"Back home, we might be richer than Croesus, but--and stop me here anytime you disagree, Baz--that damned lifestyle gets so tired, so fast. I mean I can wake up sometimes and not even know it, you know? Like when the things you dream about are actually a comedown from what's available to you, every day, at the click of a finger. Where there's no necessity, there's no point, as my uncle used to say. There's really not much to tie us to 1979 at all, if you ask me."
I didn't stop him.
"I've been trying to figure out where we are," he continued, "and I have to say, without knowing anything about shifting plate tectonics and all that, I really don't think we're in South America."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, apart from the language, which is a very simplified, almost skeletal form of Quechua, there's no consistency in the culture whatsoever, at least as far as what's known in our time about those indigenous peoples. The clothes appear more Greek than anything; the architecture looks to have Mediterranean influences; and when was the last time you saw a South American native with copper-colored hair."
Rodrigo had thought this through more thoroughly than I gave him credit for. The inconsistencies were glaring and inexplicable.
"And then there's Pacal Votan," I added. "How many astronomers can you recall before the classical empires of Europe?"
"Man's been mapping the stars forever, Baz, but you're right--I think even the knees of nineteenth century science would buckle in this room."
An hour or so passed while we waited, discussing the whys and the wherefores of our pickle; at least, a pickle was how I chose to describe it. Rodrigo appeared to have found an instant affinity with the place, while I regarded everything and everyone with suspicion. We certainly didn't know enough about these people to turn our backs on them.
The room ought to have been stifling. The sun's heat intensified outside, yet indoors was quite cool. Rodrigo soon dispelled my notion of an ancient air-conditioning system when he spied a stone casket in the corner, its lid partially open. Inside, he found a sizeable stash of raw vegetables and hunks of a delicious-looking meat. He pointed out that the interior of the casket was lined with that clear, frosty substance we had found on the river bed, and that it, too, was freezing cold.
"A freezer without electricity," said Rodrigo; "I've gat to git me wan a' these."
I smiled for a moment and then began to extrapolate. "I'm wondering if this permafrost is some kind of residue left by the watercourses. Perhaps a substance that's carried from the mountains, by the rivers, and reacts potently with the air once the water has dried up. The end result being this indefinite chill."
As I have said before, I do have a fairly logical mind at my disposal, which, on occasion, serves me better than I deserve.
"Not bad, Englishman. What was it you studied at college again?"
"History."
"No electives in chemistry? Biology?"
"One in science-fiction science," I answered with some pride.
"Well, you've done your Trekkie lecturer proud there, Baz."
As I was about to answer with a pithy remark, a low, gravelly growl dissuaded me. It came from the veranda. Darkly rose as his mouth opened in a snarl. He stalked forward. Figuring there was someone approaching, I peered out to see, and as I did the wooden door wrenched shut, damn near smashing me in the face.
Darkly let out an awful roar. Through an uncovered window, I watched three male figures, naked but for cloths covering their decency and string-net masks to hide their faces, attack Darkly with deadly, eight-foot long spears. They forced him out into the ellipse and quickly surrounded him. The bear was in trouble. I feared the worst.
While I admit to being hot-headed from time to time, I am no fighter. I have never been trained in any technique of combat or self-defense. Yet, upon seeing that cowardly attack on such a proud animal, my blood turned molten. I grabbed the nearest sharp object, a metal cutting edge attached to a thin coil of wire, and bolted for the door. It burst open, however, and I was knocked from my feet by two massive attackers.
They lunged at me with their spears. One barely missed my ribs as the other scuffed a table above my head.
Rodrigo immediately pounced into action with a hail of profanities and sharp instruments. He hurled a wooden table clear across the room. It smashed into pieces against the far wall.
The tip of a spear nearly lacerated my midriff, but I twisted my body from the strike. As the huge brute was almost upon me, I kicked out, and my footballer's legs almost folded him backwards at the knees.
He shrieked and fell in a heap. His limbs poured with sweat.
