by C K Burch
She reached forward and jammed her thumb into his arm close to his wound.
Electric shock and pain shot across his body, and he sat up straight, howling. “What the hell did you do that for?” he complained, pulling away from her grip.
“To wake you up,” she replied smoothly, “which it did.”
He started to protest, but she was right. He did feel slightly more alert, but there was no way to discern how long that would last. Unwilling to test this, he sat himself upright, and found that his left hand was still clutching his whip. Wonders refused to cease in such situations.
Cairn assisted him out of the jeep, something which gave Dust a chuckle. “Aren't I supposed to be saving you right now?” he asked the boy.
“Y'did, guv,” Cairn said. “Time to return the favor, innit?”
Dust smiled, then made the mistake of looking upwards. A dizzying spectacle awaited his sight: rising some hundred feet into the air was the central spire of Shambhala, covered from base to tip in green vines dotted with red flowers. It was too wide to discern how wide the construction was, too green to recognize the materials used to build it. What was definite was the fact that it shot up high, outstretched the same as the tower of Babel, yet here and there small black shapes flew in and out of the tower's apex, quivering and wavering around in the sky. The bees. Honeymakers. And at this sight, Dust felt his knees nearly give out. The spire would be literally swarming with bees the size of watermelons.
“I can't,” he mumbled, the roof of his mouth suddenly dry.
“Can't what?” Cairn asked.
“Go in.” Dust looked back down at the toes of his boots to center his balance once more. “I can't. Leave me here, go inside.”
“We'll not leave you alone,” Jack stated, lifting one of his arms over her shoulders, much to his painful protest. “You're coming in with. We're almost there.”
“No. Please.” He weakly attempted to pull himself backwards and out of Jack's grasp, but it was halfhearted and without strength as most of his was now escaping through his skin. He felt worn and pale in a way that had nothing to do with his wounds. Something deeper and more primal wormed throughout his chest, pulsing darker with each heartbeat, shaking him all the way down towards his knees. For a moment, he could not walk, and was suspended only by Jack and Cairn's combined strength. He licked his lips; they were dry as bone.
“Guv?” Cairn's voice was small and thin, perhaps about to break from the sight of this tall man reduced to childlike terror. And he did not yet understand the why behind it, as well. Dust pictured himself through his eyes, and felt ashamed, yet this did not belay his terror entirely. It merely gave him the smallest of bolsters to move ahead.
“I'm sorry.” Dust righted himself as best he could, and nodded forward. “I'm sorry. Let's go. Let's finish this.”
Led along by the boy and his guardian, Dust stumbled forward towards the central tower of Shambhala, the place where the gods came to gather, and perhaps his final destination.
***
XI
As they entered the spire, Dust immediately became aware of a humming, droning symphony from above that sent chills all along his wounded body. Images of fat, dog-sized bees zipping and zooming about filled his head, and he nearly stumbled over his own two feet as his knees threatened to give way. A colony. It had to be, here within the building itself. But how? Could the lords of Shambhala actually have sequestered themselves within a hive?
Stepping into the wide, circular chamber, Dust took note of both the inner and outer areas: the outer area was a narrow hallway that traveled around the circumference, upon which was a mural featuring various figures, but this he did not give attention to for the moment. Separating the two areas was a thick, metal gate, with criss-crossed metal bars with minimal margins between; one could see through to the other side, but not pass through. The space between the metal was just smaller than Cairn's head, which hopefully meant that the bees zipping about above them could not pass through either. A door in the grating would allow access to the interior – the handle was clearly ready for usage. And did not appear to be locked. Fascinating. A strong scent of incense was nearby, but he couldn't place the whereabouts of it.
