Netherworld

by Lisa Morton

  At one point they’d wound around a fabulous concatenation of tunnels and curves, which they were told was the Tehachapi loop. On the other end of the long valley, the scenery at least became slightly more interesting, as they entered a wild region of high chaparral and rocky cliffs. Diana began to wonder what Los Angeles would look like, if this were where it was located.

  But, as the sun set on the end of their second day aboard the train, they passed through a final, mile-long tunnel and descended from the desert hills into a long, low plain that was unexpectedly lovely: Luxurious orange groves, their boughs positively sinking with fruit ready to be picked, stretched off into the distance. Sprinkled in among the orchards were sprawling mansions, many of which seemed to be less farmhouses and more castles, with turrets and gingerbread trim and wrought iron ornamentation. The few hillsides not covered with orange trees sported huge flocks of sheep, grazing peacefully beneath an uncannily blue sky.

  The temperatures were uncomfortably high for Diana’s English nature, and even after the sun had completely sunk below the horizon and the train had pulled into the Los Angeles station, Diana felt sweat popping out all over her body. She was also surprised by the mélange of races she saw around the station: There were sturdy, brown-skinned Mexicans; indigenous Indians, with skin similar in hue to the Mexicans’, but different facial features; Orientals like Yi-kin, dressed as their kinsmen in San Francisco and Canton were; and peoples of European blood like herself, with pale skin and blue eyes.

  Downtown Los Angeles looked like a slightly bigger version of a few of the smaller western towns their train ride had taken them through. A muddy main street ran between rows of two and three-story buildings that housed merchants, hotels, businesses, restaurants, and a number of saloons. Many of the buildings featured false fronts (which Diana personally found quite ridiculous), and even now at night the streets were thronged with pedestrians and horsedrawn trams and buggies.

  The most highly recommended hotel was something called Pico House, and as they checked in the desk clerk indeed eyed Yi-kin somewhat suspiciously; however, finally they were both registered, and for the first time Diana had to admit to the wisdom of his dark-colored spectacles. Later, she found out that, despite the seeming tranquility of the racial mix in Los Angeles, the city had a long history of suppression and riots, especially surrounding the local Chinese population.

  They awoke the following morning (after another night spent trying to sleep under numerous lights), and over breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant (which was much better than their fare on the train trip, but not as good as the meals in San Francisco had been) they discussed their options. Los Angeles turned out to occupy a much greater geographical area than Diana had counted on; she’d heard that it resided on a verdant plain set between mountains and the Pacific Ocean, and somehow she’d pictured that as a matter of just a few miles. Now that she saw it, she had absolutely no idea of where to start looking for entrances to these underground tunnels. For that matter, she realized at one point that the book she’d acquired from Stephen made no mention of actual entrances; perhaps the Lizard People had constructed their underground city and then sealed off the entrances, for safety.

  And would they find a renegade gateway somewhere in this City of Angels? Mina had so far shown no inclination to the usual discomfort she manifested when in the proximity of gateways; in fact, she seemed quite taken with Los Angeles, and spent much of her time curled up asleep in the direct sunlight coming through one of the open windows. Diana thought it must be at least ninety degrees in that spot, and she wondered how the little feline could stand it, let alone adore it.

  Their conversation at the morning meal seemed painfully solipsistic, always circling back to the idea of locating the tunnel entrances without offering any solutions. They considered researching the area’s newspaper archives to see if there were any strange attacks or sightings on record; crawling down into the sewer system to see if it might join any tunnels at some point; hiring some sort of local guide who might know the locations of mine or tunnel entrances around the area; or creating some sort of scene to draw attention to themselves and let the Lizard People know they were here.

  Actually, Diana had the uncomfortable notion that the creatures already knew they were here.

