by Pat Kelleher
The chief accompanied them to the bark gates.
An old Urman woman appeared and stood beside him. She looked at Atkins and Mathers with pitiless eyes. “Skarra will take the dulgur to his realm. I have seen it. But you, Mathas, shall not accompany it.” She fixed Atkins with her gimlet-eyed gaze. “Your companion here will know such grief that might only be assuaged in the underworld. But he will have a hard choice to make.”
Atkins frowned. He’d had enough grief so far. Being ripped halfway across the universe from Flora, the woman he loved, was grief enough for anyone’s lifetime, but a grief so deep, so all consuming that he would kill himself over it? He didn’t see it. It was the ramblings of a native woman. Superstition. He shrugged it off.
However, it seemed that Mathers took her words to heart and walked a little taller, a little more soberly.
“You see, Atkins? Mother Dreamer has told me I won’t die. I won’t die.”
Atkins shook his head in exasperation.
The chief spoke. “The spirit haunts the thalpa groves evewards,” he told them, pointing towards the direction in which the sun set.
Atkins stood close behind Mathers. Now that he had found the tank crew well and the tank operational, his anger at being dragged out on a wild goose chase needlessly festered and bordered on insolence. “All right, that’s enough, sir,” he hissed. “Let’s go and get this thing done.”
A breeze blew across the compound, rustling the huge leaves above. Mathers stood still and turned to face into the wind with a heartfelt sigh.
Frank turned to Reggie. “Give us a hand with the Sub. He’ll be as right as rain once we get him into the tank.”
The clan watched as the tank crew escorted Mathers to the waiting Ivanhoe. A great ululation rose up from a small group of young women as the tank’s engine roared into life. The tank lurched off in the direction indicated by the chief and 1 Section fell in behind it.
“Why the hell are we going along with this devil hunt of theirs, Only? It’s not our fight,” asked Pot Shot.
“Well, it is now. For better or worse, the tankers have won these Urmen over. If they don’t deliver, it’s our reputation on the line as well. If the story gets out that we don’t protect our own, or keep our word, then the Urmen will desert us; and we need allies here, so Lieutenant Everson tells me. But I’m still not sure if I bloody trust them.”
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS of slow progress through the jungle they had seen nothing but trees, and the trees, to Atkins’ mind, were the colour of old blood on army issue shirts, their barks blackened and rough like scabbing, but the men of 1 Section were getting tense and jumpy and eyed the armoured leviathan in front of them enviously.
Atkins, aware of Everson’s order to press the Chatt for information, dropped back to where Gutsy was walking along with Chandar and Napoo. Chandar’s feeler stumps were waggling furiously as if trying to detect something despite its disability.
“Is something wrong?”Atkins asked it. “You seem nervous.”
The Chatt gulped in a mouthful of air and indicated the jungle around them. “Zohtakarii burri. You should not be here. Khungarrii should not be here. Our scents will carry. Ones do not enter the burri of other Ones.”
Napoo grunted in agreement. “It is true. If Chandar is found in Zohtakarrii burri, it will be killed. As will we.”
“This just gets better,” said Atkins with a sigh. “We’re being attacked by the Khungarrii. These Zohtakarrii will kill us if they find us and we’re off hunting something that’s probably stalking us, with a tank crew that would sooner we just dropped dead.” He shook his head. “The Pennines up to their necks again. So, this thing. Any ideas what we’re up against. Napoo?”
“The Gilderra clan says dulgur, a bad spirit.”
“Load of codswallop,” Pot Shot said. “If it’s taking people then it ain’t no ghost, which, as I’m sure Gazette will tell you, means it can be killed.”
Gazette clicked his tongue, winked, and patted the stock of his Enfield. “Maybe Bantar,” admitted the Urman.
“A bantar?”
“A four armed, fur covered Urman-like creature that dwells in the trees, but perhaps twice our size.”
Chandar chattered, as if it disagreed.
