The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends
Page 4
‘Suspected,’ said the smiling Cameron Bell. ‘It appeared to be the only logical conclusion, but in eighteen ninety no other time machine was available in which I could pursue him. I had to bide my time, so to speak.’
‘You are a very deceitful man,’ I said most bitterly. ‘You should have been honest with me from the start.’
‘And then you would have readily agreed to pursue this criminal rather than simply swan about through history attending concerts or wandering the galleries of the Great Exhibition?’
‘Ah,’ I mused, ‘the Great Exhibition of eighteen fifty-one. I remember reading that they displayed a prodigious selection of cultivated bananas there.’
‘Precisely,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And I do wish to enjoy these pleasures with you. But you must understand, I am driven by my vocation. I am a detective. This is what defines me as a human being. I must bring Mr Arthur Knapton, the Pearly Emperor, to justice before I can consider doing anything else. I am sorry that I was not altogether honest with you. Would you care to try on the suit? White linen favours your complexion and it does have your personal lining.’
‘Well . . .’ I said, with some hesitancy.
‘And for desert travel one would also need one of these.’ And Mr Bell produced from the inner pocket of the suit he intended for me a bright and shiny object.
He placed it in my hands and I gave it my attention.
‘It is a little hip flask,’ I said.
‘Turn it over,’ said he.
I turned it over and read what was engraved upon it: ‘ “For my very best friend and partner Darwin, from one not so noble as he. Cameron Bell, 1900.” ’
A tear sprang up into my eye and I gave my best friend a cuddle.
‘Then we work together and bring this rogue to justice?’ asked Mr Bell.
‘We do,’ I said. ‘But I have not quite forgiven you as yet.’
‘I understand,’ said the detective. ‘Even so, let us plot a course for Egypt and adjust the time counter to the day of Akhenaten's ascension to his throne, and we will be off.’
‘Why that particular day?’ I enquired.
‘Because that will be before our paths crossed at the British Museum, and so at that time he would not even have guessed that I would be on to him in the future.’
‘I can see that I will find time travel very confusing,’ I said.
‘Not just you,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Let us set the controls and get the ship in motion and then I suggest we take some supper. I brought along a rather special bottle of Château Doveston champagne. Best crack it now, as ever, don't you think?’
I grinned towards Mr Cameron Bell. ‘I do so like champagne,’ I said to him.
How long, I am occasionally asked, does it take to travel from one time period to another? Do you travel at several years a minute? Do you accelerate or decelerate, or does no time whatsoever pass within the confines of the time-ship as you travel?
All of these are questions which might well demand answers, but I have no answers to give. On gazing occasionally through the portholes during our periods of travel, it always looked to me as though we were simply travelling through space. Planets appeared to pass us by and distant galaxies wheeled. Once in some while or another, a queer thing was to be seen. Once I swear that I saw an angel pass by, but Mr Bell and I had been drinking Vin Coca Mariani at the time, whilst celebrating the fact that it was Mr Bell who had been responsible for bringing down the walls of Jericho.
That, however, is quite another story. If I recall correctly, it only took about five minutes for us to travel back to eighteen ninety, but journeying more than two thousand years into the past was probably going to take a little longer.
*
We enjoyed a most delectable supper and refreshed ourselves with champagne. And then we took to our bunks with jovial goodnight-to-yous.
Which, looking back, was not perhaps the wisest of things to do, because several hours later we were both awakened by the crash.
The Marie Lloyd, unpiloted, had reached her destination and we plunged down without due let or hindrance into the Sahara Desert at a rate of knots that was to say reckless, if it were to say anything at all.
I said, ‘Eeeek!’ and, ‘Help!’ and, ‘What is going on?’
And then we struck the sand a thunderous blow.
Many things that had been distributed along the length of the time-ship now found themselves plunging helter-skelter towards the rear, for when travelling backwards through time the Marie Lloyd naturally flew in reverse. Myself and Mr Bell, issuing from our cabins, found ourselves accompanying the multifarious objects in their pell-mell rearward dash. Happily, neither of us was badly injured, and as I was wearing my nightshirt, I avoided besmirchment of my new linen suit.
