The Algernon Expeditions: The Fall Of Eldorado
Author's notes
Gentle Reader,
It has been a while since our last report. The rather shadowy and dangerous organisation trying, not to mince words, to kill us, has not been sitting still. This is an account of how we dealt, and indeed are still dealing, with this threat. The main share of the story, though, is Mr. Philip Tennant's account of his adventures in an undisclosed part of Meso-America named (by him, not by its inhabitants) Anctapolepl, and not Hnctplep as reported earlier. Last but not least, we include parts of Mr. Philip Tennant's gripping tale of his life among the Ajuru tribe who travel an area in Sudan by the White Nile.
The cover illustration was once more made by Miss Lindsey Batdorf, who can be contacted over these modern speaking tubes at lindseybatdorf.com. The front page was created by Miss Corinne Pritchard, whose contact address is at www.simplyunderstand.com. Their help in this is very much appreciated.
In the interest of public safety, and indeed to save some people embarrassment or legal trouble, certain names and events have been altered to protect the innocent. Please treat these documents as a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
But above all: Enjoy!
Yours,
Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft, Algernon University, Ipswich.
Carl Tennant: Life on the White Nile
Home is where the heart is - A quick shopping trip - The River People - A test of courage
There is along the banks of the White Nile the persistent story that there is a small fish that is attracted to the clatter of "water" and the smell of urine. This fish will make for you, swim up the urine stream as you are relieving yourself into the river, and lodge itself inside one's manly part, whence it will not be moved because of its barbed dorsal and pectoral fins. Amputation is then the only option, which is a fate neither I nor my love wishes to think about.
Honestly, Elder Hanad, I understand it. We have to drink this water, so don't piss in it. Now tell the crocodiles and piranha and buffalo and lions and all the other animals that live here. I am a grown man and do not need to be scared with fairy tales into behaving myself.
Having said that, though, for now, I am keeping my shorts on when I am going for a swim.
-- Carl Tennant, "My Life with the Ajuru"
It was three months since I said goodbye to my sister Alexandra, and joined Fatin's tribe. They were called the Ajuru, and they accepted me into their midst as one of their own. My very own sister would probably not have recognised me. Apart from the colour of my skin, the only thing that set me apart from the rest of the tribe was the fact that I was still wearing a pair of boots, and my khaki shorts. I would have expected life here to be extremely hard, and to be hungry and wet all the time, but the camp was actually quite comfortable. Nobody was exactly idle for any length of time, but neither was anyone worked to exhaustion.
With some help from the rest of the men, I constructed a tent for myself, for Fatin, and as soon as he would arrive, for my son. Fatin thought she was bearing a daughter. No matter how many times I told her that the method of dangling a ring over the belly on a piece of string is absolutely infallible, she remained staunchly unconvinced. In her defence, the ring I was using was my seal ring, and not a wedding ring. Marriage as such does not exist in the Ajuru, but couples are unflinchingly loyal to each other.
There were about two dozen people in the Ajuru, which Hanad told me was on the large side, but larger tribes exist. Hanad is the tribe elder, by virtue of his grey hairs and his vast knowledge of the land. He used to be the top hunter in the tribe, but no more. That honour was now with a younger man named Odawaa. Odawaa, to be brutally honest, was completely full of himself. He obviously expected all lesser mortals except Hanad to cower before him. He would have been a totally obnoxious git, if it weren't for the fact that he had earned his bragging rights several times over. I was allowed to go on a hunt with the rest of the men only twice, and to watch the man move was a revelation. Compared to him, I trudged along like a bull in a china shop, and I am sure we missed prey because of my clumsiness. I vowed that nobody would go hungry because of me, and I practiced walking the forest as the hunters did. I never became as good as they were. That would have taken a lifetime.
Odawaa had a younger brother named Obsiye. He worshipped his older brother, forever trying to live up to Odawaa's example. Where Odawaa exuded a quiet, almost solemn confidence, Obsiye was all over the place, moving quick as water, never at rest. For some reason, he stayed away from me, and I didn't understand why. Surely, nobody here felt threatened by me, big bumbling oaf that I was.
I was the tallest man in the tribe, through fortune of birth, and probably the strongest. I had quite recovered from the illness that afflicted me in that cursed camp of Hammond's expedition. I have nothing more to show for it now than some discoloration of the skin on my chest and face. Fatin told me she didn't mind. She had seen men much uglier than I am. She was truly the sweetest creature in existence.
I slowly got used to the language. I couldn't pronounce several of the vowels properly, and my vocabulary was less than that of a child, but the sounds, even the curious clicking ones, soon became more and more familiar. I knew greetings for a single man, a single woman, or a group of people. I could say "thank you" when someone handed me food. My knowledge of East African languages was of very little use to me and I suspect that if I had moved to the next tribe over, I would have had to start all over again.
Fatin was my guide and help in this strange and beautiful land. She was starting to show her condition, and swore she could hear the baby talk to her. She was my teacher in the language and the ways of the Ajuru. I taught her English in return, but only because she asked me, perhaps for the symmetry of me learning Ajuru. Apparently, it is not an uncommon event to have a total stranger enter the tribe and have to learn the language. Professor Enderby told me once that this is an evolutionary trait to keep the population from deteriorating by in-breeding. Well, in that regard, you cannot get blood fresher than mine.
I was sitting in our tent, writing my journal when it started to rain, clattering on the skins just over my head. I closed my journal, and blew out the earthenware oil lamp. Fatin was asleep on the other side of the tent. Our bed was made of sweet-smelling leaves that I still do not know the name of. I have drawn them in my book. It was never cold there, and we didn't need covers. If there was a cool breeze, we would close the tent door and draw close. When the rain fell, clattered on the roof of our tent, and we lay close together, my hand on her belly, her hand on my thigh, simply listening to the rain, knowing it couldn't touch us... Words cannot describe how happy I was to be where I was. Who I was with.
Elder Hanad called together all the men, including me. As far as I could understand, there was a need to prepare an especially large meal in a few days' time, and we needed to go on a hunting trip. All hands on deck, old bean, and tally ho. Odawaa, naturally, was in charge, and we were to hunt for some of the deer that grazed in the open plains. As Odawaa put it, they can hear the grass grow, so everyone, especially pale-faced rhinoceroses, must be careful not to disturb them with unseemly noises. Several of the hunters looked at me. Did Prof. Enderby not say at some point that facial expressions are a universal language? Well, I brought joy to the tribe. Bother them. I'll bring my rifle. I had to be very careful with my ammunition, but I swore to wipe those smug smirks off their faces by dropping a kudu at five hundred paces. For every kind of prey, there was an appropriate weapon. To bring monkeys down from the tree, they used blow-guns with darts tipped with a poison made from flowers of the Strophantus family, a pretty white flower with long dark cords at the end of its petals. To hunt very large prey, like the African buffalo, they used sturdy stabbing spears, and preferred to use pit traps to immobilize the beast before killing it. The kudu they hunted with bows and arrows. Geedi, one of the hunters, let me try his bow, and from the feel of it, they pulled about sixty to seventy pounds. I would have to make one, because at some point, my bullets would run out. Arrows, by contrast, grow on trees.
All I can say about my first official hunting trip with the Ajuru hunters is that we did eventually get the needed number of kudu, but I am afraid the Great White Hunter made a fine pig's ear out of it.
We had a half day's march until we found the herd of kudu. These creatures are like deer, and they have curious spiral-shaped horns on their heads that the tribesmen can turn into a musical instrument called in some places a vuvuzela. They produce a surprisingly loud noise and are used to summon villagers from far around. Two of the hunters were set to watch the herd, while the rest of us made camp and prepared an evening meal of porridge and dried meat. Obsiye was the one to bring the watchers their part. We slept for a few hours, until our watches woke us, a few hours before sunrise. Keeping as quiet as we could, we crept up on the herd with the wind in our faces. Odawaa went in first. I have to admire the way he can move quickly at one point, then suddenly become still as stone, or sway with the gentle motion of the grass. His bow was on his back, a quiver full of arrows by his side. Not shooting yet, only watching, choosing his prey. With a gesture of his fingers, he called his brother Obsiye to him, spoke a few words. I saw Obsiye look at the herd, nod. He came back to us.
"Two does, not yet pregnant. Brown and white markings. Nuune, Geedi. You go round to the right and distract them. Odawaa and I will shoot." He looked at me. "Kal. Come with me, be quiet."
Of course.
I followed Obsiye to where Odawaa was crouched behind a few shrubs. He didn't look round.
"Obsiye, with me. Kal. You stay here." Even in his language, I could recognise the mocking tone. "You keep the lion from attacking us."
The hunters crept away, into the dark of the early morning.
I took my rifle from my shoulder, my M4 Garand with a custom sight tipped with luminous paint for use at night. I kept my eyes and ears open, looking for predators who would turn the hunters into the hunted. There weren't any as far as I could see. I looked up at a noise coming from the right. So did several of the kudu. At that moment, there was the sound of bows, and one of the kudu leapt up, then collapsed with two arrows sticking out of its side. Odawaa's and Obsiye's. Later, Odawaa would of course claim that it was his arrow that killed the beast, and Obsiye would know better than to object. It was amazing that the herd didn't stampede then, but they simply moved away a few hundred yards and continued grazing. They had seen what had happened, and they knew that predators who have just made a kill are no further threat. There is in nature an incredible sense of fatalism. It is no use dwelling on what just happened. There is nothing to be done about it, so you may just as well go on with what you were doing.
Odawaa waved me over, and showed me to grab the beast's horns to drag it away to where a small group of women were waiting to skin, dress and store the meat of the animal. Fatin was not among them. Kinsi, Odawaa's wife, was. She gave me a smile and pointed me to where she wanted the kudu. A few of the women turned it on its back and started to work. We, the mighty hunters, turned round and ran back to the herd of kudu.
Odawaa went in front again, followed by Obsiye, Geedi, Nuune and myself. He sneered. The herd had moved to a part of the grassy plain where there was no cover at all. He would have to crawl on his belly, and still run a very large risk of being spotted before he got in range. Arrow range, that is. The Ajuru were about to learn what it meant to have a rifleman with them.
The herd was about four hundred yards away and I adjusted my sight accordingly. This would be an easy shot. I am fairly competent with a rifle at that range, though I am woefully outclassed by my sister Alexandra and her specialist long-range sniper rifle. She could probably shoot a kudu without bothering to get out of bed. But be that as it may, I sat down behind a shrub, and took careful aim at one of the kudu. I concentrated on the spot right behind the shoulder of one of the bucks. Part of the hunter's ethic is that first, you do not cause any beast unnecessary suffering. Second, when you take the life of another creature you do not waste even a scrap of it. Every part of the beast can be used. Several of the hunters looked at me as though I were mad, but I didn't let that bother me. They didn't know the range of a modern rifle. I squeezed the trigger, and scored a perfect hit. The kudu probably never even heard the shot. I looked round at my fellow hunters, who were staring at me with their mouths hanging open.
Odawaa glared at me and shouted a word in the Ajuru language that I didn't know yet, but will no doubt serve me well next time I drop something heavy on my foot. Next thing he, Obsiye, Geedi and Nuune were running at full speed towards my kudu. Only after a few moments did I have the notion to follow them. I could barely keep up with them, and honestly, I didn't see the point in running that fast after a dead animal. About fifty yards away from the kudu, all the hunters stopped, staring and muttering under their breath. Odawaa looked round at me.
"You pale-faced idiot!" Odawaa pointed behind him. "Are you going to take it away from them?"
I looked. Three very large lions were looking at us with an expression in their eyes that dared anyone to come here and complain if they wanted. I could shoot them. Somehow, I didn't think that would go over well with the rest of the men. I buried my head in my hands.
I spent the rest of the day in the company of the women, mainly to do heavy lifting. The hunters came back now and then carrying animals on a pole, I moved them about and the women butchered them at great speed and with great proficiency. At the end of the day, we constructed sleds of long spars of wood and carried our food home. Most of the meat was treated with spices and hung on wooden frames to dry. The best bits were roasted immediately. Fatin wandered over, carrying a few loaves of flatbread, one piece of which she gave to me.
"How did it go?"
Kinsi looked up at the sky, eyes gleaming. "Your man, he has kept the hunters safe from lions. By feeding kudu to the lions."
Fatin frowned. Kinsi explained. Fatin squeezed her eyes shut, snorting. Then she looked at me, and nearly rolled over laughing.
"It's not funny!"
Fatin wiped the tears from her face, leaving a big smear of flour. After she took a few deep breaths, she dared to look at me again, and nearly collapsed laughing again. She wrapped her arms round me and rubbed her face on my chest.
"You will be known as Feeder-of-lions. I will tell our daughter that lions eat out of her father's hands."
I hugged her back.
"Son," I said.
Three days after my first hunt, one of the children came running back from the river, shouting in his high pitched voice.
"The river people! The river people are here!"
Elder Hanad came out of his tent wearing a beaded necklace that I knew he only wore on special occasions. He called his hunters to him, and Odawaa, Obsiye, Geedi and Nuune came walking up. Hanad saw me and waved me over.
"You have been on the hunt, Feeder-of-lions," he said with a gleam in his eye. "Join us."
We walked the few hundred yards to the river bank. Wise tribe elders do not pitch their tents right on the edge of a river, unless they wish to go for an unplanned midnight swim when the rains are heavy. There had been a lot of rain recently, and the river was fast and deep. Over the rush of the river, we could hear the sound of men singing, carried over the water. A few minutes later, a large canoe came into view, paddled by twelve oarsmen. At the helm stood a man in his early forties, with specks of grey in his hair. He would sing a few words, and the oarsmen would respond in harmony. Now and then, the oarsmen would raise their paddles in the air and clash them together.
The boat was made of a single tree-trunk that must have taken the river people an age to cut down. Flowing lines were carved into its side, and on its bow were mounted the jaws of a monstrously large river crocodile. It was a beautiful craft, well suited to navigating the White Nile.
At a command from the elder of the River-people, the rowers slowed down till the boat was kept level with those standing on the shore. The elder raised his arms, and adressed Elder Hanad in a high clear voice. The language he spoke was vaguely familiar. I could catch the occasional word, but most of it was unknown to me. Elder Hanad mirrored the River People's Elder's gesture, then answered in the same voice. Apparently, this was not enough, because the River Elder repeated his question while the rowers patiently kept the boat in the same place. Elder Hanad gestured at the bank, and repeated his answer. The River Elder asked his question a third time, and again, Elder Hanad extended to him the hand of friendship. At that, the boat sped up, veered out onto the river, then turned round and buried itself in the river bank. The frontmost rowers threw ropes to people on the bank, and the boat turned round. The hunters and I joined the people on the ropes and pulled the boat halfway up on the shore. People jumped out of the boat with mallets and long stakes, which they hammered into the ground. The ropes were fastened to the poles and all the River People jumped onto land.
The River Elder walked over to Elder Hanad. With the formalities over, they now greeted each other with hands on each other's shoulders and happy smiles on their faces. He looked round, and saw me. His face darkened and he pointed his thumb at me. He asked Hanad a question, undoubtedly 'what is this paleface doing here?'
"Kal? Come here."
I stepped over. Elder Hanad pointed a hand.
"See, this is Elder Ramaas, leader of the River people, Son of the White Nile, Helmsman of the Great Crocodile."
I crossed my hands in front of me and bowed to him. Elder Hanad pointed at me.
"See, this is Kal of England." There was a gleam in his eyes. "Feeder of Lions, of the Far Hunt. He is a new member of our tribe, and you will forgive him not speaking the Lingua Franca of our trade."
"New member?" Elder Ramaas laughed. "Have you tested his courage yet?"
"I have looked into his eyes," said Hanad. "I have no doubt. But no, he has not been tested."
I looked at Elder Hanad, who looked a bit embarrassed. Certainly nobody had ever mentioned a test. I thumped my chest, and bowed my head to Elder Hanad.
"Elder, I am ready for any test you wish me to take."
Hanad looked from me to Ramaas, then back to me again. He gave a little grunt.