I scrambled on top of him. With little back swing, I planted my knife in his jugular. Blood spurted sideways onto the floor. I pressed harder still until he stopped struggling.
The second assailant was locked in a desperate struggle with Rodrigo. But as soon as I got to my feet, he ripped himself free from that engagement and leapt upon me instead. His death grip around my neck was titanic. I felt as though my lungs would implode. I had all the chance of a wish-bone in a vice. If he had chosen to twist then and there, I am quite sure I would have simply snapped in two.
I gasped, shuddered. The room blurred. I tasted bitter sweat. On the verge of blacking out, I winced through a powerful jolt from behind. The giant's grip suddenly loosened. I succeeded in wriggling free.
I suddenly heard a deep cry from outside, and remembered the cruel baiting of Darkly. Yelling something which made no sense, I raced to his aid, snatching the spear from Rodrigo as I passed.
A voice followed. "Baz! Wait! Baz!"
Darkly was fending off two attackers. A third lay dead on the floor. The bear's claws had ripped deeply into the man's chest. Darkly roared and then lunged to bite one of his enemies in the face. He missed. The man's spear swung dangerously close to the bear's throat. I dove straight for the second attacker. My spear pierced his side and I managed to drive it upward through his ribs. In doing so, I tripped and fell sideways. My head whacked against the stone pavement. The last things I heard were a bear's roar followed by a man's piercing scream.
Chapter 10
The buzz of hushed voices woke me from a pleasant sleep. The room was new to me. Tiny in comparison to Pacal Votan's workshop, it was a great deal more cozy, except for the rather disagreeable smell of fish. My bed was incredibly soft; it had a similar feel to an expensive eiderdown ensemble my parents bought when I was little, shortly before they died. The stone walls were lime green and bare, except for two portraits affixed side by side above a tall wooden box. The pictures showed a man and a woman. Both were young.
The windows were draped with a maroon fabric, which filled the room with an elegant, otherworldly hue. Streams of light got by, however, and the brightness told me I would likely suffer another intense summer day. As I sat up, my head throbbed on one side; the woolen bandage, though, felt kind, as if maternal hands had applied it.
The most wonderful surprise greeted me as I rose. There, at the foot of the bed, asleep and snoring quietly, was my faithful champion, Darkly. He appeared none the worse for wear. The way his nose twitched made me smile, for three feet in front of him was a metal dish half filled with his favorite meal. No doubt he ate that second course of raw fish over and over again in his dreams, and rightly so. He deserved it.
By the time Rodrigo arrived with Pacal and Puma, I had more or less recovered from my dizziness. Puma spoke tersely, and he dispensed with waiting for Rodrigo's translation. Motioning for me to follow him, he rested his fists on his hips until I obeyed. Pacal and Rodrigo said nothing. I shared their intimidation, for Puma appeared to have shed all but his most ruthless characteristics.
Darkly stretched and rose to his feet. He seemed rather unimpressed by the whole affair, though, and proceeded to put away the remainder of his fish before sauntering outside for a stroll. Though Puma met him with a fierce glare, the bear simply yawned before scratching behind his ear.
The heat smothered me as I ve
ntured onto the veranda. The village market was in full orchestration as we followed Puma, Pacal and four other native men past the statue.
"Royal guards of some kind," Rodrigo whispered. "I'm not supposed to speak until we reach our destination. It has something to do with a religious oath. But I think I'd better warn you; we're headed for the Palace of the Kamachej, the King of Apterona himself."
"Thanks for the heads up, then," I replied irritably.
In truth, I was in no mood for kowtowing to any native king. This Kamachej seemed to have godlike sovereignty over the people of Apterona. Not being a religious man, I have no patience with those who would foist their religious beliefs on others. I prefer to find my own answers rather than settling for the dictates of dogma. Yet I must confess, I am in the minority, even in my own time.
We walked over five miles that first day, out through the northern entrance of the village, following the easterly course of the dry river, which wound across an expanse of grassland so unblemished I thought I might have to one day retire to this extinct age.
