by Dave Duncan
The churchyard was dark and rather spooky, overhung with gigantic yews and studded with headstones, half of them weathered to shapeless boulders. Rhododendrons had taken over much of it, while the straggly grass in the remainder badly needed cutting. Someone had made a start on that, and then abandoned the lawn mower in its tracks. There seemed to be no lovers dallying amid the shrubbery or skulking in the shadows, but the vicar's sudden conversion to gardening would have blighted the romantic atmosphere of the evening.
The church itself was small and extremely old, or at least the west front was, because the door was set in a rounded arch. “Norman, I see!” That was about the limit of Smedley's architectural expertise.
But not Stringer's. “More likely Saxon. That transept is younger, Early Gothic. Middle thirteenth century, probably. The spire can't be older than fourteenth."
"And the railway station beyond the far wall? Late Victorian?"
"That's probably the vicarage."
Gam! “Or the county jail."
"Ah, yes. By the way, Captain, I congratulate you on the way you spirited your friend out of Staffles. Adroitly done!” The surgeon's hearty tone was belied by his fishy eyes, which were friendly as barracudas'. “You did not limp on Wednesday."
"I scratched my leg going over the wall."
"We wondered which of you that was. Have you had it seen to?"
"I plan to have it cured by magic in another world."
Stringer snorted. He walked on in silence for a long minute, then sighed. “I think I need a holiday."
Yes, the war was tough, wasn't it?
Four of them had reached the steps. Alice and Exeter still loitered by the gate, staring into each other's eyes and whispering earnestly. He must still be trying to talk her into coming. Why could he not understand that the lady hankered after what came wrapped in that dressing gown?
"Hurry, please!” Miss Pimm called. “Reverend, we have had no chance for a meal and some of us have a long drive ahead of us yet. Would there be any shops still open in the village to buy something we could eat on the road?"
The little man looked alarmed at being required to make such a decision. “Not shops. I have some ham ... or you could inquire at the Bull. Mrs. Daventry might run up some sandwiches for you."
Smedley suppressed images of a buxom lady climbing a mountain of sandwiches. He must be windier than he had realized. He took a long draw on his fag.
"You could pick me up back here in half an hour or so,” Miss Pimm informed Stringer with a meaningful look.
He frowned at this cavalier dismissal, but obviously he had learned not to argue with his new secretary. He offered his left hand to Smedley. “Thank you for a most interesting few days, Captain. Do drop in if you're ever in my neighborhood, won't you?"
"And you likewise,” Smedley said.
Alice and Edward arrived hand in hand, very tense about the eyes.
"I will send you a postcard as soon as I, ah, return,” he told her.
"No, you won't!” Miss Pimm snapped. “That would be insanely unwise. I shall see she is informed of your whereabouts. For goodness sake, kiss her and go inside! Thank you for your help, Reverend."
"Oh, very welcome, I'm sure, Mrs.—er ... If you need me, I shall be cutting the grass out here."
Better than trying to cut the grass in there, Smedley thought. Lord, he was getting hysterical! He pecked a kiss on Alice's cheek, nodded politely at the vicar, who jumped and returned a nervous smile.
He stamped out his cigarette. Then he followed Miss Pimm up the steps and into the cold gloom of the church. Edward came trotting after them and closed the heavy door with a slam. It echoed like a knell of doom.
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52
SMEDLEY TOSSED HIS SHIRT INTO THE CHEST. THERE WAS A STRANGE assortment of clothes in there already, male and female both, plus a couple of small drums. He sat on a chair to remove his shoes and socks. The floor was icy.
Damn it all! No matter what she had said, he would not remove his pants! Not yet.
He limped out into the nave. He could hear the rattle of the vicar's lawn mower outside, very faint and distant. With a drum slung around her neck, Miss Pimm was poised on one foot, left arm raised and head thrown back. “Ogtha!” she proclaimed, and brought her hand down to the drum, and raising the other. “Ispal!” She was teaching Exeter the gestures for the key that would take him to New Zealand. He was watching intently, showing no sign of discomfort at being stark naked.