"Then let it be done."
I stood in front of a large tree. Someone had handed me a stick about as long as my leg. Geedi stood next to me.
"You climb the tree. In the tree is a hornet's nest. You hit the nest with the stick and then you climb down again. And then you run like the lightning is trying to burn your white butt black."
I looked up at the tree, then back at Geedi. "That sounds like a really, really stupid thing to do."
"It is a really stupid thing to do," said Geedi.
"Does everyone do this?"
"Elder Hanad, shade be upon him, does not like these tests. This is because Elder Hanad and the men of the Ajuru tribes are not stupid. But I have. I joined this tribe when I was travelling. And never left again." Geedi laughed. "Because the men of this tribe are not stupid."
"Right. Do you have any advice?"
"Hit only once. Run very fast."
"They won't see that as a lack of courage?"
"It is courage to hit the nest. Not hanging around afterwards is a sign of good sense."
"Right. Let's do this."
"You do it. Leave me out of it."
Well, I climbed up the tree. The nest was about twenty feet up in the air. I looked down. I could probably hit the nest, drop down, and make a run for the river. But what if I'd sprain my ankle? I carefully considered the branches below me. Right. Hit, climb down two branches, then drop and run like shit off a shiny shovel.
So that is what I did.
Now one might expect that it would take a bunch of stupid insects a while to find out what was happening, and figure out that it was in fact the strange creature with the stick that was wrecking their home. One would be wrong, and very wrong indeed. Almost before I hit the nest, angry hornets came buzzing out towards me, and I got stung at least twice before I even thought of climbing down. Nothing remained of my careful plans, and I dropped down, luckily landed on both my feet, and ran off in the direction of the river. Members of two African tribes were cheering me on. Hornets, I can tell you, can fly faster than even a white man can run. And of course, once they are on you, you are doing the running for them, leaving them to get on with the important business of stinging. It took me maybe a minute and a half to reach the river, but they were the longest ninety seconds in the world. I recklessly hurled myself into the White Nile's welcoming water. I grabbed some piece of underwater vegetation and held my breath for as long as I could. Then, I carefully stuck my face up out of the water, half expecting the hungry hornets to pounce on me. They didn't. I slowly got out of the water, and rejoined my fellow tribesmen, now truly baptised by fire and many, many hornet stings.
It could be worse. I've heard of tribes where the initiation test involves hurling yourself out of a tree with only a rope tied to your ankle. Their name is undoubtedly "those with dislocated hips".
I was welcomed by a kind of weary look from Elder Hanad, and an openly laughing Elder Ramaas, who slapped me on the shoulder. He did, of course, pick a bit with stings on.
"Well done, Lion-feeder Kal."
"You idiot!"
Fatin stood in front of me, shouting much louder than she needed to. In all my days with her, I'd never seen her as angry as this.
"Why do you do a thing like that? Men have died from hornet stings! Hornets have poison in their stings! If you die, what do I do?"
She grabbed my hand in both of hers and pressed it to her stomach.
"Feel this! This is your child moving! What will she do when she comes out and you are not here because you had to show to the other idiots how stupid you are?"
"Uhh," I said, never wanting for a clever reply.
"I already know you are brave. Now I know you are also stupid. Stupid!"
Fatin turned on her heels and went into our tent. I looked round at Geedi, who had followed the exchange with a little smirk on his face.
"Tonight, my friend, you sleep on the other side of the tent."
I sneered. "Did that happen to you as well?"
"I had no woman back when I did it," said Geedi. "But my mother did not let me forget it." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I give this a week or so."
"Great," I said. "Do I try to get in the tent?"
Geedi laughed out loud. "That would be braver than hitting the hornet's nest." He bent over to me and looked me in the eye. "But nowhere near as stupid."
Alexandra Tennant: Recovery and rifles
The long road back - Things lost in South America - Fire at will - A bad shot.
Taking the life of another human being is perhaps the most well acknowledged of sins. The destruction of a whole future, a whole universe that still had in it the person you have just destroyed. It is the most quoted commandment in the Bible: Thou shalt not kill, even though the Hebrew distinguishes between 'murder' and 'slaying'. Name an evil man at random, and the greatest chance will be that he killed one or more human beings. Even to take a life out of mercy, to end or avoid suffering, is a transgression. Why is it, though, that we
*should* suffer? Is it our duty to endure the pain, the physical
pain of wounds, burns, illness, or the pain of the mind that comes from knowing that the world is wrong, and that for us, it might never be right again? When predicting the future, are we so likely to be wrong that we cannot take the risk of denying ourselves the light that lies beyond suffering? We sufffer most from the suffering we fear, but that never comes to pass. Thus, we have more to bear than we are given.
-- Alexandra L. Tennant, "Decisions on the spot"
I was sitting on a bench in the University's gymnasium, watching my father walk, or attempt to walk, between two parallel bars for support. His prosthetic leg had been made for him by Andrew Parsons himself, who had sat for a long time, observing the stump of Father's leg, untroubled by the uncomfortable feeling that affected anyone else who looked at it, including myself. At last, he leaned back, closing his eyes, watching my Father walk again in his mind. Then, he had made my father put his leg in a bucket of gel, and made a mould. The doctors in that strange place he had visited, and of which he had only spoken in dark hints, had done an excellent job in sawing off, rounding off the bone and re-sculpting the skin and muscle so that he could comfortably rest on it. Our physicians were suitably impressed. With Father's typical pragmatism, he had asked for a leg that would allow him to walk best rather than one that would look like a normal leg. He had been offered the choice of a glass eye to replace the one he had lost, and had opted for an eyepatch instead. While wearing it, he looked like a pirate. When he was not wearing it, it looked as if his right eye was simply closed, except that it was not as convex as his other eye. He had suffered a savage cut to his left arm, severing muscles and tendons. A series of operations had restored some of the function to it, though it would most likely never be as strong again as it had been. I watched the leg in motion. Andrew had done a marvellous job. The lower leg was able to swing freely between straight and bent, until Father put his weight on it, at which point the limb locked. With practice, Father would be able to walk almost normally. And practice, he did.
"Come on Father," I said. "Put a bit of effort in. I can walk faster on my hands!"
Father laughed grimly. "Come here and say that again."
"Long John Silver could walk as fast as you on a moving ship," I said. "And you may lay to that!"
"Long John Silver was a scurvy cur. He used a crutch for goodness' sake." Father reached the end of the parallel bars, and turned round. His eye glinted at me. "Time me," he said, and started to walk to the other end while I counted.
"Thirty three," I said. "Walk back in thirty for extra rations of grog."
"Make it rum, or a nice claret." Father set off again.
I laughed. "Pass the Château Margaux, me hearties? Mr. Stevenson would turn in his grave. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight..."
"Avast!" Father reached the end of the bars. "So tell me. Have we heard from that philandering brother of yours?"
"Not a word," I said. "Though to be fair, can you call it philandering if it's just the one woman?"
"Hah! You don't know the half of it. If I had a penny for every time I've had to rescue him from a brothel..."
I waited. Father looked at me and grinned broadly.
"I'd have a single shiny penny."
"I'm shocked! My brother? In a house of ill repute?"
Father turned round at the end of the parallel bars, a private smile on his face. "He was eight at the time. He'd wandered off and then followed someone he thought he'd recognised. The young ladies were very nice to him. Gave him cake and lemonade. Up until he was sixteen, he thought that was what people did in brothels."
"I shudder to ask. What happened on his sixteenth birthday?"
Father turned round again, frowned. "How many laps left?"
"Three."
Father set off again to the other end of the bars. "Someone told him. Illusions shattered, innocence lost."
"Not to mention money," I said. I was learning things about Carl that I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.
Father reached the other end. Two more. "Oh, I don't think he ever did get anything from a prostitute other than a glass of lemonade. I don't know how he did lose his innocence. For all I know this African girl, Fata... Fita..."
"Fatin," I said.
"Fatin, thank you. She may have been his first love."
Given our stay at boarding school, that was unlikely. Without going into unnecessary detail, neither of us came out with our virginity intact. Not that I particularly needed my father to know about that.
I kept my silence as Father walked the next-to-last lap. The strain was starting to show in his face. He had been expecting to be running round South-America months ago. Doctors trying to explain to him that the human body needs more time to recover and readjust, had unfairly been proven right. He was leaning on the supports more as he made his final run. As I got up to fetch his wheelchair for him, he shook his head, and insisted on walking to it himself. He almost completely succeeded in hiding the relief as he sat down and composed himself.
I had specially requested a wheelchair with smaller wheels, so he would not be tempted to propel himself with his weakened arm. I had also lied to him, saying this was the only chair available. I wheeled him to his room, a small but comfortable place containing a desk, a bed, bookshelves, everything a scientist needs to get work done. I put my arm round him, kissed his temple, and went my way.
If one thing is tonic for the mind, it's watching a classroom of enthusiastic girls hanging onto every word you say. Other teachers had to contend with slouching teen-agers, interested only in what you have to say because they would get exams on it. Not I. I had a secret weapon. In fact, I had a well-locked cupboard full of entirely not secret weapons. In the last Anglo-Prussian war, Algernon University had been a training ground for the Home Guard. These men, now old and grey, not to forget a few courageous women, had defended Ipswich Town from the invading armies using rifles that were out of date even then, and ingenuity. They had been honourably discharged at the end of the war, and gone on to live their lives, leaving only their rifles behind. For any military purpose, these rifles were completely useless. For our little club, they were perfect.
I had spent a vaguely nostalgic few evenings disassembling them all, checking them for rust and dirt, and re-oiling them. They were in remarkably good condition, having been used by people whose life might depend on them. I now had a dozen of them, with the promise of more where they came from. I had one of them lying on the table behind me. The almighty Porters had given me a stern talking-to on the subject of firearm safety and never to carry them around loaded. This was roughly on a par with them instructing a fireworks manufacturer that smoking on the job was strictly not permitted. Amazingly, Algernon University did have an outdoor shooting range, but it had fallen into disuse. The booths looked a bit decrepit, but the big mound of sand was still there. It would do.
I sat down on the desk, and looked at the girls. Sitting at the front, bright-eyed, was Florence, the girl I'd given a little practical sniping lesson just before leaving for Sudan, almost a year ago. Next to her sat her friend Jocelyn, dark-eyed, with long dark hair. Behind them sat Christa, Anna, and Carrie. Two desks behind them sat Linda Davenport, editor-in-chief of the Algernon Clarion, the student's newspaper. At a strategic distance, so as not to miss anything important, was Miss Rina Prescott, another reporter and illustrator. She was observing everything, notebook on her desk, pencil in hand, ready to record anything that happened for posterity. I honestly hadn't meant for this club to be girls only, but apparently, word had spread. Perhaps another little talk with Linda was in order. I gathered myself up.
"Ladies, welcome to the Algernon Rifle club. Who of you is ready to kill?"
Half a dozen jaws dropped, trying to work out whether this was a trick question. Which it was. I could see their eyes moving to their neighbours, trying to see if anyone would put their hands up. Finally, Miss Davenport raised a hand.
"Linda?"
"Who, or what, are you expecting us to kill, Miss Tennant?"
"Nothing, and nobody." I picked up a rifle from the table and held it up. "This rifle used to belong to Mrs. Dorothy Gray, member of the Ipswich Home Guard in the last War. It was an instrument of death. I believe it was responsible for the death of about six German soldiers. But its killing days are over. Now, it will be an instrument of learning. The art of marksmanship is primarily one of self control. Breathing, clarity of mind, clarity of eye. A steady hand."
I could see Rina starting to take notes. Undoubtedly, a full report would appear in the Clarion.
"Now the most important thing when handling firearms is... anyone?" I looked round the class.
Christa raised a hand. "Hit what you're aiming for?"
I shook my head, looked round.
"Um," said Florence. "Not shooting your friends?"
"Oh I'd never shoot you!" Jocelyn put her head on Florence's shoulder. "If I shoot you, who'll I copy Maths notes from?"
"Exactly," I said. "In fact, if even one of our bullets comes near another living being, this entire club is finished. These rifles are still quite capable of hurting people. Fire arms discipline." I raised the rifle. "Is this rifle safe?"
"No Miss," said Florence. "All weapons are considered loaded, to prevent accidents."
"Correct," I said. I removed the magazine from the rifle. "How about now?" I looked round the class. "Anna?"
"No Miss."
"Correct. Why not? Christa?"
"Guns are always loaded, Miss."
"I just took out the bullets. Surely now it's unloaded?"
Carrie raised a finger. My eye was drawn to the little silver ring she wore in her lower lip. I'd been told that there was a rule against students piercing their ears. Here was a girl with inventive ways of getting round the rules.
"There may be a round in the chamber," she said.
"Full marks." I pulled back the bolt and a cartridge leapt out. I caught it in my hand. I'd carefully prepared it myself. It had no primer, nor did it have any gunpowder in. Still, under the rules it would have been disallowed. I could justify it for educational purposes. I put it upright on the desk and pointed at the bolt.
"This is how you show a weapon empty. Bolt back, magazine out, safety on. And still you don't point it at people. When carrying, you point it at the floor."
Christa chuckled. "We are on the first floor, and these floors are made of wood. There may be people walking below us. Tough shit, suckers!"
I nodded sadly. "In that case, graduation was simply not to be. But joking aside." I looked round the class. "I don't care how high your score is. I don't even care if you are so spectacularly bad that you hit someone else's target. But fail on fire arm discipline once, and you are out of my class. I do not give warnings."
I put down the rifle, walked over to the board and picked up a piece of chalk. I wrote on the board.
"The firearms we have, are the Rifle, short, magazine, Lee-Enfield. Or SMLE." I looked over my shoulder. "Pronounced 'Smelly'. They were used in the last war, and actually are still in use throughout the world. Does anyone know why we call these things rifles?"
Carrie StJohn raised her hand. "Rifling, Miss. A spiral in the barrel that makes the bullet spin when it's fired."
"Correct. The bullets acually spin tremendously fast. This makes them behave like a gyroscope, increasing range and accuracy. In this case, about five hundred and fifty yards for an accomplished marksman. For comparison..." I picked up my own sniper rifle. "This is the Mauser SR-220. It has a much longer barrel, uses ammunition with a larger load of higher-grade gunpowder. It has a theoretical range of eighteen hundred meters. I've hit a target at a distance of two thousand and twenty." I looked round the class. "I got lucky."
There was a kind of hush, as the girls realised what I meant by 'Target'. I looked away. I shouldn't have said that. They were firing mortars at us at the time. I don't think I actually killed the man, but... I looked back at the class.
"And that's why I am here today," I said.
I took the girls through the procedures, what to do on a misfire, how to load a weapon, how to aim, how to fire. Then, we walked over to the gun cupboard, and each of the girls picked up a rifle. I picked up a box of ammunition, and with proper safety ritual, we made our way to the range. It was a bright sunny day, with only a little breeze. We set up our targets at twenty-five yards, ridiculously short for these rifles, but not the people behind the rifles. I could see that there was some difference between the girls. Jocelyn aimed carefully, pulled the trigger and gave a little shriek, of delight no doubt. Carrie was keeping a nice steady rhythm. I looked at her target, and saw she'd definitely held a rifle before. Christa was in the next booth over, clearly enjoying the noise, though not paying much attention to where the bullets ended up. Closest to me stood Linda, one eye screwed shut, aiming, aiming, though not actually firing.
"Hey Linda," I said. "Are you going to fire anytime soon?"
"Yeah."
She kept aiming. I could see the rifle weaving back and forth. She was far too tense for an accurate shot.
"Come on Linda. Just make it go boom."
"I'm gonna miss."
I laughed. "Of course you are. Nobody hits the bullseye on their first try."
"Be lucky if I hit the target."
"Well get on with it then."
Linda pulled the trigger. A hole appeared in the top right corner of the target. Could have been worse. Linda sighed.
"Right. Close your eyes a moment. Take a deep breath. Now breathe out."
Linda did, then looked at me.