Mr Bell, however, was not quite so lucky. He found himself intimately involved with the HP Sauce dispenser, the contents of which had smothered him head to foot.
I tried so very hard not to laugh.
But sadly I utterly failed in this endeavour.
When order was restored and Mr Bell had showered and changed his clothes, we ventured from the time-ship with a certain trepidation, fearing greatly that we might already have damaged it beyond any reasonable hope of repair.
I sported my new suit and pith helmet and cut a rather dashing figure. Mr Bell looked somewhat hot in his tweeds. He had a large pair of binoculars strung about his neck, a mighty knapsack on his back and was carrying a fine stout walking cane.
The Marie Lloyd was well dug in to the desert floor. But the soft sand had clearly cushioned the impact and our limited inspection appeared to reveal that no great damage had been done.
Mr Bell produced a compass from his pocket, a lovely gold affair – a gift, he assured me, from a grateful Venusian ecclesiastic for sorting out a delicate business concerning an arch-druid, a pantomime dame and a whistling racoon named Frisky.
‘That way to the east,’ said Mr Bell, pointing off towards nothingness.
I looked up at my friend the detective and asked him if he was sure.
‘Never more certain,’ said he.
‘Only it looks to me to be a very large desert and the sun is shining brightly from a very cloudless sky.’
‘You have your hip flask?’
‘Yes, and some fruit for my breakfast.’
‘Excellent. Then we set forth to seek the city of Akhetaten. It is known that Akhenaten built this city in honour of the God Aten, Aten being an aspect of himself.’
‘That comes as little surprise,’ I said. ‘But given matters so far, I must insist upon hearing your plan before we set forth.’
‘My plan,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Your plan. So that as your partner I might offer my considered opinion as to its validity. You do actually have a plan, I suppose? You were not simply thinking to strike out into a desert beneath a blazing sun, en route to an appointment with who knows what, without any plan at all?’
We returned to the Marie Lloyd.
*
An hour later, we re-emerged from the Marie Lloyd and I climbed up to the time-ship's pointy nose to have a good look around through my friend's binoculars. Then I climbed down and returned them to him.
‘There is a very large city in that direction,’ I said, pointing towards the west. ‘It looks to be a little less than a mile away, so it won't take us long to reach it.’
We marched in a spirited fashion. We even sang a music hall number or two, and Mr Bell told me a joke about a lady who grew parsnips in her window box. I laughed politely but did not understand it. Presently we climbed to the crest of a sand dune and gazed towards the mighty city beyond.
It rose from the sand like some fairy-tale creation, towers and cupolas shimmering in the heat. It held to such a rare beauty that I was touched to behold it. Mr Bell dusted sand from the lenses and peered at it through his binoculars.
Then he suddenly said, ‘Oh my, oh my,’ lowered his binoculars, then raised them once again.
‘They did a lot of that kind of thing at this time,’ I replied. ‘Mr Hugo Rune believes that pyramids are just the tops of ob—’
‘I think you had better see for yourself,’ said Mr Bell, and he handed his binoculars to me.
I adjusted them to fit my face and raised them to my eyes. Then I fiddled somewhat with the focusing.
Then I beheld the sight of a half-completed pyramid. And something more that caused me to gasp and lower the binoculars.
‘You see them?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘I see them,’ I replied. ‘Thousands and thousands of them, hauling great blocks of granite up ramps to build the pyramid.’
Mr Bell nodded. ‘And?’ said he.
I raised the binoculars and stared once more through their lenses. ‘And,’ I said, when I had done, ‘they are not men who haul those blocks, but thousands and thousands of chickens.’
6
‘h my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell.
And I, too, expressed considerable surprise.
We both took turns with the binoculars to assure ourselves that we had not fallen prey to some desert mirage. But there they were, large as life – thousands and thousands of chickens.