  What she really wished, of course, was that Chappell and Sons Booksellers would suddenly manifest a Los Angeles branch. However, a brief walk through the muddy downtown after breakfast swiftly convinced her that it was quite unlikely she’d find a sophisticated bookstore in this environment. She did visit a local tailor, and although she was disappointed by the somewhat drab gown he recommended, she also purchased a man’s riding outfit, complete with leather chaps, long black coat, and a rugged, wide-brimmed hat that was called (quite charmingly, she thought) “Boss of the Plains.”

  Their first few inquiries (of the tailor, the hotel desk clerk, a carriage driver) turned up virtually no useful information. They discovered there were no caves to speak of in the area, and no strange phenomena or inexplicable deaths. Diana’s accent invariably elicited the assumption that she’d come to Los Angeles for health reasons; apparently its climate was thought to be a cure-all for everything from tuberculosis to infertility, and over the last ten years, as the new railroads had made it easier to reach the area, it had drawn hundreds of residents looking for healthier living. Its population had swelled to over fifteen thousand at one point in the mid-Seventies, but now it was down to a mere eleven thousand.

  None of this proved particularly efficacious in trying to locate a race of underground reptilian beings. She even found and visited a local medium, whom she realized within minutes was a charlatan.

  On their third day in Los Angeles, they bought papers from the newsboys calling out headlines on two different corners. One paper, the Los Angeles Daily Herald, was small by comparison to London’s (and even San Francisco’s) papers, but it was at least well laid out and easy to read. It contained mainly stories of global news, national news, a few local items, and ads. The second paper was a weekly, curiously titled Los Angeles Porcupine, and true to its title the stories were mainly barbed and/or satirical reports on both national and local personages. The editor, a “Horace Bell,” wrote virtually all of the stories in an amusing and curmudgeonly style, and many of his pieces contained autobiographical anecdotes. Apparently Mr. Bell enjoyed talking about himself.

  Diana obviously chose the Herald, and she and Yi-kin proceeded to the address given in the paper for its offices. They found a large, new building of three stories and bustling with activity. Diana was relieved to see something in the town that looked like real industry and didn’t involve sheep or oranges.

  A desk clerk assured them they’d be welcome to examine the archives, and they were shortly led into a dusty room lined with wooden shelves upon which were piled newspapers by month and year.

  The Herald evidently had been in business for some time, since there must have been ten thousand papers there.

  Diana and Yi-kin gaped for a beat, then he asked, “Tell me again—what do we look for?”

  Diana was starting to wonder herself.

  Still, she went to the nearest shelf—March 1879—and pulled down a stack of the papers, grimacing as dust rose into her face and ink rubbed off onto her hands. “Anything about disappearances, or strange happenings, or caves.”

  Yi-kin, looking somewhat confused, also took down a stack, and they both sat at a small table, then began reading.

  They spent six hours in the archives and found nothing but stories about horse thefts, unseasonal frosts and corrupt officials.

  The sun was already heading for the western horizon as they finally gave up and left the Herald’s offices behind. They were both hungry, and found a saloon which also served food. It struck Diana as a rather unsavory place—it was already filling up with grimy men who spat into brass spittoons and eyed her too plainly—but she was in no mood to search for something better. Their meal was quick and silent
, and Diana left with a bit of mutton wrapped up in a handkerchief for Mina.

  As they returned to their hotel, Yi-kin hung his head and said, “I am very sorry we did not find something.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she told him.

  “I am not happy with this place,” he suddenly announced. “In paper I see mention of Americans killing Chinese. Nine years before, they murder nearly twenty Chinese.”

  Diana’s own jaw tightened in frustration. “So much for paradise. Apparently health cures don’t pertain to prejudice.”

  Yi-kin nodded, then went on: “Chinese people are ones who make railroad and tunnels for railroad, but American people say they take jobs and then they kill Chinese people.”

  Diana suddenly froze. “Yi-kin, what did you say?”

  Yi-kin considered. “American people say Chinese people take their jobs—”

  “No, before that,” Diana urged.

  “That Chinese people make railroads and—” Yi-kin’s eyes suddenly went wide as he remembered. “—and tunnels!”