"Good. Now take a deep breath, hold it, then aim above the bullseye." Linda did as I said. "Good. Now squeeze the trigger, but don't pull it yet."
The rifle went off with a big bang. I gave Linda a smile.
"Alright, cycle and try again. A little less squeeze."
Linda pulled back the bolt then pushed it forward. Then, she took a breath, aimed, and put her finger on the trigger.
"Good. Now let out your breath, and at the same time lower the rifle. When you're on the target, pull the trigger."
The rifle went off, and she got a three out of ten. A little to the top and right.
"Very good. Now do it again. Aim for the bullseye. See where the bullet ends up."
Her next shot ended up a little bit below the previous one.
"Keep going."
Linda put a hole a bit to the right of the first two. Not bad at all.
"Very good. Now reload and keep trying."
She removed the magazine and started putting in five more bullets.
"I'm not hitting the target," she said.
"That's to be expected. There may be a slight misadjustment in the sight, the barrel may be a fraction of an inch off. Even my Mauser doesn't fire exactly true. What you are looking for is tight grouping. Consistency is the first resort for a sniper. Look at what Christa is doing." I pointed. "Clearly, she's having fun, but she's all over the place. Carrie is keeping her shots nice and tight. Rina isn't doing as well, but still good. So is Florence. Jocelyn..." I looked over. She was popping off shots as fast as she could, with predictable results.
"Never mind Jocelyn. Now you fire off a few more series. Then if you keep them nice and close, then you compensate. Aim a bit below and to the left. Got it?"
Linda nodded. She clicked the magazine in and chambered a round.
"Remember. Breathe, hold, pfffft, boom."
I watched Linda fire off a few more rounds, then wandered over to where Jocelyn was still rapid-firing through her ammo at an alarming rate.
"Hey. It's not a race, you know?"
"Aww!" Her bubbly enthusiasm almost made her bounce. "I'm providing cover fire! They say that in a firefight, only one in a hundred bullets hits a target."
"Not for us, they don't. We're snipers. Every shot counts. We don't spray bullets like crazy."
"That's alright," said Jocelyn. "I'm not crazy. I'm sure I've got that written down somewhere."
"Good to know," I said. "Want to learn how to actually hit the target?"
"Sure!"
When all the targets started running out of places without holes, I called cease fire, and all the girls made an exemplary show of unloading, showing empty and stepping back. We replaced our targets with fresh ones, then did another round. By the end of the afternoon, all the silliness had drained away and the girls were all actually trying to hit the bullseye, with various measures of success. Carrie was the best, and I made a note to put her target further away next time. I pulled out my watch, saw it was hurrying towards dinnertime, and called quits. Florence walked up to me.
"Miss Tennant?"
"Yes Florence?"
"We haven't seen you shoot, Miss. Could you show us how it is done?"
I looked at her a moment, then picked up my rifle. I hadn't actually fired it since I came back from Africa. I put a cartridge in the magazine, chambered the round. We'd taken away the targets, and I looked round for something to shoot at. About a half-mile away stood a small chapel, disused and overgrown with bramble. On the top of the tower was a rusty weather vane. Behind it were only fields, empty after the harvest. No chance of hitting any innocent people. I set my sight for eight-hundred meters, I closed my eyes a moment, then planted my feet firmly on the ground, and aimed. At the merest touch of the trigger, my rifle fired, and the weathervane spun as the bullet hit it. Through the scope, I saw that I had hit the sheet metal flag a few inches to the left of the middle. The girls cheered, but it was a bad shot, even from a standing position. I had to keep practicing. The only thing worse than being a killer was to be a sloppy killer. Doing it right meant your target wouldn't even hear the shot. Doing it wrong meant unnecessary suffering.
I took my rifle apart, quickly brushed out the barrel, and put it in its case, snapped the locks.
"Come on, ladies. I could use a cup of tea."
Carrying our rifles, we walked back to the University.
Unnecessary suffering is not what we want.
Philip Tennant: The pursuit of dreams
Barnaby's dream - A star to steer her by - A very complicated road to Hell - Going nowhere fast
Having ascertained from the less than enthusiastic reports of my children Carl and Alexandra that what they were teaching them at E___ would only rot their brains beyond repair, I took them out of school and set about educating them myself. I heartily recommend it. It does, of course, require that one has a circle of friends that include the intellectual giants of our time, and quite a lot of money, but the end result is well worth the effort. While children at home were taught about the East-Indies by a bored teacher rattling of the Bali, Lombok, Sumbawa, Flores, Timor..., my children were sailing past the places that have brought the English Empire riches beyond the dreams of avarice. It is one thing to be taught about the Golden Age, but quite another to meet the people we stole all these things from, and experience first-hand what their opinions are on the subject.
-- Philip Tennant, "Parenting for explorers"
"They did it, Tennant. They did it, and they did it first!"
Those were the words that would govern my life for the next couple of decades or so. They were spoken by a dear old friend of mine, and quite a batty one. At the time, I was completely taken in by his words. I saw the African ships, sails aloft, plow the endless waves of the Atlantic ocean, until they struck land on the eastern shores of South America. And what could be easier to prove? Simply record all the anthropological data on the African mainland, then cross the Atlantic Ocean and find the matching architecture, religion, languages there. That would teach those smug Scandinavians who claimed that they discovered America long before the other Europeans did. Their most heroic deeds duplicated by mere savages. I found a scientific vessel bound for Africa, put wife and children on it, and began the adventure.
Helped by Iris' meticulous record-keeping, we painstakingly documented each and every aspect of the life of the West-african tribes. We learnt how hides for their huts were cured and prepared. We learnt what knots were used to tie them together, how the Africans built boats, how they prepared food for long trips.
We learnt of a dozen religions practiced within the tribes, from the most basic ancestor worship to the most elaborate creation myths. We learnt how the Builder of the World made first the raffia for the skirts of the women, then the cloth for the loins of the men, then the huts. Which seems like the strangest of stories until one realises that a string of raffia is one-dimensional, cloth is two-dimensional, and the huts have length, height and width.
Unfortunately, we also learnt that the Africans, whatever religion they may follow, are also subject to greed, envy and wrath. Deep within the forests of what we now call Angola, we were attacked by bandits, and my dear wife Iris was fatally wounded. We were relentlessly pursued, almost up to the very shores. That I had to leave her, buried in a quickly dug grave, under the very eyes of my children, is still the greatest of my failures. By rights, it should have been me buried by the Kasai river, and not her. I could not bear to put my children at risk, and when we met a ship on its return trip to England, I put my children on it, with instructions to my friends to put them in a good boarding school. I still hold that educating one's own children is the best thing to do, if one can manage it. On that occasion, I learnt that I, to my shame, could not.
Once I thought I had gathered enough data so that I could recognise even the slightest trace of African influence in any building, I set off for South America on board of a steam clipper. I spent most of my time in my cabin, collating my materials, writing, drawing, with a passion that I had never before shown. I did some of my best work trying with all my might to displace from my mind the one thought that I did not want to dwell on. We had a quick crossing, and we landed in the city of Macapá, known as the Capital of the Middle of the World. Since we were planning to sail up the Amazon river, we had to say goodbye to our steam vessel, and board a much smaller steamer.
As a warning to the reader, please note that I have changed the location and name of the city of Anctapolepl in my descriptions. God willing, by following the directions here, the traveller will find no more than South-America's stunningly beautiful jungles that I sadly will never visit again. The actual location of this cursed city has been added to Algernon University's list of places where it is inadvisable to go. -- P.T.
The Amazon river is a wide, meandering body of water that connects untold numbers of civilisations. It is the artery of the South Americas, and has been ever since Man learnt to stay afloat on top of a tree trunk. Our little steamer lazily made its way upstream, till we came to the Rio Jari, which branches off to the North where the Amazon continues South. Personally, I would have much preferred to keep following the Amazon, being a larger body of water. Speculative African settlers would have been much more likely follow the larger river. However, we were not the only expedition on board, and we shared our vessel with a party of botanists who were looking for new and exotic species of plants, perhaps with medicinal applications.
Frankly, I was bored with this part of the journey, and with boredom came the risk of dwelling too much on Iris' death. More or less for that reason, I disembarked at the first likely town along the river, hired a band of bearers and two guides, and set off into the jungles to look for African influences in the language, culture, or architecture. I marvel now at the naive stupidity I displayed then, but truth be told, even if anyone had pointed this fact out to me, I very much doubt if I would have listened. A dangerous mood had come upon me. I no longer cared. If I found anything, good. If not, then the simple act of staying alive in the South American wilderness would be enough to distract me. An even more dangerous thought preyed on my mind. What if I did not survive? Suicide is a mortal sin, and I would be denied Heaven because of it, but surely, to sacrifice oneself in the cause of Science would be the noblest of acts? Would the Almighty be fooled by such a subterfuge?
I am ashamed to say that in that dark place, I never even thought of my children. They had been well provided for, and in my folly, I thought that would be enough. As I write these words, my son Carl is studying the ways of a certain tribe in Africa, in the most intimate way imaginable. My daughter Alexandra is teaching young girls how to fire rifles straight and true, and is nursing me back to such health as I can still achieve. Had the events developed differently, I would never have known about this.
I need not say much about our travels through the Amazonian jungle. We did not find any actual Amazons, for the sufficient reasons that first, they are said to have lived in the Middle East, and second, they sprung, bows raised in anger, from the fantasy of Herodotus. Our expedition consisted of five white men, and a contingent of a dozen or so of natives. They were a procrastinating, sullen lot of superstitious individuals, but they were the best we could find. With my mind troubled as it was, it was no surprise that our expedition fared badly. One of my companions was taken by a crocodile as he filled his water bottle in a stream. Another fell, broke his leg, and had to be transported back to civilisation by half of our bearers. I never saw or heard of him again, and it is likely that the scoundrels we had hired simply sliced his throat, threw his body to the crocodiles, and went their way. Of the three of us left, one took ill with a fever, and the other then decided he had had enough, and turned back carrying his stricken comrade. I should have gone with them. One can always mount another expedition, but not from beyond the grave. Foolishly, I decided to press on, with the last native guide and two bearers. My companions were giving me dark looks, and spoke among themselves in their native tongue of Nahuatl. I took to sleeping in the open, with a loaded revolver in my hand under the blanket, with one eye open.
But then, it seemed that my perseverance paid off. As we hacked our way out of a dense piece of jungle, we came upon pillars carved into the very mountainside, a cave entrance between them. With my machete, I cut off a tree branch, wrapped it with cloth, dipped it in oil, and set it aflame. I could see at a glance that this was no African architecture at all. From my studies of South and Meso American architecture, this could be Aztec. After all these months, the hunger for exploration struck me once more, and I and my reluctant companions walked slowly up the stairs. There were no traps, of course. I don't know what ignorant person first infected his audience with the notion that elaborate mechanical traps will keep functioning after decades of neglect, and never run out of darts to shoot the unwary explorer. Even curare loses its potency after a few days in the open air. I suppose it lends a bit of drama to an otherwise quite boring discovery of Earth-shattering proportions. As we climbed the stairs into the mountain, we saw in the distance the gleam of daylight. Soon, we found ourselves in a large field, surrounded by high mountains, almost as if we were in the belly of a volcano. In the middle was a pyramid, not with flat sides like those of the Egyptians, but in stages, like a staircase built for giants. In the middle of the pyramid were steps of human size, leading all the way up to the top.
With eager steps, I climbed the stairs. At the top was a small square hut made of stone. I entered, torch held aloft, followed by my native guides. Inside, we found an altar. Carved into the wall opposite the entrance was an image of a man wearing a feathered headdress. The paint on this idol looked as fresh as the day it had been made. In his right hand was a staff or club with what I took to be a serpent's head, in his left a shield. From behind a dark mask, a single eye looked at us. My guide took a deep breath, then pointed at the statue with a trembling finger, and shouted the name that I will forever remember with dread.
"Huitzilopochtli! Huitzilopochtli! Huitzilopochtli!"
With that, he turned round, and would have stormed out if I had not grabbed him by his neck and dragged him back.
"You idiot! Where do you think you are going?"
Moving fast as a cat, the guide pulled himself free from my grasp. He screamed at me in Nahuatl, repeating the name of Huitzilopochtli several times. Little did I know then what terror that name still held. I could see the guide shake uncontrollably as he searched his mind for what little English he had.
"Blood!" he yelled.
"There is nobody here!" I yelled back. "All gone! All dead!"
"We leave! We leave now!"
He turned round to run away, but I leapt upon the altar in the middle and fired my revolver into the air. A rage of madness had taken me. I would not let these foolish superstitions stand in the way of a historical discovery that would set me among the great. I pointed it at my native helpers.
"You leave, you die!"
You should not fire weapons into the air. People may think that bullets disappear after firing unless you aim them at something, but of course they don't, and will usually end up hitting something or someone you did not want to hit. There was a cracking sound above me, and rocks came tumbling down, hitting me on the head. If I had not been wearing my pith helmet, I would not be here today. As it was, I was knocked off my feet, and down the stairs. Down and down I fell, until I landed on a terrace at the base of the temple. I would later learn that this was called the apetlatl. A heavy rock came rolling down the stairs after me and landed on my leg, crushing it and pinning me to the floor. I screamed. Obscenities, curses, pleas. Nobody answered. As I lay in the dark, I saw a light come towards me. For a moment I thought it was my guide, coming to help me. But I soon saw the light was moving too fast for that. It was only the torch that he had thrown after me. It landed on its hot end and went out. I tried to pull myself out from under the rock, but the pain almost made me faint. In the distance, I could hear the natives' disappearing steps. Somehow, during my tumble down the stairs, I had managed to hold on to my revolver. I considered putting it to my temple and firing to stop the pain. But that would be to falter at the very last moment. With a snarl, I threw the revolver away. I closed my eyes.
"Iris," I whispered, once. Then, I lost consciousness.
I woke up. That in itself was unexpected. To wake up in a bed was even stranger. To wake up while a beautiful woman, dressed in rich garments, with gold in her ears and round her neck, was changing the bandage on my leg, was beyond belief. Though having my leg seen to was very welcome, because it hurt, especially my foot. The woman saw I was awake, spoke a few kind words in Nahuatl, and offered me a cup with a cool bitter drink. As I sipped it, I felt a numbness spread through my body and I sank back into a vague slumber. The pain in my foot lessened. The woman smiled, took the cup from me and put it on a side table. She looked into my eyes, spoke a few more words and returned to her work on my knee. Curious to see what she was doing, I looked up. My breath stuck in my throat. I had felt the pain in my foot, but that could not be. I had no right foot. I had no lower right leg. My leg ended at my knee. The woman heard me gasp. She put her hand on my shoulder, and pressed me back down onto the bed, speaking softly. She continued removing the bandage from the stump of my leg. I steeled myself, and looked at it. As far as I could tell, it had been tended to with all the needed skill. I could see about a dozen stitches made from some sort of plant fiber. I noted precise details such as the specific knots used to tie the stitches, the way the ends had been cut off, the way the skin had been folded under my knee... I realise now that I was cataloguing these things simply to distract myself from the fact that I no longer had a lower leg. I started laughing at the notion that I would save money on shoes. I watched the woman's necklace and gold earrings so intently that even now I could close my eyes and see them before me, draw them in every detail. The woman wound a fresh bandage round my knee, in precise tight windings, four layers of a coarse linen cloth soaked in an antiseptic mixture of herbs that I could smell, a curious combination of silt and bitter. She finished her work, then pulled a blanket over me. Then, she put her hand under my head and gave me more medicine to drink. I remember smiling at her, and her smiling back. She picked up her things, and left. Just before sleep took me, I started to shake as distractions failed.
I no longer had a right leg.
God help me, my leg is gone.
