match? The wife is particular.”

The Dalek rotated. “SUBMIT.”

“We could submit somethin’ to the bake sale,” suggested Mrs. Byrne helpfully.

Stovepipe extended a second arm: a polished plunger with filigree at the rim. “THE GRAND EMPIRE OFFERS TERMS: FOUR O’CLOCK TEA. ATTENDANCE MANDATORY.”

“Four?” said Mrs. O’Toole. “That’s when I turn the spuds.”

“YOU WILL REARRANGE YOUR SPUDS.”

There was a collective gasp. Rearranging spuds in Ballykillduff is not done lightly.

The Daleks unrolled a banner made of embossed brass sheets that clinked as it unfurled. On it were the words (hammered slightly skew): REGARD: CIVILITY BY STEAM. A pop-up pavilion assembled itself with pneumatic sighs. Teacups polished themselves. A jam-tart catapult unfolded with a promising SPRANG!

“We’ll see,” Father O’Malley muttered. “We’ll see at four.”

And the village scattered to prepare—by which they meant talking about it in the pub.

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Chapter Two: The Great Tea-Party Invasion

By half past three, Ballykillduff smelled gloriously of hot metal and pastry. The Daleks had erected a towering tea-urn in the middle of the crossroads, complete with a pressure gauge that waggled its needle like a delighted terrier. Pipes wound about it like polished ivy. A valve labeled DO NOT TWIDDLE begged to be twiddled.

Cravat supervised a squadron of saucers doing drill. “FORMATION: NESTED! FORMATION: FAN! FORMATION: SAUCY WEDGE!” The saucers obeyed with a crisp CLIK-CLAK-CLIK that impressed everyone, even Mrs. Byrne.

At three-fifty-nine, Stovepipe ascended a little brass lectern. “COMMENCE CIVILITY.”

At four o’clock precisely, the Daleks lined up shoulder-to-shoulder (or dome-to-dome), monocles gleaming. The urn released a ceremonial puff. PFFFT!
“POUR.” ordered Stovepipe.

Nothing happened.

“POUR.” he repeated, slightly less magnificently.

The urn gurgled. A teaspoon saluted. A jam tart wobbled onto the catapult and waited bravely.

No villagers.

At four-ten, a curious sheep wandered up, sniffed the tart, and thought better of it.

At four-twenty, the pressure gauge began to inch into the crimson section labeled EXUBERANT. Cravat dabbed at its grille with a napkin. “DÉSHONNEUR.”

At four-thirty, the pub doors burst open and out spilled Ballykillduff, rosy and opinionated.
“Tea!” cried Mrs. Byrne. “And jam tarts! Who told ye to start without us?”

“WITHOUT—” Stovepipe began, then checked itself. “YOU WERE LATE.”

“Punctuality is a suggestion,” said Seamus, already pocketing a second scone.

A tart launched itself with a merry TWANG! and landed on Mick’s haystack with a muffled SPLUT.
“Mmff,” said the haystack again, but in a more jam-scented way.

The Daleks poured with trepidation. Steam curled like polite ghosts. Cups chimed. Spoons chimed back. Father O’Malley, accused of heresy and therefore determined to be gracious, accepted a cup. “That’s… strong,” he managed, eyes watering.

“STRENGTH IS CIVILITY.” said Stovepipe. It rotated to the village. “ANNOUNCEMENT: DANCE WILL OCCUR FOR PURPOSES OF SUBJUGATION.”

“Ah, a céilí,” said Mrs. O’Toole briskly, rolling up her sleeves. “You should have said.”

“WE HAVE SAID.”

“Not like you mean it,” she said. “Now then—clear a space. Mind the bunting. Father, fetch the bell. Seamus, tune the fiddle. And you—teapot fella with the hat—take your partner.”

“CLARIFY: PARTNER?”

“Me,” said Mrs. O’Toole, taking hold of the filigree plunger before it could object. “And none of your nonsense.”

The urn crept into ZESTY. The band struck up. Ballykillduff began to dance.

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Chapter Three: The Ballykillduff Céilí

If you have never seen a brass-plated, boiler-powered, monocled Dalek attempt a céilí, you have missed a rare and precious chaos.

It began carefully: a hop, a quarter-turn, a cautious whrrr of wheels. Mrs. O’Toole called steps with the authority of a headmistress and the gleam of a mischief-maker.
“Two hands across! Swing your partner! Mind the tart catapult—Seamus, that’s not for percussion—FOUR HAND REEL!”

Stovepipe discovered it could whistle a jig through its stovepipe hat. The note wavered at first—Fwee-fweee?—then steadied into a proud, wheezy tune that sounded exactly like an elderly kettle falling in love.
“THIS IS—” it panted between trills, “ACCEPTABLE.”

Cravat, more of a natural show-off, spun in place until its gauge read SPIRITED and the little needle made contented tikka-tikka noises. Every third rotation, it released an involuntary POTCH! of steam that curled into heart shapes. Several teenage girls sighed theatrically and then remembered themselves.

Mrs. Byrne skipped with a saucer platoon. “Left! Right! No, love, not into the turf—oh, mind the sheep—”

Father O’Malley rang the parish bell on the off-beat, which created an entirely new kind of rhythm that musicians will debate in pubs for centuries.

And poor Mick—lodged in his haystack—participated as best he could by vibrating gently every time a set thundered past. From within came occasional commentary.
“Brilliant! Ow. Mind me ear. Ow. That was my biscuit.”

