The Fall of Tartarus

by Eric Brown

  ‘But if they’d found him, then surely you’d have heard about it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I trade with the Bourg. I barter knives for golden fruit, but we talk about nothing other than the goods. They’re an insular, suspicious people.’

  ‘So Bobby might have been found by the Bourg?’

  Henrique scowled and shook his head. ‘If he survived, then why didn’t he return to civilisation? On their yearly migration, the Bourg come within twenty kilometres of Lapierre.’

  ‘So maybe he didn’t survive. Maybe he died. I need to find out, whatever happened.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Can you take me to the Bourg people? Maybe they can tell me what happened to Bobby?’

  He seemed to consider her request for a long time. ‘What month is it?’ he asked.

  ‘St Mary’s.’

  He smiled. ‘I lose track. Sometimes, Yekini’s puts me out for days at a time. Get me that.’ He indicated a worn map on a nearby table.

  Katerina passed him the map and he pored over it, tracing a route through the jungle with a blunt forefinger and talking to himself.

  ‘The Bourg’ll be here,’ he said, pointing, ‘two hundred kays south of Lapierre.’ He looked up at Katerina. ‘There’s no reason why I can’t take you. But my services don’t come cheap. There’s the hire of my flier, my fee as a guide and translator . . .’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five thousand shellings, Tartarean.’

  She would have paid ten times that amount for information about her brother. ‘That sounds reasonable,’ she said.

  She reached out and shook Old Henrique by the hand.

  * * * *

  For the first two hours of the journey south they flew above the jungle, a dark expanse that rolled away for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. Above them, the heavens were afire, the night sky streaked with great arching blood-red and amber cloud formations. Later, at the first sign of dawn on the far horizon, Henrique lowered his battered, open-top flier through the jungle canopy and into a jade-tinted twilight.

  She took her mind from what lay ahead by filming their passage through the jungle. At one point Henrique dropped her on a fan-shaped cantilever of fungus growing at right angles from a tree trunk, then turned back and repeated his approach, so that she could get a shot of the vehicle in flight.

  Resuming their journey, she provoked Henrique into conversation and filmed him.

  ‘The traders at the Ace of Spades called you “Old” Henrique,’ she said. ‘I was expecting some grizzled ancient.’

  Sitting back in the driving seat, Henrique glanced at her. ‘I had a son, also named Henrique. Young Henrique.’

  For the sake of the film, she asked, ‘What happened to him?’

  Henrique stared straight ahead, his big hands wringing the apex of the steering wheel. ‘He died. We worked together, trading. He was attacked by a chowl. He was twenty.’

  She murmured her condolences.

  He flashed her a glance that said he could do without her spurious sympathy.

  The white light of day fell through gaps in the foliage high overhead like great probing searchlights, illuminating motes of dust, air-borne seeds and the occasional giant butterfly and insect.

  ‘What will you do when you leave Tartarus?’ she asked after an interval. ‘Have you decided where you’ll go?’

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve decided to stay on Tartarus.’

  She wanted to protest that he was still young, that there were other planets similar to Tartarus among the Thousand Worlds. ‘That’s a brave decision.’ She shrugged. ‘Can’t say I understand it.’

  He turned to her. ‘I’ve lived all my life in the jungle. I can read the place, the flora and the fauna. I can track every animal bigger than a rat through the undergrowth for kilometres, if needs be. I can tell by scent alone every creature within a fifty-metre radius . . . Tartarus is unique. If I resettled on some other jungle world I’d have to relearn everything. I can’t begin all over again.’

  ‘But surely any life is preferable to death? As for work, you could do something completely different.’

  ‘This is all I know. All I want to know. I’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with the end. I want to die with the planet.’

  ‘Like some of the tribes . . . Are the Bourg people staying here?’

  ‘They worship the supernova. They couldn’t leave the land where their ancestors are buried. According to their beliefs, they’ll be reunited with their dead when the sun blows.’

  They flew on in silence for the remainder of the journey. As the day advanced, the heat and humidity within the jungle increased correspondingly. Even the headwind was hot, like the backblast from a jet engine. A cocktail of uv-block, insect repellent, and sweat filmed Katerina’s skin in an uncomfortable, sebaceous membrane.

  She dozed fitfully, bullied awake each time by the discomfort of her posture. Each period of sleep she dreamed of Bobby, as he was as a boy, and how he might be now - a succession of hopeful images that contrasted cruelly with her waking pessimism.

  When she resurfaced from her last period of sleep, the roar of the engine was noticeable by its absence, a loud silence that seemed to fill her head. She stretched and yawned, then stared about her. Henrique had brought the flier to rest amid a tangle of undergrowth. He stood nearby, holding a large leaf between thumb and forefinger. He was staring through a thicket of foliage, the dome of his bald head cocked to one side.