Carl Tennant: On the horns of the gods
Water make the river - River wash the mountain - Fire make the sunlight - Turn the world around
As I write these words, I must resist the urge to make life in the Ajuru tribe sound like a paradise. I and the Ajuru tribe have been lucky all things considered, but no life is without the pain and sorrow that makes the brightness more pronounced, and colours the memories in a gentle glow. What I remember most fondly about my time with them, are the late evenings discussing everything and nothing while sipping tea. My dark memories are those where I saw friends suffer and die from things that back in England would be cured with medicine and a few weeks bedrest. Which society is better, I honestly cannot say. Both have much to recommend themselves. If I were to describe a perfect world, it would have the mind of the Western world, and the heart of Africa.
-- Carl Tennant, "My life with the Ajuru"
As it turned out, the river people had brought us a surprise. A massive fish - some kind of sturgeon. It was carried ashore on a wooden stretcher by four of the river men. With a little effort, one man alone could probably have carried it out, but there's no harm in a little theatre. They had already gutted it, and it was ready to be put on the fire for tonight's festivities. They carried it over to the fire pit and with proper ceremony handed it over to the women. Despite being land dwellers, they knew exactly what to do with a fish, even that size. They cut steaks out of its flanks, wrapped them in leaves with some herbs and fruit, then put the packages in holes in the ground, adding stones heated in the fire. They filled up the holes with earth to trap the heat. A simple but very effective way of cooking. When first the tribe came to this place, the men had constructed an oven out of mud bricks. When the tribe would move on, in perhaps a few months or so, it would be smashed, and the pieces returned to the river on the principle that you should leave your campsite as you find it.
The Ajuru were rich in traditions, habits and rituals. The first bread baked in a new oven was fed to the creatures in the river, so that they might return the favour and feed the tribe. A successful hunt was celebrated with hauntingly beautiful chants from the hunters. Building a new camp, then accepting it as their home for the duration of a few moons, was an event for the spirit almost as much as it was for the body. And of course, meeting old friends again was cause for much celebration.
The Ajuru met the river people roughly twice every year, at different places on the White Nile. The river people had truly made the river their home, with most of their diet being fish. They would provide fish products. Oils. A very useful glue made by boiling the skin and bones of fish. A fish sauce that provided a wonderful flavour to meat dishes despite smelling foul. For their part, the Ajuru would provide dried meat, dried fruits, root vegetables gathered from the forest, rope made from plant fibres, and other things that one needs to stay ashore for.
Let it not be said that African tribal people do not know how to enjoy themselves. There were foot races, in which I was hopelessly outclassed by the hunters, though faster than most of the fishermen. There were archery contests, where I managed not to make a complete fool of myself, and wrestling matches, which were without a doubt my speciality because of my training in various martial arts. Unsurprisingly, the river people had an impressive upper body strength, and I had to use the techniques my dear sister used to use on me.
For those of us who preferred a more relaxing kind of competition, there was a curious game played on a game board with twelve small cups and two larger ones, in which small nuts were passed round until one side ran out of pieces to play. Fatin was amazingly good at this game, and beat me with a cruel ease. There were groups of people telling stories, catching up with the news and the goings-on in places far away. There were several people discreetly vanishing out of earshot for some private discussions. There was lots of food. We didn't keep to any set mealtimes, but simply ate when hungry.
Night fell, and we gathered round the fire pit for music and dance. I sat on the ground clutching a cup of something bittersweet and fermented, while the river people sang their songs, accompanied by the Ajuru's wooden instruments. There was one dance with Odawaa wearing some kind of headdress that looked like horns, upon which balanced a round bundle of cloth. In front of him sat his wife Kinsi, and they looked at each other intently, with Kinsi gently swaying to the beat of the music. All round Odawaa, men and women danced. Men growling at him, leaping at him with wildly exaggerated aggression, threatening him with spears, and women shamelessly offering their bodies to him, their fingers roaming Odawaa's body, though never actually touching. I was shocked, shocked, I tell you, to see my beloved Fatin, belly round like the world, joining in the attempts to distract Odawaa from his wife. Faster and faster went the music, until suddenly, at a particularly savage spear thrust from Elder Hanad, Odawaa looked away for a moment. The music stopped in that very instant, and someone threw a heavy rock into the fire pit, making a rain of sparks fly up. Geedi returned from the fire pit with a big grin on his face, put down his spear and sat down next to me. I handed him a cup of brew.
"What was that all about?"
Geedi drank, wiped his mouth. "Ancient legend," he said. "The world is balanced on the head of a bull, and in front of him is his beautiful cow. As long as the bull looks at the cow, the world is at peace, in balance. Look away, and earthquakes and storms happen."
I laughed. "Well for God's sake then, stop distracting him!"
"What, and miss looking at all these beautiful women? And these beautiful women to miss looking at fine hunters such as myself?" Geedi thumped his chest. He started to say something, but we were rather rudely interrupted by Fatin, who put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me onto my back. She flopped down on top of me.
"Go away, Geedi. I need my man for something."
"We were speaking about important things, woman! Be off with you!"
Fatin turned her eyes to Geedi. "At the other end of the fire is a river girl named Binti. She asked me if you had a woman. I said no." She grinned. "She looked happy to hear it."
Geedi looked over, and without another word got up and disappeared. Fatin turned back to me. I put my arms round her and kissed her.
"So. Have you forgiven me for being stupid?"
Fatin closed her eyes and put her head on my shoulder. I could feel her hand straying down.
"No," she said, with a smile. "But I don't need you to be clever right now."
Nobody got up early the next morning. The day was bright. Slowly, people began to make breakfast out of last night's leftovers. The river people packed up their things and put them in the boat. The hunters and Elder Hanad took Elder Ramaas to his boat. He was the last to get on board. We pushed them off, and the boat turned. With a final wave, they sailed off down the river. We looked at them till they disappeared round the bend, then turned back to camp. Elder Hanad called the group to order.
"These river people have eaten up all the food. We need to go out hunting again, and maybe find some yams and bread-fruit. Odawaa, please see to it." Hanad looked at the camp, where his wife Dhuuxo was organising a sweep to remove all evidence of last night's extravagant debauchery. He looked up at the sky. "Wind is changing," he said. "May it bring good things."
I returned to my tent to pick up the things I'd need to go out hunting. I had made a bow and arrows, preferring to leave my rifle in my trunk for special occasions. Fatin came into the tent, looking annoyed, and carrying a big water-tight basket she had just emptied into the river. Luckily, she didn't get sick very often. I put my hand on her shoulder, smiled at her.
"Go away," she said. "Not feeling well."
"Get well soon," I said. "I'm out hunting with Odawaa."
She took a deep breath, and forced a smile. "Good hunting, my love."
Today, we were hunting monkeys. I must admit that to my Western eyes, monkeys looked a bit too much like people to eat them, but then again, once prepared, meat is simply meat. Obsiye looked annoyed as he looked up into the trees for prey, rolling a blow dart between his fingers.
"Hunting late. Never good. The monkeys are laughing at us, hiding."
"Then look better," said Odawaa.
Nuune, the other hunter, looked down and pointed. "Ah. Some good roots. If Obsiye's eyes fail him, at least we eat."
Nuune, Geedi and I kneeled down and started digging up the yam roots. Raw, they are perfectly horrible, but steamed in leaves, the yams can be used much in the same way potatoes are in England. Geedi gathered them up and put them in a bag.
"I don't know why you are so glum," he said, eyes shining. "I had an excellent hunt last night."
I laughed. "I was at a campfire once. And the men were showing off, one of them jumps up and says, my woman and I make love every night! And another says, that is good. My woman and I only make love every other night. What about you?"
Geedi and Nuune looked at me. I continued.
"So the third man looks glum, and says, my woman only comes to me every moon. Still, it is better than nothing." I looked from one hunter to the other. "So the last man jumps up, arms in the air, and shouts. Every six moons! My woman comes to me every six moons! And the others say, only once every six moons? Why are you so happy about that?"
Geedi and Nuune stared at me, waiting. I thumped Geedi's shoulder.
"So he says, because tonight is the night!"
Geedi and Nuune burst out laughing. Obsiye looked at us over his shoulder.
"Will you idiots keep it quiet?"
"No," said Nuune. "Cheer up will you?"
Despite Obsiye's misgivings, we managed to bring down a few monkeys. Monkey and yam. The local variant on fish and chips. We came to a grassy clearing by a water hole. As good a place for lunch as any. We sat down at the foot of a tree and chewed dried meat and flat bread. We lapsed into a mild brooding silence, until I saw a small deer-like creature walk up to the water to drink. It was smaller than a kudu, probably a gazelle. I picked up my bow, fitted an arrow, drew back, aimed. There was a sudden noise, and the deer, startled, turned round and disappeared in a flash. I looked up to see Obsiye glaring at me. He was the one who had clapped his hands and scared off the deer.
"We have enough, Lion-feeder. Do not take more than you can eat."
Geedi sniffed. "I could have eaten that, Obsiye. So could several folk in camp."
I put away my bow and arrow, and said nothing. Of all the Ajuru, Obsiye was still the only one who was openly hostile towards me. I never had figured out why. Nuune got up.
"Let's get back to camp. Daylight is running short."
Odawaa led us back to the river, and started to follow it upstream to camp. We had walked for about an hour or so, with maybe a few minutes more to go, when Odawaa suddenly stood still, listening. We all looked at him for a few moments. Geedi frowned.
"What do you hear, Odawaa?"
"I hear nothing." Odawaa's jaw set as he looked at us. "Nothing at all. No children playing. No voices. No noises of work. Nothing."
As though a switch had been thrown, he sped off in the direction of camp. At the very edge of the forest, he knelt down, watching. I could see him turn pale under his brown skin. I looked. In the camp, everyone was gathered in the middle, where the fire pit had been, sitting quietly, looking at their feet. All round the camp nothing was moving. Odawa raised himself to his full height, and walked into the clearing. We followed him. As we approached, we could hear the soft distressed noises people make when they are too scared to scream.
Odawaa walked up to Elder Hanad. He was sporting an impressive bruise on his face, and one of his eyes was closed. I looked round the group. Nobody else seemed to be seriously hurt. But where was Fatin?
"Too many of them," said Elder Hanad. "Too many men. Not enough women."
Using the supplies in my trunk, I had seen to Elder Hanad's bruises. The camp was a sad sight. All the young girls, Odawaa's wife Kinsi, the girl who had helped Fatin when she was sick. I'd given some of them rides on my shoulders, wild with laughter. All gone.
Fatin was gone. My wife. The mother of my child. Taken like so much cattle, to replenish the stock of a tribe that had not been as careful with its women as we had. Hanad's wife Dhuuxo was still here, because she was old and of no use to them.
I could feel my sadness, my fear, slowly hardening, settling into a burning anger. Nobody, nobody does such a thing to me. I stepped back into my empty tent and got out my rifle, my machete, and two revolvers. I loaded them all, put them on my belt and on my back. For the first time in months, I put on a shirt. I put on my helmet. I didn't know why, but it felt to me like strapping on armour, or perhaps painting my face with war colours. I went outside again, and walked up to Elder Hanad.
"Let's go."
Elder Hanad looked at me, his eyes sad. Then, he shook his head.
"We cannot defeat them. There are several dozen men in their camp. We are only..." Hanad took a shivering breath, not wanting to count who was still there. "Few."
I closed my eyes a moment. "What will happen to them, Elder Hanad? What will happen to Fatin? Kinsi? To Filsan? Gacal?"
"They will be given husbands. They will live with them and bear their children. Their children will never know that their mother did not want to come, and be as happy as they can be."
"What will happen to my son? Tell me, Elder."
Hanad looked up at me. "He will be the first born into that tribe. His light skin will be seen as a good sign."
"No Elder." I was shaking with rage. "That is not what will happen. We will find them, and we will bring them back. What I have to do to make that happen, I will do."
Elder Hanad jumped up and grabbed my shoulders. "Do you think that my heart tells me any different? I would rain fire and death upon them if I could! But they are too many for us! If we try and fail, then they will come back and kill us all! Even if we try and succeed, they will be back. They have done what they did, not because they are evil, but because they must! They have lost their women to disease and accident. They must have ours as the lion must kill in order to see the next morning. There is nothing that we can do."
I looked round the group.
"I am going to find our women, and bring them back. And it will go ill with any who tries to stop me. Who will come with me?"
I looked at the faces round me. One by one, they looked away. I realise now that these men were not cowards. They simply recognised a superior force, and acted according to wisdom. I knew things that they did not. I had firepower. I had my weapons. I had my anger. Still, did I act any wiser than they did? I still cannot say. I rolled my shoulders, and walked off into the forest.
I hadn't walked for more than two minutes when I heard footsteps next to me. I looked round, and to my surprise, next to me walked Obsiye. A contemptuous sneer was on his face.
"You are going the wrong way, Lion-feeder. Have you learnt nothing of tracking? This is where we go."
I looked at his back as he turned round. I hesitated a moment, but I had no choice but to follow him.
"Why are you helping me?"
Obsiye looked at me angrily. "My future wife is among those women. I will not let the M'bari have her. Why do you think I am helping you, Feeder-of-lions?"
There was nothing more to be said. He led me straight and true. The trails were easy to see for him, at least. After an hour's march, Obsiye stopped. As I strained my ears, I could hear human voices, talking loudly, laughing. A cold hand clutched inside my chest as I could hear higher pitched voices screaming. Obsiye and I slowed down, sneaking up on the strangers' camp. A fire was burning, recklessly wasteful of wood. Our women were sitting on the ground, cowed, watched over by guards. In the firelight, two of their men were fighting, wrestling. I realised with dread what they were fighting over. They had taken only seven of our women. There were at least fifteen men. The winner would get... I looked at the row of our women. Fatin was sitting at the very end. Her hands were tied behind her back like the others.
As I watched, one of the fighters held down his opponent until he admitted defeat. With a big grin, he stood up, raising his arms. Then, he walked over to the women. They all looked away. He grabbed the chin of one of them, made her look up. Then, he laughed, and grabbed the girl next to her by an arm. This one. He pulled her to her feet and dragged her away as two new wrestlers started. Obsiye crawled backwards, went round. I followed him. The poor girl was screaming as her new "husband" pulled her away from the crowd, then dropped her on the ground. He never got to explain to her what he was going to do as Obsiye sprang forward with a rock in his hand and knocked him senseless with a loud snap. I bent down to the girl and cut her bonds with my machete. I grinned at Obsiye.
"And do that seven times, then we go home."
Obsiye glared. "Be quiet."
We returned to the fire just in time to see a bout end, and the winner picking Kinsi out of the row. Kinsi did not go quietly. She screamed at him, spat, kicked. The man held her at arm's length for a while, then shook her, punched her in the stomach, then screamed at her. He grabbed her throat, then pulled her away and pushed her to the ground, well within the circle of light. There was no way to repeat our earlier attack. The time for stealth had passed. I took my rifle from my back, and as the man raised his fist to punch Kinsi again, I pulled the trigger. He stiffened, then fell down dead on top of her. Kinsi cried out, and rolled out from under him as I put my rifle on my back again and pulled out both my revolvers.
It wasn't a fight. It was a massacre. At first, the M'bari ran towards me, spears held aloft. I fired my pistols, and at every shot, one of them fell. I roared! I exulted in the feeling of power bestowed on me by my invincible weapons. Every man was a valid target. Every man was an enemy. Every man deserved to die for what they would do to our women. By the time I fired the last round from my revolvers. holstered them, and grabbed my rifle, they were running. A few of them escaped, but I felt no need to pursue them. They were nothing.
I pray that some day, I may be forgiven for what I did that evening.
We gathered all the women and sent them ahead of us, guarding their rear against further attacks. Fatin was walking next to Kinsi, both of them supporting each other. Fatin hadn't looked me in the eye. Her shoulders were hunched. I could only guess what had happened to any of them. Had we been in time to save them all?
Obsiye walked next to me. He grinned at me, and I grinned back.
"Are you feeling good about yourself, Lion-feeder?"
"We got them all out," I said. "Tonight, they sleep in their own beds, with their own men. I call that good."
Obsiye laughed. "Not all of them, Lion-feeder. But she will. She will."
"What?"
"Who do you think I came for? My brother's wife? One of the little girls? I know them from before they could hold up their shit."
