Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon bas-3

by Mark Hodder

  Lettow-Vorbeck suddenly slapped his hand down on the thick dossier that lay before him. “So! Lassen Sie uns auf den Punkt kommen! No more-what is the expression? — beating around the bush?” He put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Ich kenne die Wahrheit. Your name is not Frank Baker. You are Sir Richard Francis Burton. You were born in the year 1821. You died in the year 1890. And you were sent to the year 1914 from the year 1863. Es ist ein au?erordentlicher Umstand! Unglaublich!”

  Burton sat bolt upright. His exhaustion fell away.

  Lettow-Vorbeck gave a slight smile, his teeth white in the shadow of his face. “Sehr gut. Sehr gut, Herr Burton. I have your full attention now. You will listen to me, ja? I have a story to tell you. But first a question: do you possess die telepathischen Fahigkeiten?”

  “Mediumistic abilities? No.”

  “Nor I. Hah! It is a misfortune! I should like them! You are aware, ja, that many people do? In increasing numbers, it appears. Your Colonel Crowley has his people-and they are strong-while we Germans have our weathermen, and, of course, the Kaiser himself, who is the greatest Gedankenleser-medium-of them all.”

  Burton's right eyebrow rose slightly. “Nietzsche styles himself emperor now, does he?”

  “Es ist angebracht, dass!”

  A large fly buzzed lazily around Lettow-Vorbeck's head and landed on the desk. The German picked up the dossier and whacked it down onto the insect. He flicked the flattened corpse onto the floor and resumed his former position.

  “And in Russland, there was Grigori Rasputin, also a great Gedankenleser, who, as you may know, died of-how do you say Hirnblutung?”

  “Brain haemorrhage,” Burton answered.

  “So. Ja. Thank you. He died of that two years ago. It is him my story concerns.”

  Burton remained silent.

  Lettow-Vorbeck pointed a finger down at the report lying in front of him.

  “This dossier was entrusted to me by Kaiser Nietzsche himself. It contains information that no other man is aware of-just he and I-and now I will tell you.”

  Still Burton said nothing.

  “Thirteen years ago, after we were forced to destroy your nation's capital city, our troops discovered a number of black diamonds beneath the rubble of the Tower of London. They were the seven fragments of the Cambodian Eye of Naga, and the seven of the African Eye. We know this because documents concerning them were also found, and, in these documents, another Eye-from South America, and also in seven pieces-was described. Of it, though, there was no sign. You know of what I speak, ja?”

  “I'm aware of the Eyes of Naga, Generalmajor,” Burton said, “but I can't help you. I don't know where the South American stones are.”

  “That is not why you are here. We have already located them: our people have sensed their presence in Tabora-your last stronghold. We will recover them when we drive you from that place.”

  “So far, I believe, you've not been very successful in that endeavour.”

  “Ich kann es nicht verleugnen! The South American stones are being used to protect the city, Herr Burton, but the Heereswaffenamt-our Army Ordnance people-have a solution to that. A final solution! It will be put into operation soon and Tabora will be destroyed. But let us not stray from the subject-we must talk of the other Eyes, ja? For many decades, even before the Great War commenced, your people committed mediumistic acts of sabotage against German industry. When it was discovered that the diamonds were the tools your Gedankenleser had used to perpetrate their crimes, Bismarck passed them to Nietzsche, that he might employ them to-what is the word? — accentuate the talents of our own people. Nietzsche kept the Cambodian stones but sent the African ones to Rasputin, and the two men used the power of the Eyes to secure an alliance between Germany and Russland. Then, in 1914, Nietzsche overthrew Bismarck and Rasputin deposed the Tsar.”

  “Two traitors betraying their leaders,” Burton said scornfully.

  “Two visionaries,” Lettow-Vorbeck countered, “committed to creating a better world.”

  Shouts penetrated the office from outside. The prisoners were being rounded up and marched out of the camp, on their way into the Usagara Mountains to continue work on the road.

  Burton asked, “What has any of this to do with me?”