  Yi-kin and Diana looked at each other, with slowly emerging smiles.

  The next day Yi-kin traveled alone to the Chinese sections of Los Angeles.

  He and Diana had agreed that it was probably the best course of action; the local Chinese would be likelier to trust him alone than if he were accompanied by an Englishwoman. In the morning, she gave him fifty American dollars that he could use as bribes, if necessary, and told him she (and Mina) would await his return in the hotel.

  Truthfully, Diana was coming to appreciate the local weather more and was not unhappy to have a day of rest. Their hotel overlooked an orange grove, and the air was fragrant with the deliciously tangy scent of the fruit. In the morning she enjoyed tea and fresh fruit on one of the hotel’s spacious terraces, and in the afternoon she relaxed in her well-appointed room with Mina and one of the books she’d brought all the way from home.

  Home. She did miss it. She missed London and Derby; she missed Howe and her house and her lands. She missed the rambunctious energy of London, its industry and culture.

  Still, she supposed, if she had to be away from home, enjoying just-picked oranges under a flawlessly blue sky and warm temperatures wasn’t so bad. And she still had Mina, after all.

  It was just before dinner when Yi-kin finally returned. He knocked politely on her door, then entered her room, sat in a chair in her drawing room, removed his dark spectacles, fanned himself with his hat—and looked utterly downcast.

  “Well, Yi-kin? What is it?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I do not like this place, this America.”

  And then Yi-kin told his tale:

  He’d taken the horsedrawn tram across Los Angeles to Chinatown. There was no question when one had entered the city’s Chinese section; aside from the differences in architecture, every other shop was a laundry, with steam pouring from doorways and chimneys. Yi-kin had been relieved to remove his disguising glasses and speak in his native tongue (fortunately the Chinese immigrants were almost all from the Southern parts of China and so spoke Yi-kin’s Cantonese, rather than the Mandarin dialect of the north). Even though he lacked the robes and long queues of the Chinese men, the people treated him casually and politely.

  He talked to people in restaurants and shops and laundries, and soon received a very different picture of Los Angeles than that painted by the newspapers: The Chinese told him the city had been built on their sweat, that they’d built the railroads and picked the fruit and washed the clothes, and yet they were still despised and treated with contempt by the white men. They told him of the massacre of 1871, when the accidental shooting of a white police officer had led to the murders of twenty Chinese, in a two-day long riot. In the newspapers, the white people accused the Chinese of taking away their jobs.

  Yi-kin wondered aloud how many of the whites would have labored on railroads for little more than a bowl of rice and a few cups of tea a day, but he continued his tale.

  In 1876, the Chinese laborers had built the final portion of Southern Pacific’s San Francisco-to-Los Angeles railway, by constructing a 6,975-foot tunnel that ran under the local mountains. A few inquiries brought Yi-kin to a young man named Wu who now ran his own import/export business, but who had worked on those railroad crews. Yi-kin queried the man extensively, and although Wu provided some hellish descriptions of poorly-lit and unventilated work under the mountains, with frequent cave-ins, none of it involved anything supernatural.

  Yi-kin finally thanked Wu and offered him a five-dollar gold piece. Wu’s eyes widened as he took the coin and examined it, apparently to be sure it was real; then he called Yi-kin back and told him that, for another ten dollars, he might be able to give him what he sought.

  Yi-kin gladly paid, and Wu promptly led Yi-kin through his store to a dingy backroom-cum-warehouse. He made his way through stacks of crates and rows of barrels, until he finally spotted a barrel marked with the character was for ni doh, or “here.”

  Wu pushed aside the barrel, exposing a trapdoor in the wooden floor beneath; it led to a rickety wooden stairway, and Yi-kin could just make out red brick lining either side of the narrow passageway down. Wu paused long enough to light a paper lantern suspended from a stick, and then led the way down the steps—Yi-kin following carefully.