I gave him a strange look.
"Lion-feeder, I came with you for Fatin. She will be my woman when you are gone. She was going to be my woman before you walked into our camp and put your cursed child in her. For what you have done tonight, Elder Hanad will throw you out. Fatin will be very sad for a while, but I will comfort her. And I will raise that bastard child of you like the piece of rot it is. Maybe it'll die when it is young. Most of them do."
Obsiye picked up his pace and went to the front of the group.
I honestly didn't know what to think, or what to say.
Alexandra Tennant: Shooting is too good for them
Memories better left behind - More members for the rifle club - Not meant for my ears - Safe in our own beds
I have shot and killed fourteen men at the time I write this. I am, among other things, an expert sniper, so it is likely that number will increase. I have never killed a woman, and I hope I never will. Why killing a woman is worse than killing a man, I cannot say for certain. Surely, the reasons for killing would have to be as valid one way or the other. I suppose it all stems from the fact that women are the ones to bring forth new life. That is why they are protected, especially during the nine months of their pregnancy when they are most vulnerable. Even now, in our society, civilised away from the harsh realities of nature, men are expected to make great sacrifices for women, and only violence against a child is judged more harshly than violence against a woman. An outdated hierarchy that is nonetheless deeply ingrained in the human psyche, and is showing no signs of going away.
-- Alexandra Tennant, "Decisions on the spot"
I took my father back from his physical therapy to his room. The old lady who cleaned our rooms had just finished, and she looked at us suspiciously, as though we were only going to make the room dirty again just after she'd left. She muttered some inaudible words in a language neither I nor Father had ever heard. It could be anything from 'Enjoy your nice clean room,' to 'You pale-faced pigs are disgusting, and who has to clean it all up?' She closed the door behind her. She might be a few stitches short of a tapestry, but I couldn't deny that the room was spotless. Father sat down on his desk chair, He was busy typing up the manuscript of his reports about the Meso-american city of Anctapolepl. He was being uncharacteristically secretive about the whole affair, and never even let me look at any of his notes, even though I could have type-written his manuscript faster than he could with his mangled arm. His walking was slowly but steadily improving. He could walk from one end of the gymnasium to the other using only a cane. He now fitted and removed his metal leg in front of me without a second thought. He handed the prosthetic to me to hold while he changed his trousers.
"I'm really quite impressed with this leg, my dear. Your large friend did a marvellous job. My deformity didn't even bother him. You have to admit you were turning green when you first saw it."
I smiled. "I don't think Andrew can be bothered by things like that. He has a strange mind."
"He is a machine," said Father. His eye was fixed on the metal leg in my hands. "He has no human feelings, but metal devices are his brothers and sisters."
I looked away, into the distance. "I don't think that is true," I said. "I saw him help a young girl in Africa. He does have some compassion. He just seems to be unable to express it."
"You know him better than I do," said Father. "Well, I have work to do. Put my leg in the leg stand and get out of here."
Father unlocked and opened his desk and pulled out his notes. I saw a drawing of a woman in splendid clothes. Father, Carl, and I all had some talent for drawing, though not as much as Mother had. I could see that Father had paid special attention to this drawing. Her face was very detailed, and beautiful.
"Who is that?"
Father looked round, startled that I was still there. He turned the page over quickly.
"Oh, nobody. One of the heathen priestesses in the city." He frowned. "Don't you have some female assassins to train?"
"I do," I said. "In about half an hour. What's her name?"
"I don't know. I just saw her and made the picture." He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and put it in the typewriter. Father bent down over the keys, and I turned round to leave.
"She's dead," he said, quietly. I didn't know if he intended for me to hear it.
I was on my way to the classroom where I taught my girls to assassinate people, when a boy walked up to me. I gave him a smile. I swear his face turned darker.
"How may I help you?"
"Um..." he hesitated. "I hear that there's still some places left in the rifle classes. Can I..."
"Of course. What's your name?"
"Bert, Miss. Bertram Greenford." He pointed behind him. "That's Nigel. He also wants to join."
"The more the merrier," I said. "I'm going to need consent forms from your parents, but I can give you the introductions if I supervise you throughout. Are either of you Quakers or Amish?"
One of the girls who had wanted to join had come from a devout Quaker family, staunch pacifists who would never allow their daughter even to touch a firearm. I could see trouble brewing in that family, but there was nothing I could do about that.
"No miss," said Nigel. "C of E both."
The Church of England has been disparagingly referred to as more of a social club than a place of worship. I wasn't a regular churchgoer, but I was still a member in spirit. It was founded in the late sixth century by Augustine of Canterbury, at the orders of Pope Gregory the First, and remained Roman Catholic until King Henry the Eighth, having been denied a request to an annullment of his marriage by the Pope, declared himself the supreme head of the Church of England, told the Pope to get lost, and had his marriage annulled regardless. I suppose that was all for the better, given the fate of some of his wives. The Anglican Church remains to this day an eminently sensible and practical organisation, not given to excesses. More importantly, they were unlikely to protest these boys firing rifles at paper targets. Which was all I needed to know.
"Very well," I said. "Follow me."
"Oh hello Nigel!" Jocelyn waved. I might have imagined it, but it looked like she was leaning forward a little more than usual. And had taken a deep breath. "Are you joining us?"
The poor boy could only mumble. I shot Jocelyn a look, but before I could say anything, there were three heavy knocks on the door. I opened the door to find the massive form of Andrew Parsons. Miss Felicia stood next to him, dwarfed by his bulk. Her job was to gently guide Andrew through a world filled with incomprehensible people. She gave me a bright smile.
"Hi, Miss Tennant. Can Andrew join your little club? I have the forms right here, all filled out."
"Um... Of course," I said, a little taken aback. Andrew might be many things, but a would-be rifleman wasn't one of them. "But do you think it's good for him to be firing weapons?"
Miss Felicia's smile turned up a few notches in brightness. "Yes of course, darling. It's not like you're doing combat training is it? Andrew wants to know how guns work, and you are the go-to girl for things that shoot." She moved a bit closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Also, he's standing right next to me in case you didn't notice. He's really hard to overlook, and he can talk, you know?"
I blinked a few times, turned to Andrew. "Sorry Andrew. Of course you can join. I just got two boys joining as well, so I can give you the fire arms safety talk before we're off to the range."
"Thank you, Professor Tennant," said Andrew.
"Oh, I'm not... Never mind. Come on in and find a chair." Andrew nodded and walked past me. "Not one of the small ones," I added.
Miss Felicia watched him find a chair and sit down. She turned to me. "Well then, I've got to be running. Take good care of him please."
I was surprised at the edge that had crept into her voice. She left, and I turned to my class. Most of the girls were trying not to stare at Andrew, who was sitting with his hands on a desk that looked like it might collapse under the weight. Looks are deceiving, though, and the makers of Algernon University furniture knew well what kind of abuse their products would go through. Jocelyn meanwhile had her eyes turned to Nigel, and was biting her lip at him with intent. The poor boy was almost having a heart attack. Florence nudged her, and she turned her eyes forward.
I pulled out the rifles and set the girls to taking them apart, cleaning and oiling them, and putting them back together. Then, I took the boys through the firearms safety talk, and threatened them with eternal damnation if they ever broke one of the safety rules. With the theory settled, we filed out to the range. We were having the targets at a hundred yards now. Firing commenced, and I looked through my rifle scope to see how everyone was doing. Carrie was still the best, but to my surprise I saw Linda was giving her a run for her money, with Rina not far behind them. Bert needed a little coaching, but was doing alright for a first time. Nigel had his eyes firmly on the target, not daring to look at the next booth where frankly, Jocelyn was making a spectacle of herself. She was bending over in just such a way as to make her skirt fit tightly over her bottom. She fired a shot.
"Ooh yeah, baby," she muttered. "Right on target."
That convinced me that something was going on here, and it wasn't that she had just fallen head over heels in love with Nigel. Jocelyn might not be one to hide her feelings, but even she couldn't possibly think she was being subtle here. But finding out about that could wait. I walked over to the booth on the very left, where Andrew was shooting with a frown on his face.
"How's it going Andrew?"
Andrew carefully put down his rifle to talk to me. "I don't understand. I am aiming exactly at the target, but the bullets do not consistently hit the same place."
With anyone else, that would have been conceit, but this was Andrew Parsons, who had once measured me with uncanny precision simply by looking at me. I looked at his target through my scope. His grouping was tighter even than Carrie's, which was impressive. I picked up his rifle, checked the sight. It was set for one hundred meters. Meters, yards, same thing. Windage was no problem at these short ranges.
"Are you releasing your breath while firing, Andrew?"
"Yes."
"Holding the rifle too tightly perhaps?"
"No."
"Focusing on your sight rather than your target?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Well, this is an old rifle. A little variation is to be expected." I glanced at his target. "You're doing fine, Andrew. Nothing to be ashamed of. Keep at it."
Andrew gave me a puzzled look, then picked up his rifle and resumed firing.
We called quits an hour before dinner, brushed out the rifles, and stored them in the locked cupboard in our classroom. There was nothing to do before dinner, so the girls stayed and chatted, comparing scores. Nigel quickly made himself scarce, followed by Bert, who seemed a bit more relaxed. Andrew, having cleaned his weapon according to the rules, carefully put it in the cupboard and left without a word. I had a few things to do before dinner, so I made my excuses and left. About half way to my chambers, I remembered I needed the forms for the boys' parents. If you don't use your head, at least have nice legs or something. I turned round and stepped into the small office for the concierge that held all kinds of papers. As I was rummaging through the drawers, I heard voices in the hallway. The girls were making their way to the dining hall for a delicious meal of fried things with soggy potatoes and weapons-grade carrots. A meal to put some backbone into England's younger generation. I could only just hear them.
"...such a crush on her! Especially when she's demonstrating. She just looks all business."
"I know. I saw you drooling over her. You may want to know that she's got one of those skin tight suits." A little laugh crept into the second voice. "Imagine her teaching wearing that."
"Oh my goodness. I'd just die."
"So now you know. Getting it on with girls can, in some cases, lead to severe crushing and death."
I could hear their laughter disappear down the hallway.
"Um," I said, to nobody in particular. Being a University tutor means never being stuck for words.
I found Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby in the dining hall at a table. She had pushed aside her empty plate, and was reading an issue of the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, occasionally underlining a few words with a pencil.
"Mind if I join you?"
Margaret waved a hand. "Not at all. Gone for the chicken I see? Bad choice. I can tell it lived a long and happy life before dying of old age."
I sat down, and started to disassemble my chicken. Margaret looked at me. Obviously, she saw something was bothering me.
"How's the new generation of snipers coming along?"
"Swimmingly," I said. I poured some gravy over my potatoes. "Even Andrew has joined." I thought a moment, then looked Margaret in the eye. "Have you ever had a student develop, um... feelings for you?"
"All the time," said Margaret, with a big grin. "I used to be quite a looker back in my tutoring days, if you believe it. So who's the lucky boy?"
"I don't know. Also, it's... um... not a boy. You see my problem?"
Margaret laughed. "I certainly do. There's so few places in this University that are really private."
"Margaret!"
"What?"
"I'm not... I don't..."
Margaret got the better of her laughter. She put a hand on my arm.
"You're an attractive young woman, and you're in a university with lots and lots of students who are at an age where they are finally able to start exploring their sexuality, away from parental supervision. It's bound to happen at some point." Margaret chuckled. "Even Wadcroft had this doe-eyed girl follow him around for a while."
I stared, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of the somewhat vulture-like Alan Wadcroft attracting the lewd attention of some young girl.
"Does it bother you that it's a girl?"
"No," I said. "It bothers me that it's a student. I want to meet my lovers on an equal footing. I wouldn't want her homework to include... well..."
Margaret is a very very difficult person to lie to. Whether her background in anthropology makes her a good judge of expressions, or whether it is the other way round, I don't know.
"Easy then," she said. "Just tell her you aren't interested in girls. Sorry dear. Believe me, they're used to hearing that."
I started on my chicken. It wasn't as bad as Margaret had hinted, but then again, maybe with age comes a more delicate taste.
"Got to find out who it is first. I can hardly announce it at the start of rifle class."
"It would make for a lively lecture at least," said Margaret. "Woolwich once announced in the middle of the French Revolution that he was going to take off all his clothes and all students were required to do likewise. Nobody even noticed."
I gave a little snort. "Did he?"
"Not allowed. Health and bloody safety. Look Alexandra." She gave me a small reassuring smile. "Don't worry. These things start, maybe they last for a few weeks, and then they fizzle out when the girl sees she's not getting anywhere. I promise."
Despite Margaret's words, I couldn't sleep that night. One of the girls in my rifle club wanted to be in the same bed I was. Who could it be? Anna was the most quiet of the lot. It could be her. Jocelyn? No. Her voice was easy to recognise, and I had a feeling that if she wanted to, she wouldn't waste any time letting me know. Florence? Linda? Christa? Carrie? Another thought kept coming at me, to be beaten down every time it surfaced. Which of them would I mind least? While I could recognise beauty when I saw it, I was not attracted to women in the least. Still. Acting on it was, of course, out of the question. Still.
I took a deep breath, and got up to clear my head. I walked over to the window, and pulled open the curtain. Moonlight streamed in, dazzlingly bright to my night vision. I looked out over the strange mix of buildings that made up Algernon University. The bell tower with its large clock that struck every fifty minutes, announcing the start of lectures and lunch breaks. The squat, square building where Alchemical experiments were performed, a safe distance away from the rest of the University. The chapel. The greenhouses filled with exotic botanical specimens. There was a chilly draft, and I turned round to go back to bed.
As I turned round, I could hear the sound of a key in my door. Had someone mistaken their door for mine? My name was on a small sign on the door, but who stops to read that? I half opened my mouth to call out, but the door opened and someone came in, quickly closing the door behind him. He looked at the bed, found it empty, then saw me standing by the window. He gave a surprised hiss, drew a knife and charged at me.
When you are confronted with a knife-wielding opponent, and you don't have a weapon yourself, there is only one correct course of action. Be somewhere else, and fast. Sadly, he was between me and the door. You can tell a lot about a fighter's intentions from their stance. If they come at you, knife out, flashing it in front of your face, they want to scare you. They are hoping you will freeze in fright, and they can make their demands for your money or your life. Which allows you some kind of scope for negotiation, however small. On the other hand, if they come at you with their empty hand first, they are planning to force you to deal with their empty hand, leaving their weapon hand free to strike. When they do that, abandon all compassion, all restraint, because they want to kill you.
It was clear that this person had wanted to stab me in my sleep, or perhaps put a pillow over my face. Stealth was his primary objective. It would have been embarrassing for me to scream like a little girl, so I didn't. I screamed like a big girl. I managed to dodge his first lunge. Rather than try to grapple, I slapped his hand away and shoved, putting all my weight behind it. He crashed into my desk, but recovered quickly. He came at me again. I was now between him and the door, but I wouldn't have the time to open it.
He came at me again. This time, he managed to grab one of my wrists. He pulled my arm up, exposing my side. I countered with a quick, hard punch to his ribs. He gave a startled cough. I wrenched my wrist out of his grip. That is not as hard as it seems. No matter how strong a grip your opponent has, if you push down between their thumb and fingers, you have superior leverage. With my left hand free, I hit him with a flat palm in the face. He reeled back, and I took a leap backwards, grabbed the top of the bunk bed, and pulled it over in front of him. While he scrambled over it, I put my fingers behind the wardrobe, then pulled that over on top of him. That gave me just enough time to open the door and get out.
I sprinted down the hallway, still yelling my head off, but he was still after me. A weapon. I needed a weapon. There would be knives in the kitchen, but that was miles away. To my left was a concierge's cupboard. Ah. It held a mop and a metal bucket. I pulled the door open and just had enough time to grab a broom before he caught up with me. This time, I was ready. I swung the broom round in a great arc that he dodged easily. It hit the floor with a crack, and the broom handle broke, giving me a sharp end. He took a quick jump forward and tried to grab my broom handle, but I saw him coming. I swung round the blunt end and hit his wrist. He cried out, and tried to stab me in the chest. I leapt back and stabbed at his face with my longer weapon. He blocked with his knife arm.