Beyond the gate in the center of the room was a dais, four feet tall, with a simple bowl atop it. Three cups lay on one tier of the dais, perhaps for dipping into the bowl. Honey, gleaming and glistening with amber color, dripped into the bowl from an intricate funnel system that ran down from the walls. Four chutes from four separate points angled downward, suspended over the bowl, as honey slid gently and slowly out to be captured by it. Over their heads, the ceiling opened up to reveal the truth: yes, the entirety of the spire's hollow height was one huge, expansive bee hive. Chambers of honeycomb, filled with quivering, glistening, amber-colored honey reached hundreds of feet above them, lining the walls of the expanse, connected from wall-to-wall like bridges in places. Back and forth the massive black-and-yellow bees flew amongst each other, dancing out maps for their brethren to discover pollen, setting about the task of churning pollen into honey, and perhaps caring for the young that were nestled within parts of the comb. As the honey they produced naturally cascaded towards the floor, it was captured by the troughs to be emptied in the bowl.
The mural on the circumference of the room was a massive diorama of what appeared to be the gods – primarily Shiva – founding the great city of Shambhala. At first glance, it appeared that the god was standing over the valleys and the peaks, with an intricately drawn waterfall between them, surveying the site of this future residence. Next came the construction of the city, with Shiva instructing a group of monkeys – the Bandara – to build and populate the city. How interesting. Hanuman herself had not simply come here to protect the city, but her people had been doing so for millennia at least. Shiva then set about cultivating areas for the bees to create their hives in peace, implying that there was more than just the one above their heads. Could this be the primary hive within the ruins, while there were others that also produced the sacred Amrita? Ridiculously intriguing, and also followed suit with how the Bandara could have enough honey for producing mead and other substances. But there was little time now to dwell upon these facts.
“Well,” Dust said, breaking the silence. “This is a sticky situation, am I right?”
Both Jack and Cairn turned to glare at him.
“I'm just trying to add some levity,” Dust grumbled. He felt blood running down his leg and into his boot, creating a squishing sensation as he fidgeted his weight. Dead men had little time to be funny, he supposed.
Jack was already set to the task, thinking, considering the mural's details, most likely for a hidden answer as to how to retrieve the honey without being stung to death. Somehow there was a key right in front of them. The gods had come here to gather the work of the honeymakers, and the Bandara as well. They wouldn't just set this up without the right tools to accomplish the task.
Cairn tugged on his sleeve. “Let me at the task, guv,” he spoke somberly. “I can get in at the honey right quick, scoop some up and be back in a flash. I'm small and those bees'll not take notice of me.”
Dust shook his head. “Too dangerous. You're fast, but you're hurt, and bees are faster. We have to do this the right way, or not at all.”
“I can do it. I know I can.”
“You're brave, kid. But we need smarts first, running and bravery afterwards.”
Again, he scanned the mural, blinking away blood loss and fatigue from his eyes, wondering, hoping for some sort of revelation in Shiva's behavior that could unlock the puzzle. One of the images displayed the god surrounded by bees, yet also surrounded by what appeared to be clouds of smoke. Of course – a distant reminder of the knowledge that bees were calmed by smoke, which was how beekeepers set about their task of collecting honey without the chaos of being stung. Jack, it seemed, made the connection at the same time as he; her posture changed as though illuminated, and she spun on her heel, a gr
eat smile over her face, but this smile disappeared instantly as her eyes looked beyond Dust's shoulder. There was fear and anger in those eyes.
The hammer of a gun clicked into place behind Dust's head.
“Of course,” Dust spoke wearily. “Some rats don't know when to stay in their holes.”
Wincing, Dust turned in place, ignoring the threat of violence. What greeted him was a sight that felt delightful: here, now, was Ryder and Thomas, both of them dirty and scraggly, with clothes torn in various places, a mixture of blood and mud and smeared foliage across them. Thomas' hair was comically askew, as the proper British gentleman had not had time to fix himself. Ryder, meanwhile, appeared calm and composed as he held his gun to Dust's face, but there was a wild look of suffrage and want of vengeance behind his pupils. The night had been unkind to he and his men – evidence of this lay in the four men who stood behind Ryder, guns at the ready, but also appeared the worse for wear. Sleep deprived, bloodied, menacing mercenaries who wanted little more than to be done with this enterprise. Dust allowed himself a smirk. The great trapper and asshole Lincoln Ryder, shown up by the lost world.
