Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra!

by Konig, Artor

  “That’s a jolly interesting idea,” I told him warmly, “Snail and feathers; maybe with a bit of leaf-mould; I should sort of ferment it like a tea; it would be quite a brew.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Jim replied without rancour, taking another sip from his mug, “Come to think of it, this awful floral potion of yours isn’t so bad.”

  Lunch being over, I decided to have a look around to see just what sort of island the Crag was. I helped June load up the dishwasher before dragging her out of the kitchen to give me a guided tour. The Doctor joined us, as did James and Bernhart. We made our way down the narrow stairs to the courtyard where the washing was flapping in a slight breeze. Jim hollered down to us, bidding us wait for him.

  “There are three paths down from this courtyard.” The Doctor told me, “I’ve only investigated two of them, one of them is a convenient path down to the ledge where I parked the super stallion we used on our first trip here. The other,” He broke off as June continued for him, “The other,” June cut in as Jim joined us, “Is the corkscrew.”

  “Oh.” I said thoughtfully.

  “Let’s trot down this jolly old corkscrew, then.” James suggested, “It leads down to that lagoon over there, doesn’t it?”

  “It gets there eventually.” June replied, “But it doesn’t go straight there.” She led the way to the ledge below the roundhouse. As we broke free of the protection of the north side of the base of the roundhouse wall, the wind got us. The gust was rather powerful, heavy with salt and the cries of the seabirds. The ledge led down but not steeply. In places it was narrow, in others it opened out into wide meads let into the cliff or mouths of gullies and gorges.

  It led around the steep face of the crag twice, going down maybe a thousand feet before we found ourselves on the north-western side of the crag where the land sloped gently down to the wide field where the Hercules transporter had landed. Beyond that there was another low cliff, maybe thirty yards high at its highest point.

  We ambled over the wide field, looking up at the menacing height of the crag and the piles of stones where the flares had been placed on the field. We came to the cliff-path, trotting busily down the rough and rocky ledge to the beaches below. I stopped near the top of the path to have a look at the lagoon. The colour of the water was distinctly different from the cold sea beyond; the waters were calmer as well. James and Jim stopped behind me, looking around them in the pleasant cool breeze.

  “What’s that island?” James demanded.

  “Funny cosy little place that is.” Jim told him, “Some sort of stone hut hidden in the trees, palms, avocadoes and mangoes in a warm spot. Come to think of it there’s a whole herd of mango trees right at the foot of the crag on a hot ledge facing south. They actually bear fruit, unlike the ones on the island.”

  “I’ve never met a mango.” I told the world at large; Jim looked at me in surprise as we started down the cliff again.

  I walked along the beach peering wistfully over the clear waters of the lagoon towards the island, “I’d like to have a picnic there.” I told myself.

  “Well, why not?” June asked me, “Sounds like a jolly good idea; we should all go over one day and have a party there.”

  “It works for me.” Jim told us, “Can’t think of anything better to do during our off spells.”

  I walked down to the edge of the water, poking it thoughtfully with my finger. It was a lot warmer than I had expected, since it was late autumn and the air had begun to get a bit of a nip in the evenings. I was feeling a bit better than I had felt that morning, but the last flight had tired me. I decided that I was going back up to the castle. Simon, Peter and Alex were on their way down the cliff path when I made this bold resolution, Craig, Brett and Andrew close behind. They greeted me cheerfully as I passed them. Jim and the Doctor decided that they had work to do and they may as well keep me company. We made our way swiftly up the path, across the wide field and over the pediment of the crag. I noticed small and scraggly oaks on that somewhat barren-seeming northern face. As the path led around to the southern side, the trees and plants took on a jungle-like proportion, the vines and hidden flowers sweet and powerfully scented.

  “Why did you choose this place to make the base?” I asked the Doctor as we walked through a patch of jungle which hid the sky. The air was heavy with moisture, loud with the call of any number of birds. Jim paid attention to both of us; he obviously hadn’t heard the Doctor’s reasons for choosing this enigmatic island.