‘I must express my extreme disappointment,’ said I.
And Cameron Bell asked me just why this was.
‘Because it has been my conviction,’ I explained, ‘that the race of Man descended from Ape, as popularised by the theory of my namesake, Mr Darwin. The Ape being God's noblest creature, as you yourself would attest, having spent so much time in my company.’
Mr Bell rolled his eyes somewhat at this. Perhaps he had some sand in them.
‘It certainly puts a new perspective upon history,’ he said.
‘Not one that I will readily embrace,’ I replied. ‘There will be some rational explanation, I am sure. Perhaps they are a special breed of worker chicken bred by an ape of the scientific persuasion.’
‘As likely an explanation as any, I suppose.’
Mr Bell shrugged and I, having nothing better to do, joined him in shrugging.
‘Will this affect our plan?’ I asked, when I had tired of shrugging.
‘In no way.’ Mr Bell arose and dusted sand from himself.
‘That there may be no misunderstandings,’ I said, doing likewise, ‘please outline to me precisely what your intentions are.’
‘Certainly.’ My friend drew from an inner pocket a hip flask that greatly dwarfed my own and acquainted himself with its contents. ‘Today is the day of Akhenaten's coronation. The city will swell with visitors, many many visitors, from all parts of this ancient realm. We will be able to move unnoticed amongst them—’
I made a coughing-mumbling sound, which signified a degree of uncertainty. Mr Bell continued undeterred.
‘And we shall take ourselves to a hostelry and learn what there is to be learned. Our aim is ultimately the capture and return to London of the elusive Mr Knapton. This we will achieve, but by what means depends upon the intelligence gained within the city. I can offer little more in the way of specifics than this.’
‘Perhaps we should return once more to the Marie Lloyd and iron out the details,’ I said. ‘I recall that I made several suggestions earlier which do not now appear to be included in your scheme.’
‘Darwin,’ said Mr Bell, ‘do you wish to see Beethoven conduct the Ninth, or do you not?’
‘Let us hasten to the city,’ I said. ‘I am confident that the details will iron themselves out soon enough.’
*
It was fearsomely hot. We trudged over sand dunes and eventually found ourselves upon a paved road. Here we fell in with other travellers, some on horseback, some upon camels, some simply plodding on foot. All were bound, as we were, to the great city of Akhetaten, and none paid us any attention.
Mr Bell had suggested that it would be better if I did not display my vocal skills whilst in unfamiliar company, but that I might instead employ my considerable talents as an actor by posing as his servant. He was quite profuse in his praises for my acting skills and likened me to a simian Henry Irving.
I had acquiesced to this on the condition that I remained in my white linen suit and pith helmet and was not required to don the hated fez and waistcoat.
Onward we marched to Akhetaten.
I confess to no little sense of awe. For here was I, actually in the past, amongst people of history, walking towards a city of a biblical persuasion. I had become the first Ape of Time and this was my first adventure.
Those we marched amongst were certainly striking to behold. So much so, in fact, that I feel the need to versify.
There were tall Zoroastrians all the way from Persia.
Gaunt Ethiopians in colourful attire.
Princes of Atlantis and of Narnia and India,
Who travelled to the music of the flute and lute and lyre.
There were worshippers of Hanuman, of Hathor and of Horus,
Freya and Fortuna, Marduk and Mummu.
Dagon and Demeter, Ganesha and Fanjita,
Achilles and Adonis and Agamemnon, too.
I will, in the fullness of time, add other verses to this text to bring the reader further joy, but those two for now are sufficient. Mr Bell identified to me Babylonians, Mesopotamians, denizens of Phoenicia, Nineveh, ancient Greece and Rome. It seemed as if all of the antique world had been invited to attend the coronation of Akhenaten. And given Mr Arthur Knapton's intentions for world domination, this was not altogether surprising.
A thousand thoughts must have whirled their way through my mind as we moved on towards the great city. Many many questions sprang forward, but few answers moved to greet them.