Ryder touched the barrel of his gun to Dust's forehead. “Put that smile away, devil.”
“Do it,” Dust retorted. He held out his arms as best he could. “I'm a dead man in minutes. What can you do to me?”
Thomas reached out and gently lowered Ryder's gun. The dashing prince held a look of contemptible victory on his face, particularly as he looked Dust up and down.
“I say, old boy, you've been through it, haven't you?” Thomas clicked his tongue in reprimand. He turned to Jack. “And you, Sissie, my dear. You've saved my manservant, despite his injury, so I do suppose I ought to give you thanks.”
“You left him!” Jack chided. Veins on either side of her head popped out as her cheeks flushed crimson. “He was injured by those creatures, and you left him behind to die!”
“Now, then, steady on.” Thomas appeared hurt by this indictment. “The fracas was swift and terrible! We were hit and hurt and made to run without a second's notice. Why, by the time I'd realized the lad wasn't with us, it was too late to turn back. We were well away, you know? Scuffle was a dastardly thing.”
“It was fraught.” Ryder's eyes seemed heavy, as though he were contemplating an outcome that he'd only been able to escape by a fraction. “The watch was set, we had all the traps ready to warn us should we be attacked....and it didn't mean a bloody thing. My crew...” Trailing off, his voice was a soft whisper that needed no further descriptions. In this, Dust felt a momentary empathy for the man; then he remembered that Ryder would still kill them all in a heartbeat to see this journey through.
Thomas knelt down and inspected Cairn's side. He seemed, despite all things, genuinely worried. “This will not do at all. We've little time to set this, but you'll be alright soon enough, lad.” As he ruffled Cairn's hair, the boy pulled away slightly. Even now, with all of Thomas' villainy laid out on the table, no one seemed ready or willing to give him his due treatment.
“Hands off the boy,” Dust snarled, but his weakness gave his voice little heft.
Thomas laughed this away. “As you said old man, you'll soon be dead in a moment, so you'd wisely choose your last words to be something more fitting, eh?”
Dust smiled. He raised his middle finger.
Thomas sniffed. “Charming.”
“Let's get on with it.” Ryder spoke between clenched teeth, each word scraping across his molars. It seemed as though he'd had his fill of this nonsense and held no qualms in letting that known.
“Quite.” Thomas nodded at Jack. “Sissie, if you will. Gather us some honey and we'll all be on our way.”
Jack raised her eyebrows. “Do you expect me to just go along with you? Do as you wish of me?”
“Well, of course. We're here, your friends are wounded, and not doing as I wish will deny you the only form of exit from this terrible jungle, being Ryder's airship. You hadn't forgotten about that, had you, my dear?”
“I hadn't,” she replied cautiously.
“Well, then?” Thomas waved at Dust. “We're running out of time, my dear. For both your hero and my manservant. Both are injured, both require attention that the honey will provide, so do be so kind to them as to stop wavering and being so bloody stubborn. I'm quite willing to forgive your insolence if you'll just do as your told.”
Dust turned around quickly to face Jack, who was no doubt already beginning to open her mouth in protest, to argue, to finally release all of her pent-up anger in a way that was assuredly deserved. After all, how many years of Just do as you're told had she heard up until now? How many moments of chastisement had she suffered through to get to this moment, where her voice could now be heard? But it was not the time, and as much as Dust did not want to deny her, both his life and Cairn's were at stake. Yet, Jack knew this. It was in her stoic features, her stone-set eyes. The rigidity of her posture spoke of a legion of outrages that yet bore down over her, which would not be satisfied now. Rather, she stood upright, connected her gaze to Dust's for a moment, then looked back at Thomas.
“There, on the wall,” she told him. “According to the mural here, Shiva used smoke to quell the honeymakers and keep them at bay whilst gathering the Amrita. Light the torches and enter. It'll be yours.”