  “I heard of the place quite by chance.” The Doctor told us, his voice cheerful, his bearing light and relaxed, “A fellow mentioned it to me a couple of years ago when I was first planning on pulling out of the War Ministry. What he had to say fascinated me; this wasn’t much mind you. When I had a chance I looked the place up on the admiralty files; they didn’t have too much to say either; but they did have a layout of the castle and some of the caves, dimensions and such. It struck me then that it would be a smashing place for long-range choppers with war capability. I mentioned that to my bosses; they were rather sarcastic about it. Seems that long range meant up to a thousand miles in those days, for a chopper at least.”

  “That’s right; five hundred miles is usually stretching it.” I agreed.

  “Well, having allowed the idea to take root and being at a very interesting point in my research, I looked into the matter. I found Bob and Frank at that point; they were the worst sceptics of the lot when I asked them about a supersonic chopper; they went so far as to help me modify the jet ranger, simply to prove me wrong. When we cracked the seven-fifty mark they were far more surprised than I. With the inertialess drive hooked up, I had them just where I wanted them; they didn’t rest until we had roughed out the entire plan for the Wren. Of course all the nuclear and laser chaps were already with me at that point, June as well. But it didn’t help me much; the Wren needed to be built and the metallurgy boys weren’t interested. Then Jim here dug up Alex; what stone he was crouching under I don’t know, but he came as an absolute Godsend. Once he’d convinced me about his old cyanide concoction we were in business. Once I definitely knew the Wren was a going concern I dug up the file on the Crag and decided to establish a base here. The island is technically free-held Pacific territory; it owes no allegiance to any country. As such it is the ideal place strategically and politically for this Project.” He looked around at the pleasant meadow, one of the ledges on the corkscrew, “Anyway it’s a jolly pleasant island; relaxing; the sort of place where duty won’t seem to be so much of a chore. I’m rather fond of the place.”

  We walked in silence, savouring the leisure and the calm beauty of the ledges. The sky, when we could see it, was a deep and majestic azure, the wind, when we were exposed to it, was strong and steady. Everything seemed to be just right, calm and under control. We had a definite upper hand, we had a beautiful base to work from, and we had a determined and intelligent leader. It seemed as if there was nothing which could stand in our path, our noble task was justice and sense and rightness. Even the tenuous trace I had seen the day before meant a lot less than it had last night. It was a problem which would be dealt with in its time. The sense of confidence brewed a heady potion, alas for it.

  10. Missing

  The rain has passed; the air still fragrant with its damp. The sky I see above me is innocent of those clouds; the stars of midnight watch me as I stand. The storm had been brief, a sudden flush of caution. I should go back inside, I suppose, but I’m not really wet. The rail is warm beneath my hands now; it wasn’t that way when I began this night’s vigil. I feel as if I am waiting for something, though what there is left to wait for I know not.

  Those days; those early days passed swiftly. Autumn made way for winter as forever it must, but the southern ledges and the castle did not suffer its tribulation. It was three days after we had settled down that June in her endeavour to find a simple way down the crag discovered the Mango Route. She took the third path of the three from the courtyard, the sout
hernmost of the three. The way she found led straight from one ledge to another down the southern face of the crag. It passed the corkscrew twice before petering out into the jungle beyond. This was enough to please June, however; it cut out the bulk of the corkscrew and that was certainly enough to interest the rest of us when we heard about it.

  On the western side of that path she discovered another trail, gloomy and overgrown in that patch of particularly dense jungle. She followed it a short way down, seeing that it must at length go down to the inaccessible southern beaches. At that point she decided to retreat and get reinforcements; she trotted all the way back to the castle with this intention. It was rather a crowd of us who responded to her demands, dropping everything and getting some sort of picnic to take with us. We followed after her; Simon, Harry, Jim, Peter, Craig and Roger and I. We were impressed with the first part of her trail, finding ourselves through an hour’s walk in fifteen minutes. The second bit of the Mango Route I can’t say I was too impressed with. The snake that fell on the path in front of me, hissed and then slithered off into the undergrowth; well it unnerved me somewhat. We followed the trail down, our eyes alert for any other malicious reptiles.