Writhing with embarrassment, Smedley slipped by them. He wandered along the aisle, studying the pictures in the stained glass windows and the nosegays of color they shed. The arches at the east end were rounded, then they became pointed, Gothic. Either the original church had been extended, or a new generation of builders had taken over at that point. The oaken pews displayed prayer books and hymnals, laid out at even spacing, ready for the next day's service. The pulpit was modern and grandiose, perhaps a result of the Service's generous contributions, and too big for the church.
This was a very little church.
But it was a church, a recognizable C. of E. place of worship, and its like could be found all over the world. The sun never set on the Anglican Communion. It was all the things he had been brought up to revere, had taken for granted and respected all his life. His family went to church every Sunday. They almost never discussed religion. It was just there, part of a man, like breathing. Dancing around in the nude was not in the cards. It was uncivilized. Gentlemen did not do such things anywhere, least of all in a church.
"Umbathon!” said Miss Pimm in the background.
This was not going to work. This was a gigantic confidence trick. This was insanity.
Ombay fala, inkuthin...
He had not wept in days. Was he past that, now? Had he sunk to a whole new level of madness, with delusions of flying to other worlds and people leaping from bicycles into cars without actually moving through space? Was he, despite all the evidence of his senses, bound up in a straitjacket inside some padded cell?
He could feel his right hand again. It didn't exactly hurt, but he could feel it. He looked down at the bandage disbelievingly and tried to flex invisible fingers. He was in front of the altar rail already. This was the center of virtuality, she had said. Bunkum!
He shivered.
He turned away from the altar. Fresh yellow roses and chrysanthemums in brass vases. A fellow should not go mucking around in a church in a state of undress. Not proper! What in heaven would the guv'nor say? Or the mater, if she were alive—she would be truly shocked. Or the aunts, the monstrous regiment of aunts?
The other two were coming up the aisle. “Captain Smedley!” Miss Pimm's harsh voice took on a notable resonance in this old stone cave. “I asked you to remove your clothes."
"After the dress rehearsal."
"No, Captain—now! You will not achieve the correct state of mind if you are distracted by trivia. It will take you time to adjust. Off with them!"
He glared at her, then turned his back on her, pulling off his braces. But when he had everything off, he did not know what to do next. He could hardly leave bags and underwear for the congregation to find in the morning. He glanced over his shoulder. Miss Pimm was watching him with her arms folded. He could imagine her toe tapping.
"Give them to me,” she said impatiently. “I'll put them in the chest as I leave. Oh, Captain! I saw my first naked man several hundred years ago, and none of the equipment has changed since then."
He gave her the bundle.
"Thank you. And your bandages. Then we can begin."
The governess instructed her pupils in the proper ritual movements for Ombay fala. They took it in slow motion, gesture by gesture, and Smedley felt worse and worse as the farce progressed. His nerves were not going to take much more of this. Exeter, he was glad to notice, was starting to shiver. At least when they began to dance in earnest, they both should feel warmer. He was shivering too, and he did not thi
nk that temperature had very much to do with it in his case. It was funk.
Oddly, Miss Pimm seemed colder than either of them, and she was fully dressed. She was snappier than a vixen in heat, shouting at them when they got it wrong. She kept glancing at her watch.
For once, Smedley realized, he was picking up something faster than Edward Exeter. Exeter was distracted, thoroughly miserable. Pining for Cousin Alice? Had he just realized that he could never see her again? He could not even send her a postcard. The Blighters would never stop hunting him until he fulfilled the prophecy or died. Or was he just unwilling to cross over?
Miss Pimm made herself comfortable in the front pew and adjusted the drum on her lap.
"Now we'll try it with music. First verse. Ready? One, two—"
"Ombay fala,” Smedley chanted, lifting his left foot and raising his stump overhead, “inkuthin.” Exeter followed him around the circle. Surprisingly, they went right through the first verse without an error—at least it felt as if they got it right, and Sergeant Major Pimm did not interrupt.
"Not bad!” she admitted as they bellowed out the closing, Hosagil! “Edward, you forgot the words a time or two, didn't you? Captain, your timing is erratic. Is that leg going to be a problem?"