“This One does not know, but this One fears what this dulgur might be.” Chandar struggled to gulp a mouthful of air again but, as it tried to speak, nothing came out from its mouthparts but an empty belch. It tried again in its own tongue, a long sibilant sound combined with glottal stops and mandible clicks that meant nothing to Atkins but clearly meant a great deal to Chandar. The Chatt seemed to shrink down on its legs into a submissive posture before swallowing more air. It regurgitated it and hastened to form words with its mouth palps. “This One means that perhaps this One was mistaken. Maybe Sirigar’s prophecy of the Great Corruption was not so wrong after all,” it said, looking round at the Tommies.
“What, that we’re some great evil come to blight your land? Look mate, we don’t even want to be here,” challenged Atkins.
“Jeffries did. Jeffries was searching for something dark and forbidden. He sought knowledge of an ancient heresy. I think perhaps he may have found it.”
“Found what?”
“Croatoan,” it hissed.
ALFIE WIPED HIS brow. The engine shifted into the blues, and the noise tasted of tart rhubarb as he shifted his gear lever in response to Wally’s hand signal.
He felt the wary, sullen gaze of young Cecil on him. The lad was staring at him with undisguised distrust. Cecil always had an unswerving loyalty to the Ivanhoe and its crew and had more than once got into a fight defending it against some imagined slur or slight. Alfie always knew the lad was trouble. Until they’d come here it looked like Jack had calmed him down after taking him under his wing, but maybe leopards couldn’t change their spots.
“If you’ve got anything to say, say it!” said Alfie.
“I saw you talking with them Tommies. They want us to go back to the camp. They’ll put us on a charge for mutiny. You’re supposed to be one of us but that bint has turned your head. You don’t know where your loyalties lie anymore!”
He launched himself at Alfie, who had nowhere to go, crammed as he was in the corner of the compartment by the shell racks. He fell back and cracked his head on the bulkhead. Cecil was on him, saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth as he screamed obscenities over the engine noise, hands at Alfie’s throat, trying to choke him.
Several things happened at once.
Jack Tanner grabbed Cecil under the armpits and pulled him off. “But you all say it,” protested Cecil. “You all say it about him behind his back. None of you trust him.” Still snarling at Alfie, he lashed out with his foot. His boot caught Alfie on the cheek, sending his head into a shell base. Alfie slumped on the gangway planking, heaving in gulps of air down his raw, crushed throat.
Wally Clegg signalled for a right turn from the driver’s cabin.
Alfie was still struggling to get up and reach the starboard track gear lever when a shuddering vibration, and a loud grating noise from under the tank, filled the compartment. It was a noise Alfie knew. The bottom of the tank had risen off the ground over some obstacle and the tracks could no longer gain traction. They had bellied. The tracks clacked and rattled impotently.
Mathers turned round in his seat. “What the hell is going on back there?”
There was a banging on the sponson door. “Hey, you’re stuck. Looks like the British Land Navy has run aground. Is everything all right in there?”
Mathers looked at his crew. He fixed each of them with a stare, reserving the last and longest for Alfie. He spoke in a low, measured voice, quavering with suppressed anger. “Later. Not in front of them. Perkins, clean yourself up.” Then, to make it clear that there was to be no further discussion, he called through the visor to the accompanying infantry in a cheery voice. “Spot of bother! We’ll need a hand.”
THE SPONSON DOOR swung open and the crew clambered
out. The little bantam driver, Clegg, crouched down between the front track horns looking underneath the tank.
Atkins joined him. “What is it?”
The little man pointed under the tank. Atkins got down to have a look. An outcrop of rock had caught the low-rising tank floor and lifted the tracks from the ground.
“Is it serious?” Atkins asked, barely trying to hide his annoyance.
“Well, that depends,” said the driver, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. “We need some logs to put under the tracks.”
“Well, we’re in a jungle aren’t we? That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Atkins curtly.
Alfie Perkins stumbled out of the tank.
Atkins noticed the other members of the tank crew cast him black looks. They didn’t even try to disguise it.
“What’s all that about?” Gutsy asked Jack.
“His fault,” said Jack flatly.
