by David Logan
‘What? Why?’ Junk didn’t like this idea. He liked having Garvan around.
‘It’s OK – it’s not forever. We find each other again.’
‘OK …’ Junk was glad of that but still not happy about losing his friend to begin with. ‘How long?’
‘That I’m not sure about. It could be a day or a week or a year or ten years.’
‘What? Ten years?!’
‘All I mean is I don’t know how long. The dream wasn’t that specific. The thing is, you look the same when I see you next, but you still look like a rodent in the dream so it’s hard to gauge how old you are and how much time has passed.’
‘I don’t think that’s right,’ said Junk. ‘I think we should stay together.’
‘It’s not up to us. The path is already set,’ said Garvan.
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Junk. Garvan shrugged. ‘So where does getting you back home without you having to kill your dad come in?’
‘Oh, there’s lots to do between now and then. It starts raining snakes at one point. Then there’s the man with no face, and the volcano. And you have to understand, I’ve not seen every moment of what happens between now and when we get back to Cantibea. It’s more like highlights. And much of it, like I said, is down to interpretation.’
‘So it might not be literally raining snakes is what you’re saying?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘There’s a lot to get your head round,’ said Junk, letting out a grand sigh. ‘Can I –’ Junk was about to ask to borrow the box but Garvan had folded it up, locking it into its cuboid form, and was holding it out to him, as if he knew already what Junk was about to say.
‘We should really wait until I’ve deciphered it,’ said Garvan. Junk was about to say Otravinicus was pushing to go now, but he didn’t need to. Garvan said it for him. ‘But Dr Otravinicus doesn’t want to wait. His impatience could cause problems, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Junk. ‘You’re right, but he’s paying for all this so he figures he’s in charge. I suppose he is.’
Garvan shrugged ambiguously. ‘I’ll work on the map some more later. Pretty sure I’m almost there.’
‘Set yony,’ they heard Lethro calling. She’s back.
Junk and Garvan moved to the portside along with everyone else and saw Cascér treading water. She shook her head: no door. Junk felt that shake of the head in the pit of his stomach. He had to be right or everything would have been for nothing.
*
Junk stood on deck wearing nothing but a pair of trunks as Hundrig sliced open another of the commust fluid sacs and the viscous contents covered him. Then Junk picked up the box and turned to dive overboard.
‘Wait.’ It was Otravinicus. ‘I want to come too.’ Junk was itching to get in the water, but he could hardly say no so he waited as Otravinicus stripped off his clothes, folded them neatly and set them down out of harm’s way. Then Hundrig took another fluid sac and doused Otravinicus. Once the doctor was ready, he jumped into the water without waiting for Junk. Junk dived in after him.
Cascér took a hold of both Junk and Otravinicus and they swam straight down to the seabed. Junk looked around, hoping to spot some landmark that he remembered, but there was nothing. So much time had passed that the Pegasus had of course disintegrated entirely. The seabed had shifted a thousand times and nothing was the same.
They stopped by a series of markers that had been lowered from the Casabia, plotting the last resting place of the Pegasus based on Junk’s calculations. One of the markers signified the stateroom Junk had been in when he first saw the green light.
He swam to the marker and took a moment to imagine himself back on board the Pegasus all those weeks ago. He remembered seeing the green light seeping in through the hole in the hull. He got his bearings. The door had been about twenty metres away. He swam to where he thought was the right point. Cascér and Otravinicus stood to the side and watched.
Junk held the bronze box up in his hand and, reaching forward with it, passed through where he thought the door had been. Nothing happened. He frowned. Otravinicus swam over next to Junk. He snatched the box from him, much to Junk’s annoyance, and waved it around in front of him. Nothing.
Cascér looked on, unimpressed. Her mind wandered and suddenly an odd sensation came over her. The skin at the back of her broad neck pimpled. Had she had any body hair, some of it probably would have stood on end. She turned to look behind her, feeling that they were not alone, but there was nothing but flat seabed for thirty metres and then a low wall of rock. She stared in that direction, certain something or someone was out there.