  ‘They’re not far away,’ he called to her. ‘A group of Hunters passed this way two days ago - a band of about six. That means the tribe will be camped in a nearby clearing.’

  He climbed back into the flier and fired the engine, rutting a path through the undergrowth at an altitude of a couple of metres, occasionally stopping to inspect the foliage.

  He nodded with evident satisfaction. ‘The same group came by here six to eight hours ago. We’re almost there.’

  Katerina filmed for the next hour, not wanting to miss their arrival at the tribal clearing. When they came upon the encampment, they did so suddenly and without warning. One second they were moving through the whipping foliage, and the next they had burst through into an open space rilled with the harsh white glare of the risen sun.

  Perhaps two dozen pyramidal tents woven from large, waxy leaves stood around the clearing. The tribes-people had been slumbering in their shade - as evidenced by a few who still did so - but the majority had been alerted by the sound of the engine and were on their feet and cautiously approaching the flier.

  They were tall, blond and blue-eyed. Some wore loincloths, others went naked; all wore body-paint, mud-coloured chevrons on chest and stomach. Katerina could not help but consider how incongruous it was to behold an essentially European people in such a state of nature.

  They surrounded the flier, fifty men, women and children, some clutching spears and bows, and stared with unreadable expressions. Katerina felt that she was the focus of their attention. She wondered if that was because they had never seen black skin like hers before - or because they had.

  Henrique spoke in a halting, guttural tongue to a tall, patriarchal tribesman who had stepped forward from the crowd. The tribal elder responded, gesturing back towards a large communal tent.

  Henrique turned to her. ‘I said I’ve brought a guest who wishes to pay compliments. We’re invited to join the oldster and his council in the meeting place.’

  They crossed the clearing, followed by the tribe, and ducked into the designated construct. Katerina sat cross-legged next to Henrique, while four other men and women, beside the old man, entered the leaf-tent and sat across from them.

  The oldster spoke. Henrique replied, and then translated. ‘He welcomes you on behalf of his people, and I replied on your behalf that you are honoured to be here.’

  ‘Can you ask him if he knows anything about my brother?’

  ‘Eventually, but not yet. There’s a certain protocol to follow before we get down to
business. They’ll ask you questions and judge you by your replies. Don’t worry,’ Henrique smiled, ‘I’ll say the right things.’

  There was a question from each of the tribal council. A woman asked her age, and Katerina told Henrique twenty-three. A man asked the next question. Henrique said, ‘He wishes to know if you are married.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘As of now, you are. They’re suspicious of mature women who remain unmarried.’ He relayed this, and listened to the next question, smiling to himself. ‘And how many children do you have?’

  ‘Children? I . . .’

  ‘Four seems like a nice round number. That’ll earn you respect.’

  Katerina bit back her protest as Henrique spoke the tribal language.

  ‘Do you believe? They know of only one deity, and expect everyone to believe in it. So just nod and say yes.’

  She did as she was told and Henrique relayed the lie.

  An old woman asked another question. Henrique stared at her in silence for a time.

  ‘Henrique?’ Katerina asked, touching his sleeve. ‘What did she say?’

  He shook his head. ‘The woman asked if you will join your cousin in the sky.’ He spoke again to the council as Katerina tried to control her thoughts.

  The glottal dialogue went back and forth, with much gesturing from all parties. Henrique chopped the ground from time to time, the gesture taken up and repeated by the elder.

  At last a silence fell. Henrique shook his head and turned to Katerina. ‘Three years ago, a man with skin like yours fell from the sky in a flier. His companion was dead, and he was badly injured. They did what they could for him, healed his w ounds and set his broken bones. He remained with the Bourg people as they moved through the jungle on their migration. He learn ed their language and, according to the council, accepted their belief.’ Here, Henrique broke off his resume and spoke again to the old woman, shaking his head in seeming frustration.

  Katerina sat and stared, words beyond her. That Bobby had indeed survived the crash and joined the Bourg people filled her with hope - but where was Bobby now? If he had survived his injuries, then what had become of him? What did the old woman mean when she asked if Katerina would join her cousin in the sky?

  Henrique listened to what the old woman had to say. ‘He stayed with them for six months,’ he told Katerina, ‘and then he joined his brothers in the sky.’

  ‘What does she mean?’ She felt a mounting dread. ‘Did he die? Is Bobby dead?’

  ‘I’ve asked them that. A literal translation of the reply is, “All who join the brothers are considered dead”. I’m trying to work out what that means. Have patience.’

  He spoke to the council again. They replied, and Henrique nodded. Enlightenment showed on his face.

  ‘Good God, of course . . .’

  ‘What? He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘No . . . No, he isn’t. I asked them where they were when he left them. They said somewhere south of here, west of Kruger territory, in the lee of the central mountains. That can mean only one thing. It’d explain “his brothers in the sky” . . .’