At that moment, I could hear the noise of running feet. Several of the porters, dressed in almost comical pyjamas, were coming up behind me. All I had to do was not get stabbed. My attacker saw them coming, slashed out once more with his knife, turned tail and ran. I started after him, until I recognised the nightgown-clad form of Miss Felicia in the middle of the hallway.
"Get away!" I shouted, but she stared wide-eyed at the dark knife-wielding maniac in front of her. He slashed out at her with his knife, and she just had the notion to throw her arms up in front of her face.
She screamed in pain, but the attacker, bent on escape, only shoved her aside and ran on. I fell to my knees beside Miss Felicia's crumpled form. Blood was spurting from a cruel slash in her arm. I grabbed it, fumbled at her elbow for the artery and pushed it shut.
"Quick! Get a doctor!"
One of the porters, a large man named Barker, kneeled down next to me while the rest of the porters ran on after the assassin.
"Good, Miss. Hold it closed for just a little while longer."
He took my broom handle and broke it in two. Then, he pullled the cloth belt from his nightgown and tied it round Miss Felicia's arm. He stuck the broom handle in the loop of cloth and turned it to tighten it.
"You can let go now, Miss. If you'd be so good as to fetch the medical kit from the office, I would be most obliged."
I looked at Miss Felicia's face. Tears were streaming down her face, her eyes were half closed, and she was making small whimpering noises. I sprinted to the office, got the large medical kit, and ran back. I ripped away Miss Felicia's sleeve, and started winding hydrophilic gauze tightly round her arm. For good measure, I also fixed the tourniquet in place with a few extra rounds.
"Thank you, Miss," said Barker. "Let's take Miss Sunderland to the infirmary."
Andrew Parsons: The rise and fall of the Rifle Mk.1
Interruption of the routine - This should not work - An unexpected result - A satisfactory test
I have thought on the matter, and have completed the blueprints of Rifle, Mark 1. It will be able to transport bullets of 0.22 inch in diameter (0.5588cm), over a distance of 2000m, with a precision of 5cm, assuming that we shoot in still air. Shooting in natural surroundings will necessarily increase the margin of error.
The Rifle Mk. 1 will use the standard cartridges provided by Miss Tennant. I have obtained samples of the cartridges for fitting inside the cylinder. They are ignited by a percussive primer which in turn ignites the gunpowder. I will fit an optical scope like the one on Miss Tennant's Mauser SR-220, to aid in aiming.
The purpose of this type of device is still not clear to me, but often, in the course of engineering, we find uses for solutions that are basically useless in the situation in which they were conceived.
-- Andrew Parsons, Rifle Mk 1, AP-2061-01, design notes.
7:45 - I woke up to find that Miss Felicia was not there. Instead, Miss Tennant was. She asked me to get dressed, but did not specify which clothes would be appropriate for today. I thought on the matter, and since today I would continue work on the Rifle Mk.1, I dressed in my dungarees with a black shirt that does not show any markings of lubricants. I put on my protective goggles, but Miss Tennant told me those would not be needed at this time.
Miss Tennant told me that Miss Felicia had been hurt last night, and was in the infirmary recovering. She then told me that she would be all right, but simply needed some time. After breakfast, I was to go to the infirmary and visit Miss Felicia, because that would aid in recovery. Since I am not a physician, I do not understand why this would be so, but I will try to find out.
8:30 - I took breakfast with Miss Tennant. She told me again that Miss Felicia would be all right. I told her I knew, because she had already told me. I asked in what way Miss Felicia had been hurt. Miss Tennant said that she had received a knife wound to the arm last night. This was unusual because Miss Felicia does not normally use knives at that time of night, and also has the required knowledge of handling knives in a safe manner. I mentioned this to Miss Tennant, but she did not answer. I finished my breakfast, and Miss Tennant wanted to leave. I pointed out that there was still an amount of egg and baked beans on her plate, and she said she was not hungry. I explained to her that according to Miss Felicia, one should take as much as one needs, but then eat what one takes. Thus, food that might benefit someone else is not wasted. Miss Tennant asked me how I could think of such things at this time. I explained that at times other than mealtimes, it is unnecessary to think of these things. After thinking on this, she got up and asked me to follow her. Miss Felicia often says that it is not necessary for me to understand everyone's actions or words. Perhaps this is one of such occasions.
9:00 - I visited Miss Felicia, who was in a hospital bed. There was a bandage on her arm, and she was not using it, which was consistent with Miss Tennant's account. It is permitted for people to be in bed after 7:45 if they are recovering from serious injuries. She asked me who had sent me, and I told her it was Miss Tennant. I observed Miss Felicia carefully, and told her that I wished her a speedy recovery, like Miss Tennant asked me. As far as I could see, it did improve Miss Felicia's mood, as she was laughing. I do not understand why this should be so.
She asked me what I was doing today, and I told her that I would be working on the Rifle Mk.1. I have had to modify the Nr.2 lathe to produce the rifling inside the barrel, and I am starting today on constructing the firing mechanism. I have designed a firing and loading mechanism that uses part of the pressure from the exploding gunpowder to eject the cartridge and load the next one. Miss Felicia smiled again, and told me that was good. Then, she fell asleep. After waiting thirty minutes to see if she would wake up again, I left, and Miss Tennant took me to my workroom.
10:30 - I set to work machining the firing mechanism for the Rifle Mk.1. Miss Tennant was still there. People sometimes visit to watch me work, but Miss Tennant was not looking at what I was doing, instead she was looking at the doors to the hangar of the Tracked Vehicle Mk.1 even though they are closed. I tried to explain the mechanism to her, and she answered that it was all her fault. She did not mean the firing mechanism, but Miss Felicia's injuries. I gave Miss Tennant one of the mimeographs I use when I have to apologise for something. I explained to her where to fill out what she had done, and where to sign. Miss Tennant told me that it had not been her who hurt Miss Felicia, but someone else. I advised Miss Tennant to give the mimeograph to the person who hurt Miss Felicia, and Miss Tennant agreed that would be more appropriate. She then put her hand on my arm and thanked me. I do not like it when people touch me, but Miss Felicia says that this is sometimes necessary. Miss Tennant left, and I continued with the assembly of the firing mechanism.
11:50 - It was time for lunch, and Miss Felicia was not there. I assumed that she had not finished recovering yet. I find that small injuries heal themselves between ten and fifteen minutes, so Miss Felicia's injury must have been more severe. Miss Tennant came and took me to lunch in the dining hall. I reminded her to take the exact right amount of food for her current requirements, and she said that she had been exercising and could eat a horse. Miss Tennant was mistaken. A horse weighs on average 500kg, and Miss Tennant weighs an estimated 65kg. Even allowing for discarding the bones, it would be impossible for Miss Tennant to eat seven times her own weight in meat at a single sitting. She did in fact take a bowl of soup (500g), six slices of bread (400g total), Four slices of ham (50g), a container of strawberry jam (between 20 and 40g), a packet of butter (45g), and a cup of tea (568g, mostly water), making for a total of between 1583 and 1603g, well below 500kg. I pointed this out to her, and she told me she had meant a metaphorical horse. Metaphorical horses weigh only two kilograms on average, but she was trying to lose weight, so she took a little less. This was a reasonable explanation.
12:30 - Miss Tennant took me to the gymnasium, to watch Mr. Philip Tennant use his prosthetic leg. He told me that the work was mostly satisfactory, but that someone had tried to hurt his little girl, and he required a setting suitable for kicking. This was not in the original specifications, which only included walking and perhaps running over short distances. I told him I would have to think on the matter, and he told me to do that. I observed Mr. Philip Tennant using the prosthetic, and was able to improve his gait using a few minor adjustments to the knee resistance and ankle-to-knee length. I asked him if the prosthetic was satisfactory, and he told me his foot itched. He suggested I lend him a steel brush to remedy this.
Since I have not implemented any technology to produce itching in the prosthetic, I do not understand how Mr. Philip Tennant's foot could be itching. I do not know how to implement itching in prosthetic limbs, and consequently do not know how to remove itching if I have implemented it by mistake. I will visit Dr. Bernhardt and consult him on the matter. In the mean time, I will supply Mr. Phillip Tennant with a steel brush as he requested.
13:15 - I have resumed construction of the Rifle Mk.1. Based on usage observed on the firing range, people rarely fire only one round. Therefore, I have decided to arrange the firing mechanism so that when the actuator is depressed, the rifle will keep firing until the actuator is released.
14:00 - Miss Tennant came into the workroom and asked me if I wanted any tea. I explained that Miss Felicia's instructions are to keep myself hydrated at the water fountain in the hallway, and that tea was not necessary. I confirmed to Miss Tennant that I was English, and she left. I continued work on the Rifle Mk.1.
17:00 - I have conducted the first test firing of the Rifle Mk.1 at the firing range. With the rifle fixed in a vise on the booth, it consistently hit a target four hundred meters distant. I have extended the magazine to hold one hundred rounds, as the five-round magazine emptied itself in less than a second. Results were satisfactory. Miss Tennant came and asked me what I was doing. I explained that I was test-firing, and upon further questions, confirmed that the Rifle had put one hundred bullets in the same place (within a two-centimeter margin), in eight seconds. From reading the Bible Father Nathaniel gave to me, I could neither confirm nor deny that there was blood in Hell, and I suggested she consult Parson Brown on the matter.
18:00 - I have concluded my tests, and have placed the Rifle Mk.1 in the vault. Miss Tennant came into the workroom, with Miss Felicia. The bandage was still on her arm. I asked her if she had recovered, and she said yes. I asked if my wishes had been helpful, and she said yes. She then put her arms round me. She has told me that this is sometimes necessary, so I waited for her to finish. She then asked me what I had done today. I started to explain, but Miss Felicia asked me to write it down instead.
20:00 - I have now filed the blueprint and the design notes for the Rifle Mk.1 under AP-2061-01. I cannot see a use for a device that puts bullets into the same place at a rate of seven hundred rounds per minute. I have also typed a report of my day to Miss Felicia, as requested. I will give it to her tomorrow.
Philip Tennant: You cannot get there from here
From one dream into the next - The King and I - Messenger to the gods - The only thing I can do
It has often been stated that there is no such thing as a man's work or a woman's work in a civilised society. And yet, there is no denying that men and women are, physically and mentally, different from each other. This must unavoidably lead to women being better at some tasks than men, and worse at others. Research has shown that this is in fact the case, but then again, the differences between our psyches are not so large that a man cannot possibly do a woman's job. Likewise, we cannot but accept the difference in our physical build, but that does not mean that we men are unavoidably destined to be pack animals.
There are those who vehemently speak against this, even going so far as to argue that a man's superior body strength is the result of social conditioning, or even sub-conscious under-feeding of females. When people ignore the evidence in front of their eyes to such an extent, be sure that they have intentions that have nothing to do with reason. Our goal must be to transcend our differences to the benefit of all, rather than deny that these differences exist with the dogmatism of a young-earth creationist.
But be that as it may, I have never allowed my children to shirk a task that was not traditionally assigned to their gender. Alexandra would carry her own things on expeditions, Carl would take his share in the cooking and repair his own clothes when they became damaged. In an expedition, as we learnt to our loss, nobody is immune to the hand of Fate, and the full load of tasks, no matter who they are traditionally assigned to, can come to rest on any of our shoulders.
-- Philip Tennant, "Parenting for explorers"
My first few weeks in the city of Anctapolepl were spent in a laudanum-induced stupor. My absent leg was hurting, strange though that may seem. The physicians call it phantom pain. Laudanum is a mixture of opium and alcohol. Its use, even in severe cases, is no longer recommended. As the dosages slowly decreased, the unreal, dream-like quality of my surroundings slowly gave way to something resembling reality. The under-sea quality of the light was explained by the green window that let the sunlight in. The angelic creature who was tending me turned into a normal human woman. Her kindness, and also her beauty remained, as did the marvellous clothes and jewels she wore. Her name was Itzel. All that I could find out in those early days was that she was not from this city, and that she was a widow, her husband having died in one of the wars in these areas. She taught me a few words of Nahuatl, and we conversed in a combination of Nahuatl, English, a few words of Spanish and sign language. I could see that speaking Spanish made her uneasy, so I tried to avoid it where possible. Nahuatl is not a very difficult language to learn, once you get used to all the prefixes and sufixes you add to the base words. For instance, "house" is "kal-li". "My house" becomes "no-kal". "In the house" becomes "kal-pan".
I was in the house for most of the first few months as my wounds healed. At times, a doctor would visit me, examine my leg stump, give Itzel some instructions and leave again. Itzel was a complete mystery to me. At times, people would come, dressed in clothes much more plain than hers, and speak to her for a while. Then, they would leave, smiling. They would speak only softly, and I could only occasionally hear the name of one of their gods, Huitzilopochtli. By the respect they showed her, I would appear that Itzel was a priestess of some sort, and of a high rank within the city of Anctapolepl. But why then was she acting as a nurse for a lowly explorer? Surely, such a task was far beneath the dignity of a high-caste member of the Anctapolepl clergy? Itzel herself would not be drawn on the subject. After every consultation, she was quiet, withdrawn, even looking fearful. She would recover quickly, and return to me, putting a pair of crutches in my hands and telling me to practice.
When I was able to move around with ease on my crutches, Itzel took me to see the King of the realm. His name was Ilhicamina, a name that means, roughly, "He shoots arrows at the sky". He was named after a famous king of old. In those days, Ilhicamina had precious little left to be King of, after their lands were ravaged by the Spanish Conquistadores.
Itzel bowed to him, and indicated that I should do likewise. The King waved us forward.
"Greetings, Philip Tennant, and welcome to the Kingdom of Anctapolepl. I trust your treatment is satisfactory?"
"Yes, your Highness," I said. Itzel had taught me the proper address for the King in Nahuatl. "Itzel has been most kind to me, and your healers have seen to my wounds. I am content and grateful."
"Good, good. It is well, because I have plans for you, Philip Tennant. You are one of the white men, and yet do not belong to the Conquistadores." He spat out the last word as though the sheer taste of it disgusted him. "I hear that your people have been in many bloody was with the Spaniards, you must hate them as much as we do."
That was a slight overstatement. The Anglo-Spanish wars, on the other half of this Earth, were many years ago, and any bitter wars between the Spanish and the English are now fought on the battlefield of commerce. There were many English families who retired to Spain, creating small pockets of England in the rural areas of Spain, often much to the annoyance of the locals. But it doesn't do to disagree with a King. I reminded myself of the viciously overpriced and foul tasting tea I had once had in Madrid.
"That is true, your Highness. The Spanish have caused us great losses. There is no love between the English and the Spaniards."
"Good," said King Illhicamina. "Together, you and I will bring down the filthy Spaniards, and restore the Kingdom of Anctapolepl to its former glory."
I simply bowed my head. How the King intended to bring down people who were by now an integral part of Meso-american society, I would no doubt learn later. What I could contribute to his plans, I couldn't possibly fathom. The King must have noticed some of my doubts.
"You come from the lands over the Great Sea," he said. "The knowledge that is in your head is a treasure to us greater than gold or jewels. It is by their knowledge, not by bravery, that the Conquistadores defeated us till now. You will provide what knowledge I need. How to make swords of metal, how to make the weapons that kill the bravest of warriors at a hundred paces. These were the things that defeated us, and these are the things that we must have."
With no small effort, I managed to keep my face straight. Did the King expect me to bring about an industrial revolution? I could recognise iron ore. I had even smelted a small ingot of iron myself as a school project, under careful supervision of my teachers. But the fine details of metallurgy were a closed book to me.
The King laughed. "You think you are not up to the task? Do not fear. We are not alone. Our Gods will help us. Itzel will help to bring you the knowledge that you need."
"Itzel?" I looked at her. She looked back at me with a little smile on her face. "How can she help?"