Junk held out his hand to Otravinicus, asking mutely for the box. Otravinicus ignored him and Junk reached over and pulled it from him. Immediately Otravinicus tried to snatch it back, but Junk just pushed the little man away. He held the box in his hands and felt the surface for dimples. The commust gel coating his fingers seemed to know what he was doing and responded accordingly by becoming thinner. Maybe Junk was just imagining it, but he felt that his skin was touching the cool metallic surface. He found an indentation on the front elevation, another on the bottom, two more on the back and one side. He pressed them simultaneously. Nothing.
Cascér was still looking back at the rock wall. She turned and started edging over in that direction. Something was unsettling her. What was out there? Then, in a flash, she got her answer. The seabed at her feet erupted and a huge fish lurched up at her. She had to move quickly to avoid it, throwing herself backwards. The fish, a type of shark, was five metres in length, muscular and powerful, rippling with energy and menace. Its skin was jet black and as smooth as marble. It had a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, three tight rows of them, and its jaws pumped non-stop, furiously snapping at Cascér. She closed her fists into one and, wielding them like club, brought them down hard on the monster’s snout, driving it into the ground and kicking up a twister of silt. She turned and swam away as fast as she could. The shark shrugged off the blow and went after her.
Cascér reached Junk and Otravinicus and spun them round. Their eyes grew wide as they saw the immense gnashing mouth coming at them. Cascér pulled them out of reach just in time. The fish swam past at such a speed that it had to make a huge turning circle. Then it started heading back for another attack.
Otravinicus looked at Junk and stabbed his finger at the box. His meaning was clear: OPEN THE DAMN DOOR. There was no way they could outrun the shark and get back to the ship.
Junk looked at the box in his hands. How did it open? He thought back to what Garvan had done on the Casabia. That was different. He had opened the box, and Junk wanted the box to open the door now. He remembered the puzzle boxes that Garvan had made for him back in his cabin. Corners. Corners were always important. He pressed each corner in turn. Nothing.
Cascér pulled him to the side just as the fish pounced again. Caught in a vortex, they spun around and Junk lost hold of the box.
It took him a moment to get his bearings. He saw the box on the seabed beneath him and picked it up. He started pressing combinations of corners, two at a time and then when that garnered no result, combinations of three.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Otravinicus was flailing wildly. The shark had left a gash in his jellied bodysuit and water was pouring in. He was about to drown if he didn’t get eaten first.
Junk turned to see the shark coming back for another attack. It was seconds away. He focused on the box. It was a key, and keys open doors. One finger on the top back right corner, thumb on the bottom front right, little finger on the bottom back right. The same with the left hand and then the corners moved. Suddenly light flooded along the fissures on the box’s surface, like lava flowing through tiny rock gullies. Junk looked up to see a shimmering green door floating in front of them. There was no time to admire it. Otravinicus pushed Junk out of the way and powered through. Cascér grabbed Junk and pulled him in with her.
*
Jun
k and Cascér landed hard on the green-black metallic floor. Junk looked back to see the shark rushing through the door after them. Cascér saw it at the same time and they rolled in opposite directions. The fish landed with a resounding thwack on the ground and started thrashing about in violent panic as it was suddenly, inexplicably (to the fish anyway) not in the sea any longer. It thrashed around so much that it moved itself towards another door, directly opposite. As it got closer, the pull the doors exerted latched on to the shark, and in the blink of an eye it was sucked through and vanished. Sent to who knows where.
20
ALABAMA, 1922
It was a hot July morning. The sun was only just starting to rise but the air was already thick and the June bugs were chattering up a storm. Hobie Somerset sang to himself as he walked through the old forest. He sang a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.
‘Shut up, boy,’ said one of the men dressed all in white walking behind him. There were four of them. All wore the white ceremonial robes of the Ku Klux Klan. All carried shotguns; one carried a lynching rope too.