The scar on his wrist was blood red, but a neat piece of sewing. The trivial scratches on his leg looked much worse, ugly and swollen. He compared his two arms, wondering if the right one was already wasting away.
"Let's try again.” Miss Pimm stole another glance at her watch. “Smartly! I certainly don't want to have to fight my way out of here. Take it right through, now. Keep on going until something happens. Ready? Oh, I almost forgot ... bon voyage!"
It was the first real smile Smedley had seen on her face. It made her seem almost pretty, in a way he would never have guessed, but he was not in a mood to return smiles. He was expecting her to break into howls of laughter any minute, and start shouting April fool! “Thank you in anticipation,” he said coldly.
Exeter said, “Thank you for everything.” But he did not smile either, and Miss Pimm responded with a rolling tattoo of fingers on the drum.
Smedley shivered and waited for the rhythm to begin. This was all wrong! He had taken religion seriously as a child, because his parents had. Here it came.... Dum-de dum-de dum-dum-dum ... At Fallow he had done what all the others had done. “Ombay fala, inkuthin,” he chanted. In the senior forms he had joined the conventional rebellion into Buddhism, atheism, agnosticism, Unitarianism, or any esoteric-ism that had turned up. Right leg, left arm. Smedley himself had never been quite sure which of the -isms he favored. When he enlisted he had given his religion as C. of E. without thinking about it. “Indu maka, sasa du.” He had attended church parade on Sundays. In Flanders he had prayed his heart out a few times, screaming and sobbing to a merciful god, any god, any god at all. No atheists in foxholes ... Hop, bow, hop, bow. When the danger had passed, he had always felt ashamed of his cowardice, and less of a believer in consequence. What sort of merciful god would have allowed the war to start in the first place—and why? Just so some terrified sods would repent of their sins? “Aiba aiba nopa du.” What sins had he ever had a chance to commit?
But even so, a chap ought not to profane a holy place. Even a heathen temple deserved respect. Even if it was a mud hut, even if only one single curly-haired darkie thought it was sacred, then a fellow ought to have the grace not to mock it. Head back, elbows out. St. Gall's was a Christian church, the sort of place his ancestors had worshipped in for hundreds of years. It deserved better than this obscene posturing, these primitive antics. Echoes rolling back from the ancient stones. It was holy. He could almost smell the sanctity. Normans had worshipped here, maybe Angles and Saxons. “Aiba reeba mona kin.” That meant nine centuries of humble people bowing down and glorifying their God. Their worship alone made it sacred. The thought was suddenly terrifying. Light blazed. He screamed and stumbled and fell facedown in the grass. Hosagil!
Bewildered, not understanding, he raised his head and blinked at the painful brightness. He lay in the exact center of a circular lawn, about the size of his parents’ dining room, and the surrounding hedge was the color of a blue spruce, with the sheen of holly. He heard sounds of chirping, whistling, and hooting. He blinked harder to clear away tears. Beyond the hedge soared the most incredible snow-capped peak he had ever seen, blushing orange against a pale blue-gold sky. The air was tangy with a scent of wood smoke. It was evening or early morning.
He had done it! He had done it! He had done it! Yes! It was true. He had crossed over to another world. Grass. Odd, mint-scented grass. Day-light. The war, England, the guv'nor, the aunts, medals, the dead, the maimed—all gone. He had really done it. He wouldn't have to go to the Palace for his bloody gong after all. He had done it, really done it.
He laid his face on the back of his hand and started to sob.
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53
IT WAS THE COLD THAT STOPPED HIM, THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF LYING on dewy grass at dawn. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and almost laughed. He hadn't had a weep like that since Wednesday's lunch in the Black Dragon. Done him a world of good, it had! Two worlds of good. Now he needed to find some clothes before he caught pneumonia.
He had done it. He had done it.
Behind him stood a small kiosk of unpainted wood, like a summerhouse. Alongside it was the only break in the hedge, through which he could see only a gravel path and more hedge on the far side of that. Assuming this place was not somebody's idea of a joke, it must be a secluded, private aerodrome for travelers arriving in a state of undress—which was a reminder that Exeter would be dropping in any minute, and the exact center of the circle might become crowded.