King Illhicamina held out his hand and Itzel approached.
"Itzel is our messenger to the great warrior Huitzilopochtli. You will tell her what knowledge you need. She will speak for you."
"Does Itzel have the ear of your god?"
King Illhicamina smiled, and pulled open Itzel's robe, exposing her breast. He put his hand just underneath. I could see Itzel's smile harden, become nervous.
"On the first day of the month Panquetzaliztli, she will walk to the top of the Great Pyramid of Anctapolepl. The priest will take the tona from her body, and offer it to the God Huitzilopochtli. The spark of the Sun's heat that drives us all will return to those who gave it to us. Itzel will be the first of many to ascend and carry our voices to the Gods."
We returned to my quarters. Itzel helped me back into my bed as she had done so often these weeks, putting a blanket over my knees, more to hide my leg than because of the cold. She sat down on the bed next to me, looking at me.
"Philip Tennant, it is time to tell me what knowledge you require of the great Warrior."
"Itzel... Why do you need to go through this?" I looked into her dark eyes. "Why must you die?"
"I won't die," said Itzel. "I will walk the path by which the Sunlight reaches us, and dwell at the side of Huitzilopochtli forever."
She said this as though she were stating a simple fact, such as the boiling temperature of water at sea level. Impossible thoughts came to me. I would take her away from this cursed city, run with her through the jungles of America, deliver her from the terrible fate that awaited her. As I looked at the blanket over my knees, I saw the folly. I would not be running anywhere, with or without her. I wanted to ask her: What if I refuse? But the answer to that was obvious. We would both die.
"It is impossible," I said. "You are not a metallurgist. The questions I need to ask of you... you will not understand them. Your god will learn nothing from you."
"Huitzilopochtli will know," said Itzel. "I will remember your words to the very last syllable, English, Nahuatl, Latin, or even Spanish. This was the gift of the Gods to me when I was born. I recall perfectly every word that the people of this city have told me to ask of the Gods."
"But... Even the slightest mistake could be fatal! You cannot possibly..."
Itzel put her hand on my shoulder.
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want..." Itzel started, and continued the whole of the prayer. I could even recognise my own voice, the pain, my very accent, in her words. I only remembered saying that prayer once, to bolster my spirits while I mourned the loss of my leg.
"Do you know what that means?"
She shook her head. "No. but you do, and so do the Gods. Have no fear. I will carry your voice truly."
"But how will I receive the gods' reply? I do not pray to them! I am a Christian!"
"The knowledge will be given to you. When you need it, it will be there. You will deliver our people from harm, Philip Tennant. Of that, I am certain."
"But..." I reached out, put my hand on her chest, just underneath her breast. "This body will die. You will die. There is so much more that you can do for your people by staying alive."
Itzel looked away, breathed in deeply. Then, her eyes turned back to me.
"Philip Tennant, I believe that you were sent to carry these people to glory once more. It will not be an easy path, that you and I must tread. Your path was not easy, and still you are here now." She smiled at me. "You are glad to be here, are you not?"
"I..." I looked at her, and felt my heart beat faster. In the space of a few months, Itzel had become dear to me, not replacing Iris in my heart, but living comfortably next to her. Iris would have liked her, with her eyes filled with the glow of fervour and the faith of her people. I did the only thing I could in the circumstances.
I believed her. I knew in my heart that kind Itzel's immortal soul would sit beside her gods, repeating my every word to her, more faithfully than I even could myself. I took her hand in mine, looked deep into her eyes.
"We have work to do," I said.
Carl Tennant: Travel fast, go alone. Travel far, go together.
The arrival of Raage Tennant - The parting of ways - Journey to civilisation - A vague acquaintance - Ipswich bound
Not all the lands in Africa are as fertile as the place where I lived with the Ajuru. Some places have been hit by drought, disease, wars more serious than minor scuffles between neighbors, and other misfortunes. Nobody is untouched when they see a small child that isn't wasting its energy on crying anymore. It is so very tempting to walk over with our large bones, and give that child our food. That will make us feel better about ourselves, but unfortunately, the people are hungry again the next day.
Should we just leave the Africans to their fate? Of course not. But at the same time, we should approach the situation with a large dose of humility. Africans have been living here since time immemorial, and they know like no other what these lands can provide for them. They know not to get too attached to any child below the age of one year. To project our Western values upon them, does not do them any service.
This was a lesson I learnt from my time with the Ajuru. Humans are indomitable. They will survive from the coldest places to the hottest. They will endure things that to our modern sensibilities seem unbearable. But to know that people exist all of whose children survive into adulthood, who never need feel hunger,
*that* will break stronger souls than mine.
-- Carl Tennant, "My life with the Ajuru"
Fatin went into labour in the middle of the night, and I was unceremoniously thrown out by Dhuuxo. She and the other women took over the tent. I looked into Fatin's eyes one more time and left. Women's business. I found a space by the fire pit, and tried not to hear Fatin's screams. I wanted to be in that tent, letting Fatin squeeze my hand into a pulp, but I was not allowed. As I stared into the embers of the fire, I heard a noise beside me and found Elder Hanad was sitting beside me. He passed me a cup of the foul fermented whatever it was. Geedi sat down on my other side. Neither spoke.
It had been as Obsiye predicted. Hanad had told me that I could stay until Fatin gave birth, but then the tribe would head upstream, and I would head downstream. I hadn't protested, hadn't even asked why. I had gone against the will of the village elder. I was no longer welcome here. Watching the women walk round the camp was my only solace. One of the men of the M'bari tribe was now part of the Ajuru. He had come to Elder Hanad, and humbly begged to be admitted. Hanad had consulted with his wife Dhuuxo, who had had a discreet word with the other women, who had reported that he had been the most kind of them, keeping the more vulnerable ones away from harm. Somehow, I had missed him in my barrage of fire, though he didn't even dare look at me. I was too numb to feel the sting of the situation that an attacker was welcome in the tribe, while I was not.
Elder Hanad refilled my cup. "It will not take long now," he said. "Fatin is healthy and strong."
I looked at Elder Hanad, then back into the smouldering embers of the fire. "I have things in my trunk that might help."
"Did you bring enough for every woman who will give birth?"
"No."
"Do you have enough even for the next woman to give birth who will suffer the most?"
"How would I know who that is? But I have enough for Fatin."
"You truly have great powers, Kal Tennant, to decide who should suffer pain, and who should not. You are the mightiest man in this tribe. When someone displeases you, you point at that man, and he dies. My tribe is too small for a man such as you."
I drank from my cup. Back in the tent, Fatin had another contraction.
"I will run out of bullets. I will run out of morphia. Then, I will be just like any other man."
Elder Hanad laughed quietly. "But what if the power is not something in that trunk of yours, but something in your head? If you would be the one to either give it, or keep it, then you would be the owner of our souls."
"Are you worried that I might go against your rule? You are a wise man, Elder Hanad. I would not presume. Whatever I have, I would give freely to whoever needed it."
Elder Hanad snorted with laughter. "If I were to throw out everyone who did not do as I said, I would soon have no tribe at all. And then Dhuuxo would throw me out of the tent. No Kal Tennant. I am not worried about the strength of my words."
"Then what are you worried about, Elder? I have done my best to become one of you. I doubt I could have done more to fit in."
Elder Hanad put his hand on my shoulder. "That is true. I have seen you try to hunt on your big feet. The tent you built, where now your child is arriving, is an Ajuru tent, not an English one. You have eaten our food, and drunk our drink, and made them yours. You are a good man, Kal Tennant. I am sorry to see you go."
"Then why? I have not learnt even a single leaf from the tree that is the Ajuru. Why must I leave?"
Elder Hanad drank from his cup. His eyes turned to the fire, and he didn't speak for a while. Geedi bumped his fist into my shoulder.
"You should not have stolen away Fatin from Obsiye, my friend. Hunters do not like to see someone make off with their prey." He chuckled. "Lion or pale-faced giant."
Hanad shook his head. "Fatin will never belong to Obsiye. Nor will your child, be sure of that. When first you and your friends walked into camp, Fatin was fast running out of nice ways to tell Obsiye to find someone else to warm his bed. After this, she will no longer bother trying to be nice about it."
"Then tell me, Elder. What is wrong?"
Elder Hanad took a deep breath. "England is a faraway place. Not only a long way to walk, but also in the way they think, in the way they live." He pulled out his steel Buck knife, the one given to him by the late Professor James Hammond. It glinted in the firelight. It struck me that apart from the things I had brought, nothing in the Ajuru tribe shone like that metal. "Nobody of my tribe, or any of the tribes we trade with, knows how to make one of these knives. I use this only to look at. To shave wood for a bow, or to dig in rotten trees for grubs to eat, I use the same tools that my grandfather used. I know how to make them. They are mine. This..." Hanad balanced the knife on his palm. "This is not mine. It cuts much better than any tool I can make. I could use it, Kal. It would make my life easier. But then, if it broke, how would I replace it? I would have to beg one of you white men for it, and he might give it to me out of kindness like you, or he might give it to me so that I would owe him. This is just a knife. I can throw it away and never miss it. What if it were something that could save my life? One of those weapons of yours? Medicine that would let me live to be a hundred years old? If you would offer me something like that, how would I refuse? And then, I would be your thing. You might give me all that I need, and never even think of refusing, or you might make demands in return. If I would die if I refused, how large would those demands have to be before I would put my tribe before my very own life?"
Geedi stirred. "If it were me, I would beg for my life. I would die a coward, or live as the plaything of whoever saved me. I might live, but the man who walked the forests afterwards, would no longer be Geedi the hunter."
"Even to know that such things exist," said Elder Hanad, "Knowing that we can never have them." Back in the tent, Fatin cried out again. "For our women even to know that they can give birth without pain. It would destroy us. We can bear it now, because we must. If we give that up, then we will become weak. We would no longer be masters of our own fate. I would not wish to live like that."
Hanad and Geedi kept me company through the night, and into the morning. Then, Geedi, Odawaa, Nuune and Obsiye went out to hunt, leaving me alone. Still, Fatin's labour continued. Dhuuxo came out of the tent, her face hard, tired, drawn. I started to ask her a question and she all but snarled at me to get out of her way. She disappeared into her tent, to emerge a few moments later with a bundle of herbs and more cloth. She didn't even look at me as she went back into Fatin's tent. I stood looking at it, my hands balled into fists with knuckles white. I could barge in, soothe Fatin's pain with a few drops of the pain medicine I had. But the words of Elder Hanad kept coming back to me. Fatin was strong, tough. She was able to bear her fate because she knew that she must. Would she still be able if she knew that really she didn't have to?
The tent door opened and Kinsi came out. She saw me, gave me a brief smile, then went into her tent. From inside, I could hear the sound of voices raised in song, a soothing noise to ease Fatin's suffering, to remind her that she was not alone, that her tribeswomen were with her and would be until the end. Another woman took Kinsi's place. Fatin was no longer screaming, which was worse than hearing her. The thought I had resolutely quashed whenever it came up, now would no longer be denied.
Fatin might die.
My child might die.
I could do nothing.
I pulled my parang from my belt, cut off a long straight branch from a tree and set to shaping it into the makings of a spear. I shaved off the bark, then set to sharpening the stick. The day wore on as my spear became shorter and shorter until at last it was no more than a foot long. I looked at it in my hand, then threw it into the fire pit. I turned my head. I had heard something. Something different. A few moments later, I heard it again, and stronger. I breathed in, forgot to breathe out. In my ears was the unmistakable cry of a new-born child. I jumped up, and not a hundred angry women could have kept me out of the tent. Fatin lay in her bed, eyes closed, her body limp, her stomach flat once more. On the other side of the tent, Dhuuxo, who had been with Fatin throughout her entire ordeal, had just finished wrapping up a tiny package in cloth. She turned round to me, and smiled wearily.
"Kal Tennant, you have a son."
"Kal?"
I turned round. Fatin was looking at me. I moved over to her, and took her hand. She blinked slowly, and smiled at me.
"Your ring was right," she said. Dhuuxo came up and put our son into Fatin's arms. Fatin's eyes turned to our son. "You are late in coming, my child," she said. "And for that, I will name you Raage."
I looked at the tiny face, his skin a bit lighter than Fatin's, a bit darker than mine, and the most glorious sight in the whole of Creation. I lay down in the bed and put my arms round them both. Soon, we would be apart forever, but this moment, nobody could take from me.
Fatin put her hand on my cheek, and I looked at her palm, as pale as mine, then into her eyes. The suffering of the past night was slowly fading from them.
"Carl?"
I noticed that she used the English pronunciation of my name, rather than the slightly off way the Ajuru pronounced it. To my surprise, she continued in English.
"We say travel fast, go alone. Travel far, go together. Do you wish to travel fast, or far?"
My breath stuck in my throat. All this time, I had assumed that Fatin and my child would stay with the Ajuru. I would make my way back to England, and then my stay in Africa would be nothing more than a few books of notes, drawings, and memories. Ever since Hanad had told me I had to leave, I hadn't dared even ask her.
"I will travel fast if I must," I said. "But I will travel far if I can." I closed my eyes a moment, then looked at her. "Will you travel with me?"
Fatin took a shivering breath.
"Yes," she said.
Raage was a week old. We were standing on the bank of the White Nile, watching Fatin's family walk along the bank. She dried her tears, looked at me, then started to follow the river downstream. I picked up the primitive sled containing my trunk, and followed her. She carried Raage in a sling, and while she didn't walk as easily as always, we made good time. We came to a wider area of sand, and I drew level with her. She looked at me, and smiled through her sadness.
"Tell me, Carl. What are your people like?"
"Good people," I said. "Bad people. You'll like my sister. She'll like you."
Fatin laughed. "I will never forget her face when I told her I was carrying your child."
"And then she told me." I looked far, far ahead. "I was ready to die, to give in to the disease of the mountains, until I knew that. You and Raage. Without you, I would not be here now."
Raage, not to be left out of the conversation, started to wail. Fatin pulled her carrying sling a bit higher and put Raage to her breast. She didn't even break step to do it.
"You came to us," said Fatin. "If not for the M'bari, you would have lived with us your whole life."
"Or until my books were full," I said.
"What would you have done when your books were full?"
I pulled my sledge over a fallen tree. It dropped to the ground on the other side.
"Got more books."
Fatin had never shown much interest in what I was writing, though she did like my drawings, especially of the people. I had tried to explain what the books were for, that they preserved the knowledge and that someone, even a hundred years from now, could look at them and know what I had written. Fatin had smiled, nodded, and put her thoughts about it with the other strange things her exotic pale-skinned lover did now and then. I wondered if she realised what kind of shock she was in for. In maybe a few weeks, she would be sailing on her first dirigible. She would be in a room that you could make bright, just by turning a valve. She would see buildings a hundred times as tall as herself. Ride in a steam train faster than any man could run. What would she think of it all?
"You said we were going 'home'. Where is your home?"
I thought about that. We had a small apartment in the outskirts of London. Me, Alex, Father, Mother. But it wasn't a home as such, merely a place to rest a while before setting out again. When we were not there, we rented out a room to keep the place from being ransacked while it was empty. But truth be told, there wasn't much to ransack there, not even memories. Our home was a ship, a camp. Home was people, not places. I looked at Fatin.
"It's here. It's with you. It's also wherever Alex is, or where Mother and Father used to be. We will find Alex, and then my home will be bigger."
Fatin smiled at me in a way that made my stomach tighten. "We are not very different then." Her smile faded. "I have kept you away from your home all this time. Now, it is my turn." She looked down at Raage, who had his eyes shut tight and looked disappointed with the world. Fatin put him up on her shoulder and rubbed his back till he burped, then put him on the other side. "Greedy little boy. What is England like?"
"Cold and wet," I said. "You'll have to wrap up warm. We're going to have to get you some clothes."
"Like the ones Alex was wearing?"
"Warmer than that."
"Don't you have the sun in England?"
I laughed. "Often the sun hides behind dark clouds, and you have to stay inside by the fire and drink warm drinks and huddle together."