They reached the old gnarled tree in the middle of the forest. Many a man like Hobie had lost his life here for no other reason than the colour of his skin.
‘You wanna cry and beg for your life, boy?’ said one of the white robes. ‘Cos now’s the time.’ He lifted his hood to spit out a slug of chewing tobacco and Hobie looked into the eyes of a schoolteacher he had known most of his life.
It wasn’t a surprise to Hobie. He knew all these men. They were all about the same age, had all been born and raised within twenty miles of here.
‘I wouldn’t mind praying, if that’s OK,’ said Hobie.
‘Sure. Why not?’ said the schoolteacher. ‘Just be quick about it.’
Hobie nodded and looked to the sky. ‘Dear Lord,’ he said aloud, ‘I respect your wisdom, and whatever reason you’ve chosen for this thing to happen to me today, I know it’s a good reason. Go easy on these men, Lord. They’re dumb as a bucket of pigswill and they don’t know any better.’ At that, one of the men slammed the butt of his shotgun into Hobie’s stomach and he doubled up in pain, but he was smiling. It had been worth it.
‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
The rope was thrown over the old lynching branch and looped around Hobie’s neck. The four men in robes all took a hold of the other end of the rope and were about to pull on it when a rectangle of green light appeared above them and a scared and confused five-metre-long shark from three million years in the future dropped down on them. It thrashed and bit and tore the men to shreds.
Hobie Somerset looked on with an open mouth. It’s not every day a shark drops from the sky to save your life, especially not in the middle of Alabama.
When it was over, the four men were no more and the shark had quietened down due to overexertion and having been out of the water for too long.
Hobie looked to the sky. ‘That was very impressive. Thank you,’ he said.
He took the rope from around his neck and set off for home.
21
The Brotherhood of the One True God, Pire, had no purpose in life other than to protect the key, and after hundreds of years of protecting it successfully they had become complacent. That was the only way Brother Antor could explain how they had lost the box so easily. That and Brother Rard’s abject stupidity at bringing the boy into the monastery.
No.
No, it was wrong to blame Brother Rard. The blame must lie squarely with Brother Antor himself. Passing the buck was the refuge of a coward. Brother Antor knew he was not that. Over the years, he had done everything he thought was right with Brother Rard, but clearly it was not enough. He glanced at the young monk. He would have to punish him of course and severely. Though what Brother Rard wouldn’t understand was that Brother Antor would really be punishing himself. Whatever he did to Brother Rard – burn his flesh, blind his eyes, break his feet – he would really be doing to himself. Not literally, but it would hurt just as much. Though not as much.
The forty-seven monks who resided in the monastery of the One True God, Pire, now stood on a stony beach gazing out at the Casabia, anchored a mile offshore. The tide lapped around their booted feet. They were all armed with a collection of staffs, swords and bows.
Brother Antor marched into the water and the others followed. They kept walking until the sea was over their heads.
*
The colour had returned to Otravinicus’s skin thanks to Cascér. He tapped her meaty thigh as an indicator that he would very much like to get up now. She unfurled her long limbs and Otravinicus scuttled free.
He stood on the spot and turned slowly, looking all around at the thousands of rectangles of green light glistening in the blackness.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ he said. A tear bloomed in the corner of his eye and ran down his face. He looked over at Junk, who was also gazing up at all the doors. The last time he had been here he hadn’t had time to stop and appreciate the Room’s inherent beauty. ‘You did it, Junk. You did it.’
They heard Cascér swear in H’rtu behind them and they turned to see her looking down at her arms. The protective commust fluid was starting to dissolve.
‘Navoora Casabia chachin zuc harutuk,’ she said.
Otravinicus looked at Junk. ‘She says that you need to go back to the Casabia and bring us down some more fluid sacs before yours dissolves too. Otherwise we won’t be able to swim back up.’ Junk looked at his torso. His covering was still intact.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He started back for the door they had come through.