  The trail often branched and divided; I know now that this was part of the ledge-dweller’s network. June, however, had the southern beaches firmly in mind, and kept to it with terrier-like tenacity.

  She kept her eyes on the trail not bothering to look around at each ledge as she passed swiftly by. It was Simon who first noticed the mangoes. It wasn’t as if he was more sharp-eyed than the rest of us; we were a fairly sharp-eyed bunch all things considered. But he knew what to look for and he was keeping an eye on the vegetation. “Wait up love.” He told June firmly, breaking off the path to approach the tall, smooth-leaved tree at one side of the ledge. Jim cheered him joyfully, “That’s the one. Lord, June remember the trouble we had fetching mangoes when we were setting the base up? We had to go down to the northern beaches and all the way round.” Jim walked firmly through the grass to the tall tree, looking up at the green fruit suspended on their thin stalks from the branches. I watched them surround the tree, poking and prying, before turning away to glimpse the sea through a gap in the branches.

  “Here, love, try this fellow for size.” Jim told me, his voice cheerful. I turned to look at him, alive and full of forthright confidence. I took his offering, looking at the fruit in surprise, hearing his advice on how to deal with it. We didn’t make it down to the beach that day; we were too busy loading ourselves up with the clumsy sweet fruit.

  The Mango Route led down to the southernmost point of the Crag, a promontory that edged a short way out to sea. The path went right to the edge of the cliff, as if there had once been something beyond, now lost in the ocean as the waves ate into the rugged cliffs. To the east there was a small and rather perfect little cove, all white sand with remarkably few rocks. Behind the beaches a giant’s stairway led up to the largest ledge used by the ledge-dwellers where the remains of one of their villages can still be seen. The expedition that came to the grim end of the Mango Route passed through the village on the way back up to the Crag. We stood for a while, gazing across the brilliant ocean, seeing nothing on the waters which stretched more or less unbroken all the way to Hawaii. To the west of that headland the scene was less pleasant; the rough and rocky beaches beneath the louring grey cliffs following the curve of the coast around to where the wall of the lagoon began. The cliffs became gradually lower as they headed north.

  “Gloomy sort of view over there.” Andrew commented, looking moodily down at the thundering surf. We were well-equipped for this expedition, even going as far as to pack bathing gear and such-like, but the western coast gave no invitations. We settled for working our way down the eastern cliffs, broken into ledged tiers about two fathoms high apiece. The undergrowth was luxurious and rather thorny in places; we were very pleased when Bob announced that he had found a path. Other than its destination, which was the headland, this path bore no visible relationship to the lower stage of the Mango Route. It was well-made with steps chipped out of the rock in some of the more tricky places. It was bare stone for the most part but although it was certainly well-made, it gave little evidence that it had ever been well-used. It ended rather abruptly as well, two ledges above the beach at the mouth of a somewhat forbidding cave.

  It makes me cold to think of that cave, knowing the history of the Crag as I now do now, knowing as well that the cave is still here and that I am alone. Now that I have lent clarity to my perceptions, the clarity of hindsight, I can point at that day as the day when our confidence was first to be undermined, that our faith in the immunity the Wrens and our purpose gave us was shown to be a hollow, weak thing. The cave was the beginning of a gloomy time that even now I am not sure is ended.

  Craig happened to have a torch; so did Peter. June was not keen on going within; Bob thought it would pass the time. At length we decided to take a peek beyond the first corner just to see if it hid any interesting secrets. Andrew noticed the writing that had been chiselled rather untidily into the peak of the cave’s arch. It looked like many people had taken a hand in writing that one series of meaningless symbols; as if each one had been interrupted before he’d managed to complete the word “Spiders” leaving another to take over. Having come to that conclusion, it occurred to me that whatever it was that had interrupted the writers had done so with a certain amount of finality.