We passed rather too closely to one of the half-built pyramids and viewed the chickens that worked upon it. They were fearsome chickens.
Each one of them was the height of a man and possessed of considerable strength, for they hauled those granite blocks with ease. I looked up at Mr Bell and caught sight of a most quizzical expression upon the great detective's face. It was evident to me that Cameron Bell was baffled by those chickens.
We entered the city through a gateway that yawned between two monstrous statues of Akhenaten, seated and stately and striking to behold. I have seen several of the capital cities of Earth during my travels and also once Rimmer, the capital city of Venus. But I had never before seen such a city as this.
Its architecture was daunting to the eye, its scale beyond an ape's ability to encompass. It was not as if the mighty buildings rose up from the ground, but rather that they appeared to soar down from the sky. They conformed to a curious geometry that played havoc with perspective and brought troubles to the mind. This was indeed a biblical city. And new thoughts crowded my head. I thought of those mighty men of old, the patriarchs and prophets, of Moses, Aaron, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Abraham and the rest. Did their feet, in these ancient times, walk upon the pavements of this city? Were such Old Testament heroes here at this very moment?
Mr Bell was searching for a public house. Whilst I gazed up in awe at obelisks inlaid with tiger's-eye, chalcedony, chrysoprase and jasper, he sought out a bar. I knew Mr Bell to be a man of integrity and ingenuity, but also a man who was keen to haunt taverns.
‘Aha,’ said he of a sudden, and drew me from the throng that was now pressing hard about my small self. ‘Here will serve us fine, I do believe.’
He pointed up to a row of hieroglyphics above an open doorway.
And once more proved the extent of his arcane knowledge by interpreting them.
‘Fangio's Bar,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Fangio's Bar!?!’ I would have said, but I was sworn to silence.
‘Let us enter and see what we can see.’ Mr Bell dusted down his tweeds, removed his pith helmet and, in the company of myself, entered Fangio's Bar.
It came as a surprise to me on this occasion, but would fail to do so upon other
s, that a bar looks just like a bar no matter which where or when you happen to be. And this one was ever so typical.
It was long and low and loathsome, dimly lit and evil-smelling. A bar-counter ran the length of the far wall and a cockroach was sauntering along its length. The floor was cobbled with sandstone and clothed with rotten rugs. The walls were dressed with sporting prints and I viewed what looked to be a number of Spanish souvenirs behind the bar-counter amongst the optics, along with several picture postcards and a scale model of Noah's Ark.
It was not a big bar and my eyesight is acute.
Patrons of this sorry establishment lounged upon rough wooden stools, taking their Egyptian porter from earthenware tankards and mumbling in those Neanderthal tones common to bar patrons the whole world over, throughout the length and breadth of time.
Having taken it in, I turned to take my leave.
Mr Bell, however, would have none of that.
‘We shall stay,’ said he, a-pushing me forward. ‘We will taste ale and I will chat with the locals.’
I mentioned in passing that this bar was evil-smelling. Much of this foetor clearly emanated from the patrons, who were surely not of princely stock. The beer had a malodorous quality that was all its own and I felt disinclined to sample it.
Mr Bell approached the bar, one hand upon my shoulder. A barman, of filthy aspect, viewed our arrival with a jaundiced expression, a jaded eye and a nose with a boil on the end.
‘Two measures of your finest ale,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
The barman just stared on and made no movement.
‘Two . . . measures . . . of . . . your . . . finest . . . ale,’ said Mr Bell once more, this time more slowly and more loudly, for as any Englishman knows, Johnny Foreigner can understand the Queen's English if he chooses to, and if you say what you have to say very loudly and very slowly he will eventually acknowledge this fact and you will get what you require.
Fellow time traveller Hugo Rune suggested that to enforce a point in circumstances such as these, the employment of a stout stick had an educational effect. Mr Bell did carry such a stick!
‘I said . . .’ said he, ‘TWO . . . MEASURES . . . OF—’