Atkins accepted the explanation, figuring it wasn’t any of his business. “1 Section to me,” he said. “We need to find some logs to get this thing moving again, but I don’t want anyone going off alone. I’ll take Chandar. The rest of you, pair off. Gutsy and Porgy. Gazette and Pot Shot. Mercy and Prof. Napoo, Chalky, you stay here with Miss Abbott.” He stepped in towards Chalky and added in a low voice, “And keep an eye on that lot. I don’t trust ’em.”
“Oi, excuse me, don’t I get a say in all this?” said Nellie. “I’m quite capable of looking for logs. If you think I’m going to sit around here like a helpless gel then you got another think coming. You ought to know better than that by now. Shame on you, Only Atkins, shame on you.”
Gutsy grinned at him. Atkins shot him a glance.
“Don’t look at me,” said Gutsy, with a look of guileless innocence. “My missus has a voice like that. If you want my advice, you’ll let her have her own way. It’ll be less painful in the long run.”
“Fine!” agreed Atkins irritably. “Go with Napoo and Chalky. Meet back here in ten minutes. Watch out for the wire weed.”
“And Jeffries,” said Mercy with a grin.
“I should bloody well think so, too. Come on, Chalky!” Nellie growled as she stalked off. Flustered, Chalky ran to catch up, the jeers and catcalls of his mates ringing in his ears.
The question was, where to find logs? True, this was a jungle, but the trees were like no trees Atkins had seen before. Now that the ironclad’s engine had stopped, he could hear low clicks and creaks permeating their surroundings. More than that, he could feel something reverberating through his chest, like the deep bass notes of the organ at church; felt, rather than heard. Was it an animal, or the trees themselves?
Atkins pushed on warily through groves of scab trees. Chandar kept pace with him, looking around with quick bird-like movements. It was impossible to read any expression on its chitinous white facial plate, but its chitterings had become more profuse. As the resonant note continued, he became aware of a rising nausea and, while he didn’t feel sick enough to vomit, he was left feeling distinctly queasy. If the noise bothered the Chatt, it was hard to tell.
“So, you really think this dulgur is this Croatoan, that’s taking the Urmen?” he asked, as they searched for logs big enough to suit the tank crews’ purpose.
The Chatt regarded him for some moments before replying. “It is a possibility,” it said. “You Urmen and Croatoan are inextricably linked in the lore of the Ones.”
Atkins resented the remark. “Look, don’t try and tar us with the same brush. We’re not Urmen. We’re nothing like them. We don’t even come from here. We don’t belong here.”
“No,” agreed Chandar. “You migrate from burri to burri scavenging off the land granted by GarSuleth to the Ones.”
Atkins shook his head in disagreement. “No, really. You don’t understand. We’re not like them. We’re not Urmen at all. We come from somewhere else.”
Atkins pushed his bayonet into some coiled plants.
Chandar’s middle limbs opened. “But where else is there?”
Atkins wheeled on him, annoyed by the Chatt’s questions. He leant in towards its face. “Up there!” he said, pointing at the sky through the forest canopy. “We came from up there. From the stars!”
The Chatt craned its head for a moment, looking up at the firmament above it. Then looked at him. It stepped back on its chitinous legs, as a man might, staggered by the news. “That is the Sky Web of GarSuleth,” it hissed, rising up on its legs in the threatening manner of the Chatts and striking a defensive pose. “It is not possible. It is heresy.”
Atkins was unprepared for the strength of Chandar’s reaction. His goaded, off the cuff remark seemed to have struck a nerve at the very heart of its beliefs. He brought his bayonet into the guard position, ready to run the Chatt through should it attack.
He had no further time to ponder the consequences of his remark as, from out of the scabrous boughs with their scaly leaves, half a dozen hissing arthropods leapt down around them, while others in red silken robes stepped from hiding, their mandibles open, spraying an atomised mist into the air about them.
CHAPTER TEN
“To Hunt for Vermin...”
ATKINS GOT A shot off with his rifle as he sank down to the ground. Holding his breath, he struggled for the gas hood in the bag at his chest. When the atomised mist didn’t burn, he knew it wasn’t acid. It was the mild euphoric spray that Chatts used for control, which didn’t make it any less dangerous.