  This did not bother us at the time, though I noticed that June was not really happy about the whole expedition. In the light of the two krypton beams, the cave gave up its secrets reluctantly. The floor of the cave was smooth, the walls rough and cracked. The cave was not damp, surprising for something so close to the sea. It went to the right into the depths of the island, gaining ground all the time. The boys were rather convinced that it led to an opening a good way up the hillside if it didn’t lead right up to the castle cellars. Whereas there was a breeze following us up the passage, there was an unpleasant musky sort of smell, a heavy odour that caused the hair on the back of my neck to prickle.

  We went more and more slowly, the boys determined to show how brave they were, June and I frankly scared.

  The passage led into a wide and high cavern, opening out about half way up the lower wall. The place was served by a number of other passages at the level of the floor and one passage high on the wall at the upper side of the cavern. The walls and roof of the cave were bestrewn with feathery strands of lime dust, ropes and coils of it shaking in the perpetual breeze.

  The stench of the place was unbelievable, eddying up to us as we stood at the edge of the passage. In the middle of the cavern, a good hundred feet away from where we stood, was a collection of huge grey spheres; scaly boulders at least a yard across apiece. I counted eight of them as the two beams focussed on the pile maybe for as much as twenty seconds. At that point there was a loud interruption; a section of the wall to our left came crashing down onto the floor of the cave, a wall of stone that suddenly seemed to peel off from close by the roof with a grinding and rending of tortured rock.

  The noise, on top of the disturbing stench that had so set our nerves on edge, proved too much for us. Without waiting to see why the wall had chosen that moment to collapse, we turned tail and fled.

  Once we were far away from the mouth of the cave on our merry way down to the beach Bob took a moment to make sure we were all there, “Cassandra, June, Andy, Craig, Pete and me-self. Good; nobody’s been ate. Whew, that was a bit of a nerve-jangler, what?”

  “Seems that way,” I told him, “Unctuous curtain-raiser of a rock-fall to add to the devil’s marbles.”

  “Come on; don’t let’s hang about this close to that blasted cave.” June insisted, “Let’s at least get down to that glorious bit of beach down there; I want a swim to wash off that horrible stench.” She trotted ahead of us, her eyes searching out a safe route down the slope. We followed quickly enough.

  The little cove was a cheerf
ul place, the birds waddling around us and telling us to mind our own business as they went. They were all around the cliffs, but there was a good bit of the beach that they had left free. We settled onto that clear space and had a jolly good picnic, splashing into the sea like children, munching June’s renowned cheese sandwiches and decanting quantities of tea from the various flasks. We made a good job of the food; it was our forsworn intention to load up with tropical fruit on the return journey.

  We found one of the ledge-dweller’s paths from the beach, going up the very back of the cove straight up the ledges. It followed cracks and gullies most ingeniously, switching back every now and then as it rose steeply higher. It wasn’t long before the cove was spread out like a picture far below us; it was not too much longer that the trees enclosed us in their green gloom. The path wound and dodged a bit longer before it led us reluctantly onto the widest and longest of the southern ledges. This mead was rankly overgrown, the trees high and wide. There were only two places where a person could see the sky on that ledge; the clearing where the village had been and the pool at the foot of the cliffs behind the village. I realise now that the cove was where such ships as had visited this forsaken island weighed anchor; the only place suitable for ships of any size to land.

  The clearing was packed clay for the most part with only a few straggling creepers and determined weeds marring its stony finish. There were old bits of wood poking up from the hard soil here and there, one or two ancient fire pits, scorched white round the edges, the stones that edged them cracked by the fierce heat all those long years ago. A stream meandered through the middle of that barren place, its water clear and merry. We followed the stream, the path beside its rough and stony bed obviously well used when there had been anybody to use it at all. The rank overgrowth of those plants beside it was a recent thing, telling only too clearly that few people had passed this way in recent times. The pool that it at length left us beside was fed by a towering waterfall, tumbling down the cliff face. Behind and above it as we stood near to the lake’s edge we could just see the highest battlement of the southern tower.