The isle was far from empty, however. Time and again we passed herds of beasts the number and like of which it would be difficult for anyone from the late twentieth century to imagine. Zebras, antelopes, giant alpacas and graceful white deer roamed, grazed upon the hills. The latter stampeded from our approach with awe-inspiring agility and speed. I wished to observe the more distant species, but Puma's quick pace never faltered. By the time the tip of the bronze building I had earlier spied came into view, I felt satisfied that nothing would eclipse the magnificence of those beasts.
The chill from the dry river bed bit as we crossed. It was then, as we breached the cleft of two high, breast-like hills, that I beheld the largest manmade structure on Apterona, the Palace of the Kamachej.
It was a sight to behold. Even Darkly halted in his tracks. Staggering in its dimensions and ostentation, it engulfed half of my entire vision before I could draw breath. There had been no hint, no gradual reveal of its size during our approach. Indeed, if I had been out walking my dog in England's Lake District and had suddenly bumped into the great wall of Troy, the surprise would not have been greater.
Tiered from foundation to roof in sculpted bronze, gold, and blue stone, its overall shape resembled that of a Babylonian ziggurat, the only difference being the layers of this were not uniformly sequential. The lower ones were rounded and ornate. The higher pyramidal segment was more angular, beginning at about fifty feet above the ground. Openings at various points on the many tiers suggested a complex system of access inside the structure. The only visible steps belonged to the main staircase leading from the ground directly into the second, tallest tier, through a marvelous golden arch. This was the only means of ingress I saw. The palace was an incredible engineering feat by any comparison.
Puma shouted for Rodrigo and me to hurry along. A concerned look from Pacal, however, stopped me in my tracks. He pointed behind me. When I glanced round, Darkly had vanished. With the bear having rarely been more than a few feet from my side for the past two days, I was unnerved to find him gone!
Vulnerable.
I searched for a dark shape in the distance, fearful that he might have collapsed along the way. Pacal this time pointed me toward a cluster of trees far to the east. My heart swelled and then sank as I watched Darkly, my protector, run for the faraway mountains. To this day, I can but speculate as to why he left. But as Rodrigo said to me later, "The bear, after all, only vanished as mysteriously as he arrived."
OK, Henry, take a deep breath!
I followed Puma and Pacal anxiously up the blue steps leading to the Palace of the Kamachej. Not especially steep, they nonetheless rose to a height of thirty or forty feet without a hand rail.
As we reached the golden archway, the entrance to the second tier, I looked down. Two pairs of guards stood either side of the flight. I recalled what Rodrigo had said about our enforced silence ending when we reached our destination, and turned to speak with him. Puma stuck his spear between us and cupped his hand over his mouth, another rude gesture to quiet us.
Damned arrogant copperhead, I thought.
The arch led us into a stone corridor. Two gigantic double doors, about thirty feet high and in the shape of a portcullis, barred our way ahead. On either hand, the enclosed passageway followed the level's perimeter, turning sharply at each corner. Puma bade us stay put, before disappearing round the left hand walkway. Five minutes went by, then ten. Finally, after fifteen excruciating minutes of rocking on my heels, I decided enough was enough.
First I checked the passage Puma had taken. I found another ascending staircase. As it appeared dark up there, I decided not to risk it. Both Pacal and Rodrigo barred my way to the right, so I relented and joined them again, in silence. The deception worked a treat, and I bolted for this more brightly lit of the two passages. The faint glow was not torchlight, however, and I stood at the corner intrigued. Ahead, at the far end of the ziggurat, was daylight beyond a trail of scattered leaves.
A gentle summer breeze felt sublime. I tried to tiptoe between the red leaves, but they had spread as a crispy carpet across the stone, an effective alarm system rendered by the seasonal purge of flora. However, an intoxicating scent teased me on. Sweet strawberry mixed with a rose perfume. I turned to see Pacal march toward me along the corridor, and the disobedience suddenly made me giddy. Was it the scent? The alarm bells crunched underfoot as I ground to a halt in the palace garden.