  At the bottom of the steps, they turned a corner and Yi-kin was astonished to find they were in a long tunnel that ran off into darkness on either side of them. The walls were completely lined with more of the red brick, and a few more boxes were stacked here and there against the walls.

  Wu then told Yi-kin that when the Chinese had originally claimed this area of Los Angeles for themselves, one of the first things they had done had been to build this intricate network of strong tunnels, running the entire length of the Chinatown district. The tunnels served to move goods more easily between stores, but had a second and far more vital purpose: Because they remained unknown to the white men, large numbers of Chinese could hide safely and comfortably in the tunnels for as long as necessary. Wu said that many Chinese had hidden down here during the riots of 1871, and so the tunnels had already saved many lives.

  Yi-kin was deeply moved by Wu’s explanation of the tunnels, but he was also dismayed to realize that, just as with the railroad tunnel, there was nothing supernatural at work here. He attempted to broach the subject of gwai—of monsters or ghosts—but was met with silence and strange looks. Yi-kin guessed that Wu truly was unaware of any Lizard People, and not that he was hiding some greater knowledge.

  And so Yi-kin had finally left Chinatown behind, sadder and no wiser.

  The following day, with their options running out (and anxious to avoid the one that involved rummaging about in the Los Angeles sewers), Diana decided they should pay a visit to the offices of the Los Angeles Porcupine.

  Their cab dropped them off before a small storefront, featuring wide plate glass windows with the gilt legend:

  LOS ANGELES PORCUPINE

  Horace Bell, Editor and Attorney-at-Law

  They stepped through the front door, a bell jangling above their heads as they did so, and walked the few feet to the wooden counter that ran the length of the space. Behind the counter was a printing press, currently unmanned and somewhat disassembled; nearby were shelves holding reams of paper, metal plates and type. A large worktable was on the opposite side of the room, as was a small desk covered with rows of type. A wooden partition partially enclosed one far back corner of the single large room, and Diana could just glimpse the corners of a messy desk, with various articles and letters pinned to the wall above it.

  “Frank!” shouted an older male voice from behind the partition.

  “What?” came another voice in response, and Diana blinked in surprise when a man’s head popped up from behind the press—a head almost completely covered in black ink.

  “Oh never mind, Frank, I’ll get it,” came the original voice, and then its owner hove into view from behind the partit
ion.

  Horace Bell was fifty, big and beefy, with a long waxed and twirled mustache and ruddy complexion. He lumbered up to the front counter, slapped his steak-sized hands down on the wood, and demanded, “What in hell brings you folks to the Porcupine?”

  Diana was so taken aback that at first her mouth just hung partway open without actually making any sound; then she saw a hint of amusement in the man’s face, and she affected her most persuasive charm. “You wouldn’t by any chance be the editor, Mr. Bell, would you?”

  Upon hearing her accent—and possibly sensing a story—Bell’s glower faded away, and was replaced by an equally-unnerving expression of keen interest. Diana was reminded of a bird-of-prey.

  “I would, indeed, Madame, I would indeed. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this fine morning?”

  Diana offered her hand, which she’d left ungloved because of heat and only now stopped to think that she might be violating custom. “Lady Diana Furnaval, of Derby, England. This is my assistant, Leung Yi-kin.”

  Apparently Bell wasn’t especially violated, since he took her hand and kissed it, completely ignoring Yi-kin. “Well, I had no idea we had visiting royalty in town. What can I do for you?”

  Diana had realized, as soon as she saw the interior of the Porcupine offices, that asking for archives here was useless, but perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary; after all, she hadn’t had access at the Herald to the editor.

  “Mr. Bell, I’m here on behalf of my work with the Royal Museum in London,” Diana began, doing her best to ignore Yi-kin’s raised eyebrows, “and we’re hoping you can help us to track down some information. We’re investigating some reports from this area of an ancient tribe of Indians who may have been involved in any sort of lizard or reptile worship.”