Connecting this to the scent of incense he'd smelt upon their entry, Dust hobbled in place and turned around to see two torches on either side of the entrance they'd come through. He hadn't noticed them before as his attention had been drawn to the altar upon entry. Thomas and Ryder did the same. Frowning, Ryder approached and took a whiff of the torch. He recoiled with a displeased look on his face. “Christ, if not the smoke, the smell will drive the drongos off quick.”
Jack nodded. “There. You have the key. Now do as you wish.”
“Not quite.” Ryder nodded at one of his men, who withdrew a pistol from his belt and roughly placed it at Cairn's temple. The boy, to his credit, made no outward indication of discomfort, but the briefest of flashes in his eyes spoke a plea for help that could not be ignored.
Thomas rolled his eyes. “Really, Lincoln, is this necessary?”
Dust stepped forward on instinct, but his wounds prevented that option. “What are you doing?” he growled.
“Insurance.” Ryder turned and smiled at Jack. “Perhaps you're putting us on to have us go out, get stung by bees, we began to have a row about it, and off you go, hobbling away to some sort of rescue and recovery whilst us merry gentlemen are viciously attacked by some giant bumblebees. Seems as though to me you've a backup plan, love. Perhaps McAlan here thought one up before you even entered.”
Dust angrily pointed at the torches. “You wanted the answers. She gave them to you. No one gains anything from lying about anything right now.”
“You're absolutely right,” Ryder responded. He took one of the torches and held it out to Dust. “So go get us some honey.”
Dust blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Get out there, eat some honey, and if you're healed of your maladies, we'll know we've come all this way for a good purpose.” A beat. “I don't believe I stuttered, mate.”
Fear overwhelmed his body. He glanced out beyond the gate, at the prehistoric bees as they swept down near the dais and then back up, over and over. One of them dove towards the gate, perhaps out of curiosity, and it smacked against it harmlessly. But the sound of it – that heavy, meaty whack and the clang of the metal – reverberated through him as though the beast had run into his own body.
“Onwards,” Ryder chided.
Dust felt himself pale. He tried to force himself to take the first step forward, but his leg betrayed him and he almost stumbled standing still. A dry tongue licked dry lips as he could not remove his gaze away from the bee inside.
Ryder stared back incredulously, then, ever so slowly, he began to understand the why behind Dust's hesitance, and he became quite giddy. “Afraid of bees,” Ryder chuckled, his laug
hter growing, and soon he was in tears. His men, confused, joined in the laughter, although some of them appeared perplexed as to why they were.
“Afraid of bees!” Ryder howled. He wiped away tears. “This is rich.”
“Not as rich as I am,” Thomas remarked blithely. Casually, he reached out and pushed away the brute who held Cairn captive, turning his own gun to the boy's head, his former concern for the lad's health and safety gone in a moment of want. Thomas clicked back the hammer as Ryder continued to laugh. Now Cairn looked afraid; perhaps he'd always been afraid of Lord Thomas, in some way.
Jack reached out to Thomas gently. She fought with her words. “It's, it's okay, I'll do it, I can. I can do it.”
Thomas, however, nodded at Dust. “I'm afraid it's to be McAlan over here, Sissie. Ryder is correct in that we need our proof proven. We'll not tolerate any excess lies, now shall we?”
“I guess not.” Dust turned to Ryder and took the torch in hand. He spared a glance towards Cairn, and gave him a wink. It'll be alright, kid.
Cairn seemed less than convinced. As did Jack, who stared at Dust in a silent plea to let her perform this task. He shook his head gently at her – both Thomas and Ryder had made their demands, and there was no time to open discourse over it. It was either move forward or die. As he stood before the gate, the swarm above him generating enough noise to startle a horse, he mentally crossed himself and wondered if he actually could do this. And, as with everything he ever did, there was only one way to find out. Reaching into his belt, he retrieved a Zippo lighter that he carried with him everywhere. One flick later and the torch came to life, so easily as to confirm its continued use.