One of the Chatt scentirrii stepped towards him, a hiss rippling its mouth parts, and swung its staff at him. He blocked it with the butt of his rifle and countered by lunging forwards with the bayonet, but as he did so, another Chatt drove the end of its staff into his solar plexus, winding him. Involuntarily he gasped for air, realising too late what he’d done.
However, once he’d caught his breath, Atkins felt relieved. He relaxed and looked up at the creatures. There were nine of them. They looked like Khungarrii. From the knobs of bone on their facial plate and the dark iridescent chitinous armour, they were obviously scentirrii; so, a war party, then.
But then, what were those other ones doing there, tall and regal ivory white with a featureless facial plate, and the metal bands around their heads, the ones that had breathed on him? The burden of worries that he had carried with him lifted. Still cradling his bruised stomach, he sat back on his haunches and looked up at the creatures that surrounded him and Chandar. He smiled at them. He felt quite content to let them take over the situation. Whatever they wanted, that was fine by him.
They urged him to his feet with clicks and hisses and he obliged, not wishing to put his hosts out. The regal ones with the silken cloaks seemed to be having some sort of angry exchange with Chandar. He turned to scold Chandar for being rude towards the tall ones. After all, weren’t they Chandar’s people? He didn’t exactly like them, but he was no longer afraid of them. In fact, for the first time in a long time he felt happy. As they ushered him along, he was able to look at the trees and plants around him and appreciate them for possibly the first time, without expecting something to leap out and kill him. It reminded him of his gun. He checked his shoulder. It wasn’t there. Never mind. He didn’t need his gun anymore anyway. They would protect him.
IN THE END, Alfie and the others found a fallen log large enough for the job and laid it into place just under the front track horns. Mathers stood watching, still wearing his splash mask. Alfie saw him slip an arm under his rain cape and clutch his stomach.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
“Of course! Mind your own damned business,” snapped the lieutenant. “Just do your job and get the tank unditched. Hurry up.” He turned away from the crew and thumped his free fist against the side of the hull.
Wally and Frank hauled clanking lengths of chains out from under the gangway floor boarding. They wound them round the log and, struggling with spanners and bolts, attached the chain to track plates. When the tank started forwards again, the log would be d
ragged under the tank by the movement of the tracks, lifting the tank’s belly free of the obstruction. At least, that was the idea.
Alfie started at the sound of the gunshot. “Nellie!” He stood to run off after it.
Frank put a firm hand on his upper arm and pinned him with a hard stare. “Where d’you think you’re going?”
Alfie shrugged his hand off. “She could be in trouble.”
“Guess we know where his loyalties lie now, don’t we?” said Norman brusquely.
“They’re here because of us,” yelled Alfie as he ran off. “If some great devil thing has got ’em, it’ll be our fault!”
Wally just shrugged.
Sod ’em, thought Alfie, sweeping the undergrowth aside as he ran. They’re not in danger. Nellie might be. Although the way Lieutenant Mathers had been acting this trip, maybe they all were. He was becoming unpredictable. The petrol fruit fumes seemed to be affecting him more than the others. And the way he walked round wearing that medicine man rain cape, splash mask and helmet, as if that was now more his uniform than the officer’s garb beneath it, where did his true loyalties lie? Alfie wondered. And what was wrong with him? He didn’t look well. He’d have a word with Nellie. Maybe she could give him the once over. If she wasn’t—
Alfie almost collided with two Fusiliers. The tall one and his mate, Pot Shot and Gazette? They heard the others pounding in from all directions, snapping through the undergrowth, also drawn by the sound of the gunshot. As they arrived, it became clear who was missing.
Nellie came running up with Chalky and Napoo. She and Alfie exchanged looks of relief, but they didn’t last long.
“We heard gunfire,” she said. “What happened? Where’s Only?”
“And where’s the bloody Chatt? You don’t suppose it turned on him, do you?” suggested Mercy.
Gutsy spat. “Wouldn’t put it past the sneaky bastard. Never did trust it.”