Miss Pimm had issued somber warnings of the aftereffects of passing over, and especially a first trip. Cramps and nausea and despair, she had said, and Exeter had nodded grimly. Usually it would last only a few minutes, but it was as unpredictable as seasickness. Smedley felt none of those, unless his weeping fit qualified. He felt fine.
So he scrambled up and limped over to the gazebo. The orange fire had already faded from the mountain and the sky was brightening. There were several other peaks to admire as well, painted in blinding white and ice blue. The hedge was high enough to hide everything closer, except a trailing, lazy cloud of white smoke, which accounted for the tangy smell in the air. Someone was having a bonfire.
What could be keeping Exeter? It was jolly good to have pipped him like this, and him on his third trip, too.
The gazebo contained a comfortable chair with a book lying on it, and a wooden chest. Like the one in the vestry of St. Gall's, that chest probably held all sorts of Apparel Suitable for the Discerning Traveler. The book was heavy, leather-bound, and apparently written in Greek, but yet no Greek Smedley had ever seen. Odd! When he looked inside the chest, he found one shoe and three socks. He took two socks and put them on, but that hardly seemed adequate wear, no matter how temperate the climate.
Undoubtedly the little kiosk was a sentry box. Someone was supposed to be sitting here, reading that book, keeping watch in case visitors dropped in. The rotter had deserted his post. Having breakfast, likely.
What on Earth, real Earth, could be delaying Exeter? Had the effort of learning two keys at the same time confused him, mixing them up in his mind? Or was he so reluctant to leave Alice and return to Nextdoor that he could not summon up the correct mental attitude? Bother the man!
So what did Julian Smedley do now, poor thing?
He went to the gap in the hedge and—being extremely cautious not to expose too much of himself—peered around the edge. He looked straight into the face of a young man doing the same thing from the other side.
The other man yelled. They both jumped back in alarm.
Smedley broke into roars of laughter.
Slowly the newcomer edged into view around the hedge, one big, wide, green eye at a time. He was barefoot, wearing only a
loincloth. His beard was close-cropped, while his hair hung down his back like a woman's. Both were a startling shade of copper, and his very fair skin's efforts to tan had coated him in several million freckles. He was one all-over freckle. He was also jumpy as a field full of grasshoppers, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.
He said something, but the only word Smedley caught was tyika?
"Sorry, old man! Don't speak the lingo. Got any English?"
The man nodded vigorously, still jittery, but apparently reassured. “I am speak English well, tyika!” He had a singsong accent. “My name is Dommi Basketmaker, but once Dommi Houseboy, and having hopes again to be so.” He was no older than Smedley himself, short and broad shouldered.
"I'm Captain Smedley. Dommi, you said? Weren't you bearer for, er, Tyika Exeter?"
A huge grin split Dommi's face into unequal halves, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “Indeed I had that highly pleasurable honor a year ago, for a transitory time only. Tyika Kisster a most felicitous tyika to serve, a very benignly inclined tyika! I had been informed that his honor will be returning shortly and have had apprehension of perhaps being permitted again to serve him, which I would be most earnestly appreciative.” His joy wavered into sudden despondency. “But, alas—"
"Well, he's due any moment now.” Smedley wondered how that information could have reached Olympus ahead of him, though. “And he will be arriving in the same state of undress I am. And I am deucedly cold, to boot. Why don't you run off and dig up a couple of sets of clothes for us, soonest?"
"But...” Dommi's gaze wandered over Smedley, noting the missing hand and the gashes on his calf. “Of course, Tyika Kaptaan! At once, most imminent!” He spun around and vanished. Sounds of feet running on gravel faded into the distance. Bare feet? Ouch!
Well, that took care of clothes.
Exeter was taking a damnably long time! He had two translations to his credit already, so he ought to be able to manage another, surely. Had he changed his mind? Having seen Smedley cross first, was he going to rely on him to unmask the traitor, whether Jumbo or another? No, he would not go back on his word to Miss Pimm. Or had Schneider arrived at St. Gall's and queered the show? She had said: I don't want to have to fight my way out of here.