  “We shall come to that. Nietzsche took control of the Greater German Empire, but before Rasputin could do similar in Russland, he died of the Hirnblutung. German agents retrieved the African stones and returned them to Nietzsche. Now we come to the interesting part of the story, for our emperor had spent considerable time probing the Cambodian fragments and he'd detected in them a remnant intelligence.”

  “Yes. The Naga,” Burton muttered.

  “The mythical reptiles? Nein, das ist falsch.”

  Burton looked surprised. “Then what?”

  “A man. A philosopher named Herbert Spencer. It was little more than an echo, but some information could be gleaned from it; specifically that Spencer died in 1862 yet his intelligence somehow survived for a further year, before finally being extinguished in a temple filled with jewels.”

  “A temple? Where?”

  “Somewhere here in Africa. Fascinating, ja? So now Nietzsche probed the African stones, also, and in them, too, he found the remains of a man-the residual memories-and in these, the temple was also present, but in greater detail, and Nietzsche saw that this mysterious place, encrusted with gems of unsurpassed value, was a vast device designed to channel enormous energy.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To transcend the boundaries of time, Herr Burton. And it was also recorded in the remnant memories that you, mein Freund, were sent through the device. It is how you came to 1914 from 1863.”

  “I was? Why?”

  “You ask me that! Es ist meine Frage!”

  Burton examined his blistered hands and frowned with frustration. “I don't remember. These past four years, I've been slowly piecing together what happened to me prior to my arrival in 1914, but there are still gaps.”

  “Ah. I am pleased. You admit who you are. And do you remember this temple?”

  “No.”

  “That is unfortunate. The Kaiser knows only that it is located somewhere in the Ruwenzori Range, deep inside the Blutdschungel.”

  “The Blood Jungle? This Ruwenzori Range, was it-?”

  “Once known as the Mountains of the Moon? Ja. That is the case. An area of Africa most important to you, I think!”

  The German fell silent for a moment and considered Burton, who warily watched the other man's glittering eyes. Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, the explorer decided, was as dangerous as a venomous snake.

  “Well,” the generalmajor said, “we have attempted to burn away the Blutdschungel but it grows back so fast! It is impenetrable, it covers the mountains, and it is spreading. All these years we have made no progress into the region, but that, perhaps, is because we do not know where in it we should be going. So, we have a plan.”

  “And your plan involves me?”

  “Ja. That is correct. As I have said, the Kaiser saw in the diamonds that the temple sent you to 1914. He therefore ordered me to find you. It has taken a long time. Africa is big! But, finally, here you are. A man from the past.”

  “So?”

  “So you will locate the temple for us. You somehow found your way out of it and through the Blutdschungel, so obviously there is a route.”

  “But, I told you, I don't remember.”

  “I think this-” the German raised a hand and tapped his forefinger against the side of his head, “-will return to you.”

  Burton sighed. “So what now?”

  “Now we shall escort you all the way to your Mountains of the Moon and you shall show us the way to this fabulous temple. With it, the Kaiser can send agents back in time to prevent the interference that has so delayed the expansion of the Greater German Empire! British interference, Herr Burton!”

  Lettow-Vorbeck stood and sl
ipped the dossier back into his briefcase.

  He barked, “Wache!” and the two rhino guards returned. “Ab mit ihm zum Transporter!”

  They hoisted Burton to his feet.

  “Wait! Wait!” he urged.

  Lettow-Vorbeck looked at him and asked, “Haben Sie eine Frage?”

  “Yes,” Burton replied. “Yes, I have a question. The memories imprinted in the African stones-whose are they?”

  “Ah,” Lettow-Vorbeck said. “Ja. Ja. This you should know! They belonged to a man named William Trounce.”

  “I'm dead!” Trounce announced. He waved a large earthenware jar in the air. “Not a drop left!”

  “All is not lost!” Swinburne declared. He held up a second container, and the pombe in it sloshed invitingly. “I must say, though, Pouncer: while there may be life left in my jar, the invincible languor and oppression of this climate have sucked the very last drop of it from yours truly.”