  Katerina gripped his arm. ‘What? For God’s sake tell me!’

  ‘Your brother’s still alive. He survived the crash and was nursed back to health by the Bourg people. He even took their faith . . . and then he left them for his brothers in the sky.’ Henrique stared at her. ‘Bobby joined the monks of the Order of the Nova, Katerina, at the monastery of St Chrysostum.’

  * * * *

  They flew south in silence for a long time, Katerina trying to order her thoughts. There were so many questions she wanted to ask Henrique that she did not know where to begin. Hard upon the joy she had experienced at learning that Bobby was alive, she felt apprehension at the idea that he had joined a religious sect. What had the Bourg council said? All who join the brothers are considered dead.

  ‘The monastery’s a few hours away.’ Henrique said at last. ‘Part of a mountain range that spans the continent.’

  ‘Why this remote?’

  He glanced across at her. ‘They’re an hermitic order. They’ve turned their backs on the world. They need privacy to practise their beliefs.’

  ‘The oldster said that all who join them are considered dead.’ Katerina watched his face for reaction. ‘What did he mean?’

  She felt sure that Henrique knew more than he was willing to tell her. He shook his head. ‘I wish I knew.’

  She persisted. ‘Do you know what they believe?’

  ‘They’re a sect of the Church of the Ultimate Sacrifice. They believe that through mortification they’ll stop the supernova.’

  She felt the weight of a subtle depression settle over her. ‘I suppose I should be thankful he survived the crash.’

  Henrique stared straight ahead and said nothing.

  Two hours later he eased the flier up through the jungle canopy. Ahead, rearing majestically from the jungle like a dozen overlapping scimitar blades, were the silver peaks of the central mountains.

  It was all Katerina could do to concentrate and film the establishing shot as the flier climbed towards the nearest peak. As they approached, a man-made edifice resolved itself in the vertical rock face. She made out a hundred slit windows, their multiplicity giving some indication of the vast extent of the monastery in the mountainside. Beneath the monastery was a great outcropping of rock bearing an incongruous garden. Evidently, their approach had been observed.

  A welcoming committee of a dozen monks in long black habits stood together on the wide, flat lawn.

  Henrique lowered the flier and cut the engine.

  The monks of the Order of the Nova comprised a cross-section of the racial types on Tartarus: Latinos, Asiatics, even a couple of tall, blond Scandinavians. They regarded Katerina and Henrique with evident interest. She wondered how many casual visitors passed this way each year.

  Henrique spoke to them in French.

  The Nordic monk raised a hand. ‘You are welcome, of course. We never turn away weary travellers.’

  ‘We are more than . . . travellers,’ Henrique said. ‘We’re here to contact a relative, Katerina’s brother.’

  At this, the monk turned his cowled head to Katerina. ‘That would be Brother Robert?’

  ‘He’s alive?’ she said.

  ‘He is alive,’ said the monk. ‘I trust you are not here in an attempt to take him from us? Brother Robert has taken his vows. He is one of us, now, and committed to the cause.’

  Katerina shook his head. ‘I only want to meet him, to talk.’

  ‘In that case I see no reason to delay the reunion.’

  At his words, Katerina almost wept.

  They crossed the lawn behind the dozen silent monks and approached a tall arched doorway in the face of the cliff. After the searing heat of midday, the interior of the monastery was blessedly cool. The other monks ushered Henrique into a side room, leaving Katerina with the tall Scandinavian.

  Still filming, Katerina followed him down long, chiselled corridors lighted by guttering candles. They climbed numerous narrow staircases, each step worn to a curve with the passage of centuries. At last they came to a wide corridor at the end of which was a timber door. Her guide knocked lightly, opened the door and gestured Katerina inside.

  The room overlooked the jungle. A dozen slit windows admitted piercing shafts of light. Unlike the bare corridors, the room appeared comfortable, furnished with a carpet, chairs and a writing desk.

  The monk told her to remain by the door, then crossed the room. He paused before a brown Hessian curtain that hung in an archway, and addressed quiet words to someone beyond. Katerina heard a sharp exclamation, then hurried words.

  The monk turned and gestured to Katerina. He positioned a stool before the curtain and invited her to sit. ‘Brother Robert,’ he said.

  Katerina sat down. Her voice tight with emotion, she said, ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘That is for him to decide. You may speak to him.’


  The monk retreated to the slit windows at far side of the room and stood with his back to Katerina, contemplating the jungle below.

  ‘Bobby?’ she whispered.

  ‘Kat . . . Kat, is it you? Is it really you?’ She recognised his voice, fraught with disbelief.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. She paused, considering her words. ‘You didn’t come for me, Bobby ... so I came for you.’

  She heard a stifled cry.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Bobby . . . please, what is it?’