Words can scarce do justice to the setting. The velvet lawn was bespangled with sapphire-petal flowers. Four or five large trees lined the edge of the balcony. They were almost bare. Their gnarled limbs and fingers swayed, as if in mourning, over a mighty drop to the valley floor. And red leaves fidgeted about the garden, wanting of a place to rest, nudged hither and thither by a probing breeze.
The balcony itself stretched the full width of the palace. As I walked to the edge, facing east, I was treated to a miraculous view of Apterona. Enormous, precipitous mountains rose to the north as far as I could see. One of the nearest, though still many miles away, reached so high it dwarfed the rest. At one point, adjacent to this range, lay a slender avenue of grassland, a bottle-neck created by the two perimeter forests converging, almost to an isthmus. Beyond, I saw nothing through a wet mist masking the island from coast to coast.
I've got some exploring to do.
I noticed a still figure in the shade between two trees. At first I thought it was a statue, as my footsteps would have been enough to call the entire ziggurat to arms. As I approached, however, it came gently alive.
The figure sat upright, facing the edge of the balcony. A loose-fitting cloak, as grey as a winter cloud before a heavy snowfall, draped it. Fresh gusts rippled that smooth material from tail to hood. The figure's head tilted toward me, though not enough that I could make out a face.
A beige parchment slid from the figure's lap. It rolled itself back into scroll form on the lawn. The figure reached down immediately to retrieve it, but somehow managed to fumble about where the parchment should have been had it not recoiled. The hands were small and dainty.
Pity tugged me inside, as I realized they belonged to a blind woman. I rushed over to pick up the scroll.
Underneath the grey hood was the slender face of a woman. She might have been thirty or fifty, I couldn't tell, for there was a deep sadness in her expression. Instead of wrinkles, her skin had a firmness that rendered her somehow timeless. Her wide mouth had lips that seemed never to have parted. Her wide brown eyes struck me still. Lighter-skinned than the other Apteronians, she also appeared more cold and distant, as if she had been beautiful once and could be again, were it not that the world had clouded her radiance from her.
That was my first impression of the woman I met in the garden of red leaves and blue flowers. As I pressed the Braille-like scroll gently into her hand, I discerned a faint red flush on her cheeks.
The next instant I was being manhandled from behind by a d
ozen strong arms, and escorted inside through a shadowy corridor, where they bound my hands behind my back and affixed me with a tight blindfold.
Chapter 11
Led for what seemed miles inside the ziggurat, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect on our imperturbable jaunt through time. I wondered where Ethel and Sam might be in 1979. Off on some dangerous expedition in search of ancient human remains buried centuries before? Perhaps those remains might be mine, I thought--a true anthropological anomaly to rival that of the missing link. Though I somehow doubted if my skeleton would differ much from the everyday Homo sapiens, as I am hardly what one would deem physically distinctive.
Of all the theories that jostled in my mind, I could not shake that idea of the missing link being in some way connected to time travel. After all, the technology exists. It would only require a brazen fellow from the future to skip back to any point in time and, with a canny use of technology, advance the human species significantly beyond its merits.
Hell, maybe one day I'll go back and do it. Or perhaps I am yet to, but already have.
The paradox pinged around my head like a pinball, and would not sink. I quickly realized I was way out of my depth, never likely to understand time and time travel, no matter what wild designs I could invent.
After negotiating countless staircases and corridors, we stopped, and I was positioned carefully by two muscular arms. The air was warm, but we could, quite literally, have been anywhere. All I knew was that the ground was solid and that my captors had me at their mercy. Just then, a deep voice echoed all around.
I was overjoyed to hear Rodrigo speaking an English translation from a few yards behind me.
"All right, Baz, according to our host you're in here, too, blindfolded the same as me. I'm to translate as best I can, so bear with me, OK? And seeing as he doesn't understand a word of English, before we start I'd like to say a big up yours! to the Kamachej."
The Basingstoke Chronicles Page 7