  “But not the poetry,” Trounce growled. “Invincible languor, my foot! Why can't you just say, the weather in Africa is as hot as hell, like any normal person would? Pass the beer.”

  After taking an immoderate swig from it, Swinburne handed the container to Trounce, who poured an extravagant amount of its contents into his mouth, swallowed, hiccupped, then said, “We've been on the blasted continent for so long that I'm even beginning to enjoy this foul brew.”

  He received a belched response.

  The two men, dressed in light khaki suits, were relaxing beneath a calabash tree in the centre of Ugogi, a village that lay slightly more than halfway along their route to Kazeh. It had taken two weeks to reach here from Dut'humi, passing first through cultivated lands, then following the marshy bank of the Mgazi River, before chopping their way through thick dripping jungle of the most obstinately difficult kind, and crossing a quagmire, two miles wide, where a mule had sunk completely out of sight in the stinking, sulphurous mud.

  Arriving at Zungomero, in the head of the Khutu Valley, they'd at last begun the climb onto higher terrain, escaping the dreadful and diseased swamps that had made the first stage of their safari so miserable. The foothills of the Usagara Mountains, which now rose all around, were densely forested and resplendent with jungle flowers and fruits; the air was laden with the scent of jasmine, sage, and mimosa blossoms; and fresh springs jumped and tinkled across the sloping land.

  It had been the only pleasant stage of the trek. All too soon, the ascents and descents became so steep that the mules had to be relieved of their loads before attempting them, and the watercourses in the valleys grew deeper and stronger and more perilous to cross.

  The climate changed, too. As they gained altitude, the temperature swung from one extreme to the other. The nights were raw, the days bright and hot. But it was the damp mornings that had the most impact, for thick mist bubbled out of the mountains and drowned the valleys around them in a milky sea, out of which peaks rose like islands. Visually, it was stunning, but it chilled them to the bone.

  While passing through this region, Trounce developed severe ulcerations on his legs; so painful that he couldn't walk or sit on a mule without suffering. So they carried him on a litter and Sister Raghavendra collected wild herbs and experimented with them until she found a combination that, when applied as a poultice, eased the pain and hastened the healing process.

  There were other troubles.

  The people of the region, the Wasagara, were recalcitrant and, on one occasion, hostile. Fortunately, despite shouting loudly and shooting arrows, they lacked courage and were bad marksmen. Rifle fire, aimed over their heads, was enough to discourage them.

  As always, the terrain did far more harm than its inhabitants. Four mules and five horses died, one porter broke his leg, and another fell to his death.

  Equipment was damaged by mildew and rust. Food and clothes rotted.

  And, of course, there were insects: biting, stinging, scratching, wriggling, tickling, burrowing, and bloodsucking insects. The travellers felt they were being eaten alive.

  They struggled through it, crossed the mountains, and arrived at Ugogi on the other side.

  The village, being the first port of call after the Usagara Range and the last before the dry lands, was a favourite stopping point for caravans, and had thus developed into a prosperous trading centre, which the slavers left untouched. Because it was 2,750 feet above sea level, it enjoyed a comfortable heat and refreshing breezes, and its surrounding hills were rich in cattle, and its plains in grain.

  Ugogi's people welcomed the expedition. Partridge and guinea fowl were pushed into cooking pots and a feast was prepared. There was drumming and dancing and laughter. There was pombe.

  Burton announced that they would rest in the village for three days before embarking on the four-day march across the western wilderness.

  That first evening, with distended bellies and befuddled senses, everyone stumbled to their beds apart from Swinburne and Trounce, who decided to lie beneath the calabash, share a couple more jars of pombe, and gaze at the Milky Way-and Herbert Spencer, whose belly couldn't distend, much to his evident disappointment, and whose senses were powered by clockwork.

  The brass man returned to his tent to work on the final chapters of his First Principles of Philosophy. His parting words were: “I'm feeling a little bilious, anyway, gents.”

  An oil lamp hung from a branch above Swinburne and Trounce. Mosquitoes danced around the light and big ugly moths regularly threw themselves violently into the glass.