Otravinicus stepped into his path. ‘Why don’t you leave that here?’ He pointed to the box in Junk’s hand. Junk’s gut instinct told him that was a bad idea.
‘Probably best I take it with me,’ said Junk. ‘I mean if the door closes while I’m on the other side, I won’t be able to get back in, will I?’
Otravinicus glowered but couldn’t argue with that logic. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, turning away. ‘Just don’t be long.’
‘Sure,’ said Junk. He dropped the box into the netting bag slung around him and jumped back through the door.
*
Junk was spat out on to the seabed and saw the markers they had lowered from the Casabia to indicate the last resting place of the Pegasus. He got his bearings and started for the surface.
After a few moments the hull of the Casabia came into view and Junk powered upwards through the water towards a ladder on the port side. The bottom fifth of the ladder was submerged. Junk reached out for it. He could see blue sky above now. What happened next happened quickly. A dark shape fell from the boat. As it plunged towards the water and Junk, it grew larger and more distinct. However, Junk only had time to acknowledge it was coming but not get out of its way. It turned out to be a monk. A member of the Brotherhood of the One True God, Pire. His name had been Brother Guge, but Junk had never met him and never would. He was dead before he hit the water. A metal hook with a perpendicular wooden handle was embedded in his ear.
Dead Brother Guge hit the water hard and sank rapidly. He collided violently with Junk, knocking the air out of his lungs. Brother Guge’s velocity forced Junk back down. The impact ripped part of the commust suit and the seawater flooded in. Brother Guge continued to sink and Junk went with him. The seawater found its way into Junk’s mouth and he started to splutter. With a surge of panic, he realized he might drown.
Junk pushed up against Brother Guge’s body and shifted the dead man’s weight to one side, causing him to roll off. Dead Brother Guge continued his descent as Junk turned and clawed his way to the surface.
As Junk emerged into the air and filled his lungs, coughing up the saltwater, he was instantly aware of a commotion coming from the Casabia. He could hear the sounds of battle.
Another body fell from above and splashed into a watery grave. In the split second before he sank Junk saw the face of Hortez, the ship’s coo
k. He was as dead as Brother Guge.
Junk grabbed hold of a rung on the ladder and started to climb. The higher he got, the louder the sounds of fighting became. As he reached the top he peered cautiously over the side of the ship. The monks of the Order of the One True God, Pire, had boarded the vessel. Straight away he saw that Hundrig and his crew were heavily outnumbered. There looked to be about fifty monks versus the nine remaining crew members and Lasel and Garvan. Hundrig and some of the bigger members of the crew were fighting three or four at once. Garvan was holding six monks off with apparent ease. He didn’t appear to notice any of the blows he received.
Lasel was no fighter, but she was quick and agile and used that to her advantage. As Junk pulled himself up on to the deck, a pair of monks were coming at her from opposite directions. The one on the left swung his sword. The one on the right was armed with what looked like a medieval mace: a crudely formed metal sphere atop a long wooden handle. This he let fly, launching it at Lasel. She jumped up, planting a foot firmly on the mace-wielding monk’s chest and pushing off. She twisted balletically as she went, arching her back. The mace went over her and the sword passed under her. The momentum of the two monks’ swings made them lose their balance. The sword cut the throat of the mace-wielder and the mace mashed the face of the swordsman. Each fell into a heap on the ground and Lasel landed firmly between them.
Junk ran across to her, keeping low and zigzagging to avoid the weapons caning the air. Lasel spotted him and came to meet him.
Another of the monks, a powerfully large man, stumbled into Junk’s path, crashing down on to one knee and roaring in pain as he did so. He steadied himself and looked up into Junk’s eyes. Junk froze. The monk’s gaze was pulled down to the box held in the netting bag hanging at Junk’s side. He made a grab for it, but as he did so Lasel landed on his back and drove him face first into the deck. He was left dazed and spitting out teeth.