The céilí grew hotter, louder, jollier. Sparks flew from wheel rims in little gold stars. Steam rolled across the road like fog with opinions. The jam-tart catapult misread a signal and sent a pastry soaring into the air where it was caught, to thunderous applause, by the village dog, Butter.

Someone (we won’t say who) twiddled the DO NOT TWIDDLE valve. The urn squealed, then began to puff cinnamon-scented steam. The air turned sweet as a bakery at Christmas. Stovepipe’s monocle fogged.
“SYSTEM UPDATE: DELICIOUS.”

“Set three!” bellowed Mrs. O’Toole, glowing with triumph. “Give me a St. Patrick’s Day, a Siege of Ennis, and the Ballykillduff Special!”

“What’s the Ballykillduff Special?” asked Cravat, suspicious.

“This,” she said, and whirled her Dalek partner so vigorously that Stovepipe spun on the spot with a noise like a delighted train: CHUFF-chuff-CHUFF-CHUFF!

“ELEVATED JOY.” Stovepipe confessed, dizzy. “UNFORESEEN.”

By dawn, the last set collapsed into laughter. The band drooped. The urn sighed into SATISFIED. The parish bell, frankly exhausted, leaned against the gable.

Ballykillduff, smeared with flour and jam and soot and happiness, looked at the brass visitors and saw—if not friends yet—dance partners you’d invite again.

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Chapter Four: The Final Truce

Morning light washed away the copper glow, leaving a bright Irish sky with one opinionated cloud. Birds tried to pretend they hadn’t been watching. Hens resumed being hens. Butter did a patrol for fallen crumbs.

Stovepipe raised its teaspoon arm. The village hushed. Even the sheep inclined an ear.

“STATEMENT:” it said, and the whistle under the words was softer now. “THIS VILLAGE IS STRANGE. THIS VILLAGE IS STUBBORN. THIS VILLAGE… DANCES.”

A respectful murmur. (Ballykillduff is very proud of its dancing.)

“REVISION OF OBJECTIVES:” Stovepipe continued. “EXTERMINATION: CANCELLED. ANNUAL RETURN: MANDATED.”

“You’ll come back?” asked Mrs. Byrne, clutching Butter, who was clutching a tart.

“FOR FESTIVITIES. TERMS: TEA. CAKE. MUSIC.” Cravat added, with a little bow that made its gauge ping CHIC.

Father O’Malley stepped forward, wiped cinnamon from his sleeve, and extended a hand in blessing. “We can live with that,” he said. “We can thrive with that.”

Seamus, who had already fashioned a tea-cosy hat out of a spare bunting triangle, nodded solemnly. “And if ye could fix the post office queue with steam,” he suggested, “that’d be a mercy.”

“WE WILL CONSIDER.” said Stovepipe gravely.

Before they left, the Daleks tried currant buns. Three declared them TEXTURALLY INTRIGUING. One’s boiler clogged and released a festive POOF of cinnamon that drew a cheer from the assembled crowd. Mick, jammy and hay-speckled, finally wriggled an arm free and waved it triumphantly.
“I’m grand!” he announced. “Also stuck.”

“Leave him,” said Mrs. O’Toole. “He’ll only try the loaf trick again.”

With a collective CHHHHHRRRR-CHONK, the Daleks retracted pavilions, folded banners, and politely tidied the crossroads (steam is very house-proud). Stovepipe looked one last time at Ballykillduff—the pub sign, the turf stacks, the bell, the haystack with an arm.
“RESPECT.” it said simply.

Then, with a triumphant TOOT-TOOT!, they whooshed upward, leaving behind only a faint smell of brass and bakery and the knowledge that, sometimes, conquest looks suspiciously like a party.

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Epilogue: The Festival of the Steampunk Daleks

They kept their promise.

Every September, as the evenings turn the colour of tea with a dash of milk, Ballykillduff strings bunting across the road and sets out tables that wobble charmingly. The band tunes up. The parish bell clears its throat. Butter sits by the jam-tart catapult with professional focus.

At half past eleven on the appointed Tuesday, a copper glow spreads over the village. Hens faint for tradition’s sake. Seamus dons his tea-cosy hat. Father O’Malley oils the bell rope like a man preparing for championship. Mick wriggles experimentally in the ceremonial haystack (he insists it’s lucky).

And down they come: brass polished, monocles shining, gauges reading EXPECTANT—the Steampunk Daleks, rolling into Ballykillduff like grand aunts arriving for a wedding, ready to pour, to whistle, to whirl.

Visitors travel from miles around to watch the céilí where sparks fly and steam sighs and everybody leaves smelling faintly of cinnamon. There are competitions—the Saucer Drill, the Teaspoon Fling, the Siege of Ennis (Dalek Division). There is a respectful truce over the spuds.

Sometimes, late, when the stars bounce in puddles and the music softens, Stovepipe wheels to the edge of the road and looks up at the sky it fell from.
“HOME: MULTIPLE DEFINITIONS.” it murmurs.

“Home is where the kettle sings,” Mrs. O’Toole tells it, handing over a bun.

“ACKNOWLEDGED.” says Stovepipe, and whistles a tune that sounds exactly like an elderly kettle in love.

And Ballykillduff—stubborn, strange, dancing Ballykillduff—whirls on.