  “I bloody hate Africa!” Trounce proclaimed, with the trace of a slur. “Except for Ugogi. I bloody love Ugogi. What's your opinion, Algernon?”

  “My opinion, my dear Detective Inspector William Ernest Pouncer Trounce, is that you are drinking far more than your fair share. Pass that jar back at once or I shall report to the witch doctor that you covet his wife!”

  “Has he got a wife?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Is there even a witch doctor?”

  “Confound your deductive abilities! Give me the beer!”

  Trounce handed over the jar.

  Swinburne drank deeply, gave a satisfied sigh, and looked up at the branches.

  “How did so many stars get tangled up in the tree, I wonder?”

  “They're not stars, you ass. They're glowworms.”

  “I absolutely refuse to believe your perfectly logical explanation. Mine is far more poetical and therefore speaks of a greater truth.”

  Trounce grunted. “The greater truth being that you're three sheets to the wind, lad.”

  Swinburne blew a raspberry.

  They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. A mongoose chirruped somewhere in the near distance. Farther away, something hooted mournfully. Swinburne hooted back at it.

  “Seventeen,” Trounce said.

  “Seventeen what?”

  “Mosquito bites on my right forearm.”

  “Ah, but look at this,” Swinburne replied. He stuck his left leg into the air and pulled back the trouser leg. His ankle was swollen and the skin was dark and puckered around two small puncture marks. “Snake,” he said. “Poisonous, too. That had Sadhvi going, I can tell you! She flapped about like a goose down a chimney before settling on the appropriate miracle cure!”

  “Humph!” Trounce responded. He sat up, shifted until his back was to the poet, then yanked up his shirt. There was what appeared to be a bullet hole just above the small of his back.

  “How about that, then? Hornet sting. Got infected. Worse than being stabbed with a stiletto.”

  Swinburne unbuttoned his own shirt and displayed his left armpit. Just below it, a cluster of nasty-looking swellings decorated his ribs.

  “Boils,” he revealed. “I shan't elaborate.”

  Trounce winced, then said, “You'll not beat this.” He reached up, pressed his right nostril closed, and blew a hard breath out through the left. One of his ears emitted a startlingly loud whistle.

  The unidentified animal hooted
a reply from the darkness.

  “My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What's caused that?”

  “I haven't a notion. It first did it when I blew my nose a few days ago, and it's been doing it ever since!”

  The poet lifted the jar and gulped more beer. “Very well,” he said, and wobbled to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, then undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and showed the Scotland Yard man his pale white buttocks, which shone in the lamplight like the full moon. They appeared to be zebra-striped.

  “Ye gods!” Trounce gasped.

  “Three days ago,” Swinburne slurred. “My mule was getting obstinate in one of the swamps. Said took a mighty swipe at it with that bakur of his, but, just as he lashed out, the blessed animal's hind legs suddenly sank about three feet down. I was sent sliding backward and received the cat myself!”

  “Ouch! Did it hurt?”

  “Deliciously!”

  “You,” said Trounce, reaching for the pombe, “are a very curious young man, Algernon.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few more minutes of quiet were suddenly broken by a loud gurgling rumble, which echoed across the village.

  “Elephant,” Trounce murmured.

  “Thank goodness,” Swinburne replied. “I thought it was you.”

  Trounce responded with a snore, which, as it happened, was a fair challenge to the nearby pachyderm.

  Swinburne lay back down and considered the heavens. He reached into his jacket and pulled out Apollo's gold-tipped arrow of Eros, which he'd carried with him ever since the death of Thomas Bendyshe. He pointed it at the stars.

  “I'm coming for you, Count Zeppelin,” he whispered.

  About half an hour later, he clambered to his feet and stretched. He looked down at his sleeping companion and decided to leave him there beneath the tree. Pouncer would be fine. Even a predator brave enough to enter the village would shy away from such volcanic rumblings and snorts. Besides, the Yard man would receive a rude awakening soon enough, when the nightly rain arrived.