"I like huddling with you."
I grinned like a school boy. "I know."
Fatin gave me a Look. "But not now. When Raage grows teeth and can eat... What do the English eat?"
"Pies," I said. "Cheese. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Potato chips with fish and peas." Now that she had got me to remember things, I felt a craving I hadn't felt before. Pork and apple sausages with mashed potatoes and thick onion gravy. I started grinning. Beer. A proper pint of stout, a dew-covered glass of pale ale.
"You are leaking," said Fatin.
"It's your fault for making me think of food."
As it was time for something to eat, we sat down by the riverside, well away from the water of course. Fatin held up a piece of flat bread and looked at it. She looked into my eyes.
"This bread is the last piece of food from my tribe," she said, in the Ajuru language. She bit into it, and continued in English. "You and Raage are my tribe now."
I moved a bit closer and put my arm round her. She put her head on my shoulder. I stroked her dark hair.
"I will do my best to be worthy."
After a few days travel, we came to a small hut on the river bank. Not round like those of the African tribes, but square and straight like the Europeans'. A small dock or landing platform was next to it. Since nobody seemed to be home, we squatted down about a hundred yards away and built a fire to cook a meal. About an hour later, a small steamboat made its way to the dock. As we watched, the helmsman cut off the engine, letting the boat slowly slide towards the dock. A sailor, European, wearing blue trousers and a red-and-white striped shirt, stood at the bow, ready with a rope. He jumped ashore and tied the mooring line to a bollard. I hurried up to help. Fatin stayed behind feeding Raage. The sailor spotted me, and gave me a nod.
"Good evening," I said. "Do you need a hand?"
The sailor stopped to look at me, then called over his shoulder. "Oy Mac! It's a Sassenach."
A bearded face popped out of the steering cabin. "Oh Christ. Let me fetch my Claidheamh Mòr."
"Put that away you Scottish git, you've got it marked 'Front towards enemy' to keep from hurting yourself." He ran to the stern of the boat and tied that end off as well. He had a decidedly Irish accent and sure enough introduced himself as O'Connor.
"Where are you headed?" I asked.
Mac kicked open the clamps to the railing and pulled it out so they could unload their cargo.
"Kodok," he said. "Need a ride?"
"That would be wonderful," I said. Kodok had a dirigible port. I could easily book a flight there to England. I would have to write to Alex to see if she was still at Ipswich, and for that matter if England was still there. I realised how out of touch I was with the news. Meanwhile, Fatin had come up carrying Raage. She gave the men a nervous smile.
"Run along now lass," said Mac. "Nothing for you here."
"Um," I said, the most I could say while keeping my voice level. I looked up at Mac. "She's with me."
"Is she now?" O'Connor grinned. "Bought her for some beads and mirrors did you? She's cute, I'll give you that. But I'd have picked one without a child."
Part of me wanted to punch O'Connor in his stupid Irish face, but that would not get us any closer to Kodok. I compromised by simply staring daggers at him.
"Nevertheless, she is with me. So is my child. Do you have a problem with that?"
"Oh bejayzes, man. Sure, bring her. We'll even carry her for free if you lend a hand with the unloading."
I turned to Fatin, who was looking at us with a slightly vacant look in her eyes.
"Fatin? We can travel with these men, but they are not... respectful of you," I said in Ajuru.
"So I see," said Fatin with a smile. "The one with the face like a warthog just did not realise. The one with flames for hair is an idiot. Are they going to take us all the way to England?"
I shook my head. "Just to Kodok. A few days at most."
"I'll live," said Fatin. "And now I will get on this big canoe, clean Raage and watch you sweat like a pig to pay for our journey."
She stepped on board, put Raage on a crate, and started wiping his bottom. I started to unload bags of flour, beans, and boxes of solid lead. This took maybe an hour or so. The railing was replaced, the moorings were cast off, and the steamer made its slow way to Kodok.
It was actually quite pleasant to travel by steamer. The sailors O'Connor and Mac (to this day, I have not found out what his full name was), mostly left us in peace. They were on a delivery round, bringing much needed supplies to settlements along the White Nile. The work loading and unloading was heavy but simple, and a few days later, the docks of Kodok were in sight. The actual town was a few miles away from the shore, and at this point, we really needed to get Fatin some clothes to stop her making a spectacle of herself. I had some American dollars hidden in a secret compartment of my trunk, and we walked into a shop. We came out again with Fatin wearing a white dress that she kept smoothing round her and looking at. I took the opportunity to replace my trousers and shirts. Then, we made our way to the offices of the British Overseas Airship Company. As it happened, due to a cancellation, there were three places left on the evening dirigible.
As the time for departure drew nearer, we walked to the airship that would take us to England. Home for me, a whole new world for Fatin. We stood still, looking up at the dirigible, named Baldur, after the Norse god of light and purity. Fatin's face was still, serious.
"Have you seen a dirigible before?"
Fatin nodded. "Yes. You can see them passing overhead sometimes."
"So now you know. They are not gods."
She reached out and slapped the back of my head. "We know. Gods do not look like this. They don't look like anything. They tell other things what to look like."
"Let's get on board."
Baldur was a relatively small dirigible, and fairly modern. It had three decks. The cabins on the lower deck were the most desirable, because they had portholes through which one could see the Earth as we passed over it. Naturally, we were on the top deck because we were late in booking. The crew had thoughtfully put a small cot in the cabin for Raage. As the airship cast off its moorings, Fatin and I went to the restaurant on the middle deck to have our dinner. We got one of the small tables by a porthole, and Fatin put Raage on the bench next to her, fast asleep. I picked up the menu.
"What is that?" said Fatin.
"It's the menu. It shows what they have to eat."
Fatin looked at it more closely, frowning.
"How?" she asked.
I pointed. "That means, 'Sausages and mash'. That line means 'Fish and chips, choice of baked beans and peas.' That line means..."
Fatin smiled. "The only word I understand is 'fish'. Will these people allow us to fish?"
"They will bring it to us if we ask them. But not to me. I am having sausages."
A waiter came. I ordered fish and chips for Fatin, sausages for myself, a large jug of water, and my first pint of ale in a year. When it arrived, I simply put it on the table in front of me and looked at it for a moment. Then, I drank half of it. When I opened my eyes, Fatin was looking at me, an amused little half-grin on her face. I offered her my pint. Just a sip wouldn't turn Raage into an alcoholic. Her face when she tasted the ale was a picture. She handed the glass back to me, clearly thinking that I had lost what little sanity I had. Our food arrived, and she sniffed it suspiciously, then licked her fingers and picked up a hot piece of fish, blowing on it. She tasted the piece, and seemed to like it.
I looked at her knife and fork, lying ignored next to her plate. The enormity of what I had done became clear to me. Here was a grown woman, who would have to learn how to feed herself. All of the knowledge she had spent her whole life acquiring, would be useless to her. She would be helpless without me, in the cold lands of Great Britain. Did she realise? Would she have followed me so readily if she had known? I leaned over and kissed her.
"What was that for?" she said, not displeased.
"Everything."
As I was showing Fatin how to use a fork, there was a noise and I looked up. A man was standing next to our table, dressed in a beige suit, wearing a Panama hat.
"I thought it was you, Mister Tennant. Taking your work home with you I see?"
"Mr. Riley," I said.
I didn't know the man very well, but Alex had clearly loathed him. On closer inspection, he was looking a bit worse for wear. Bruises were almost healed on his face. He seemed reluctant to take his right hand out of his pocket.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
Actually, I did, but being English, I gave the one possible answer.
"Please do, Mr. Riley. How do you do?"
He sneered. "Not as good as I'd like, but not as bad as it could've been. Oh. When next you meet Oberst Klemm, stay the hell away from him. He's not friendly anymore."
"Klemm has switched sides?"
"Nope. He's still on the same side. His own. He's just got different people paying him now."
"What about Master Nazeem?"
"Ain't seen him since we parted ways aboard Boreas. Old fraud probably used his turban for a parachute. I'd stay the hell away from him too, just on principle."
"Ah," I said. I looked at his face. "Is that what you are doing at the moment?"
"Me? Run away from those goddamn amateurs? That'd be the day. No, I've got word that someone tried to top your sister."
"Top..." I stared. "There's been an attempt on Alexandra's life?"
Riley laughed in an unpleasant way. "God I love the way you Brits talk. Yes. Someone tried to kill her. She told him not to, but the shithead got away. So I'm gonna see if I can do better than those idiots in their bowler hats."
"I want to have a word with the man who did that," I said.
"Draw a number," said Riley. "I got dibs on his kneecaps and fingernails."
I glanced at Fatin. She was fussing a bit with Raage and didn't appear to have followed our conversation. Then she gave me a brief glance that told me she had, and didn't want anything to do with it.
"This flight goes straight to Heath Row," said Riley. "From there, I'm taking the train to Ipswich. Get there a hell of a lot quicker than this thing flies. Want to come with, Mr. Tennant?"
I gave Fatin a look. She picked up Raage. "You said not to take off my dress unless we are alone," she said in Ajuru. "Raage is hungry too. Please take me to our bed?"
"Give me a moment to get rid of him," I said. Fatin nodded. How useful to have a language nobody else could speak. I turned to Riley.
"We seem to be going in the same direction. We'll be happy to travel with you. But now, we need to see to our child's needs, so I will bid you goodnight."
Raage was about to wake up, moving slowly. Riley put out his hand, and touched his finger to Raage's palm. Raage gripped it tightly. I took a short breath. Riley's right hand was... the wrong shape. It looked like he could not straighten his fingers. What had happened to him? I could not ask, and to be honest, I didn't want to.
We went to our cabin, and Fatin set to feeding Raage. She looked up to me.
"That man frightens me," she said. "There is no... no feeling in his eyes. It has been removed from him."
"We may need him," I said. "Someone has tried to kill Alex. Why would anyone do that? We must find out."
Fatin looked miles away. "It may be too high a price to pay. Elder Hanad once told of such a man. He had suffered at the hands of another tribe, and had lost all the love for his fellow humans. A man like he is will cut the hands and feet off a small child with no more feeling than you or I would feel picking herbs. Elder Hanad knew this. He..." she hesitated a moment. "He sent him away."
"Elder Hanad is a wise man," I said.
"He did not go willingly. Elder Hanad..." she trailed off.
"He had to insist," I said.
Fatin nodded quietly. "We never used that campsite again."
Fatin finished feeding Raage, and put him in the cot, where he fell asleep immediately. I ran my fingers over his little head, small dark curls already growing. Fatin had taken off her dress, folded it up and put it under the pillow. I looked at her a moment. Ajuru women normally wore only a skirt, leaving their breasts out in plain sight. It wasn't that they were exposing themselves exactly, it was just not a part of the body that was covered up. Now that she had taken off a Western dress, Fatin seemed somehow more naked now, than she had been with much more of her skin in sight. I got in the bed next to her, put my arms round her. Fatin put her head on my shoulder, closed her eyes and sighed. Raage, in his cot, made a few little noises, then a loud snort, after which he started breathing normally again. Fatin wriggled a bit, getting more comfortable on the soft mattress, and fell asleep as I watched her.
Alexandra Tennant: Make neither love nor war
Rack in ruin - Who is the fairest? - Girls' night in - Distraction - Not as much fun as you thought
A topic that is shied away from in discussions of the ethics of killing, is how satisfying it can be. To watch a human being turn into a thing because you, you wished it to be so. It is a dark part of the human psyche, and not a popular one to explore. We are human, and we wish to project the evils of this world onto designated "evil" beings. To contemplate that we too are prone to committing even the most evil of acts is not a comfortable thought. Still, we must. If we are to understand the darkness, we must blow out the candle, and meet it.
Fourteen people now lie dead because I killed them. I do not blindly hack and slash at my enemies. I am a precision instrument. At the base of all my killings lies a cold and rational decision. That person must die. I take great care to be precise, so that they die quickly. I will aim for either the head, or the heart. When I see them fall, the first emotion is one of satisfied elation. Next comes a wave of remorse, doubt, guilt. Then, my reason reminds me of why I took aim at this person, and that makes most of the guilt go away. I put my own life, and that of my loved ones, above that of those who seek to take it away from us. I will kill to defend myself and mine, without hesitation.
There is only one kill that I remember most vividly. A man who had come upon me in the night, seeking to violate me. He was caught, and his officer sent him away into the jungle, hands tied behind his back, with no food or water. I took out my rifle, and shot him in the head. The satisfaction I felt as I saw his head bloom up in red fragments was more intense than any other. The resulting guilt was correspondingly large. My rational thoughts were quick to explain that I had saved the man a slow and agonising death, but to this day, that explanation does not drive away the guilt. Am I lying to myself? Did I truly wish to spare that soldier the suffering he was in for, or did I simply want him dead because I hated him?
If the former, then I need to think on this no more. I acted out of kindness, and no more is to be said. If the latter, then there is a dark patch in my soul that will continue to haunt me until the day I die.
-- Alexandra Tennant, "Decisions on the spot"
It was evening when I stood in my bedroom, looking at the ruins. My assailant and I had not been careful with the furniture, having other things on our minds. For him to kill me, and for me to stop him from doing so. Nobody had come yet to restore order to the room. The old cleaning lady had presumably taken one look at it, thought that nobody was paying her enough for this, and rightly so. It struck me that I probably owed my life to the girl with the amorous intentions towards me, because if I had been in bed asleep, rather than searching my soul by the window, then I would be dead now. A cowardly deed, though I couldn't fault the efficiency.
There was a noise behind me, and I turned round to see Linda Davenport. She was staring at the scene with wide eyes behind her glasses.
"Oh my God," said Linda. "I heard that you'd been attacked, but not... this." She turned toward me. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, quite alright," I said with a smile. "A frank and open discussion ending with me still breathing. Are you here for an interview?"
"This is a bit on the heavy side for the Clarion," said Linda. "Anyway, I'd get embargoed three ways till Tuesday, pending investigations."
"People interfering with the freedom of the press."
Linda sneered. "Not unreasonable, really. I wouldn't want to write a piece detailing precisely what we know for the murdering bastard to read." She looked round the devastation of the room, then back at me. "You're not sleeping here tonight, are you?"
"I've slept in jungles," I said. "I can probably put the bed back upright."
"I've got a better idea. Melanie went home early for some family business. Her bed is free. Why don't you come and sleep in the dorm? Much safer. The porters have been keeping boys out of our dorms for years, and they are much more motivated than any assassin."
"Is this some way to get me to sleep in the same room as you?" The words left my mouth before I could stop them. I mentally kicked myself.
Linda frowned. "What?"
I took a deep breath. "I am truly sorry, Linda, I shouldn't have said that. It's just that I overheard that one of the girls in the Rifle Club apparently has a bit of a crush on me." I looked at her seriously. "It's not you, is it?"
Linda gave a little snort. "The issue of the Clarion where I reported on the Rifle Club was the most popular one ever. My love for you is purely Platonic, and fuelled by self interest."
"Thank goodness," I said.
"Hey! I'm not that unattractive, am I? Mind you, I'm not one of the inverts either." She stared at the wall. "I'm wondering who it could be, though."
"So am I."
"Hmm. I'll make some discreet inquiries."
I swallowed. "Please don't stir up too much. I don't want there to be any trouble."
"No worries. I'm good at discreet inquiries." Linda pointed at my trunk. "Want me to help you carry that thing into my bedroom?" She gave me a smouldering look.
Alright, I'd deserved that. "Yes please," I said.
Linda and I, one at each end of my trunk, made our way to the girls' dormitory. She opened the door, and as soon as I was spotted, there was some hurried activity inside. I was absolutely sure I could hear the clink of glass bottles being put away in a hurry. I put down my trunk and looked round the room. Anna was on her bed, practicing the guitar. Jocelyn was lying on the head end of her bed, legs resting up against the wall, looking at me upside down from her History textbook. Florence was writing at the large table. Carrie was sitting opposite her with a copy of the Gazette spread out. Christa was sitting upright on her bed, hands in her lap, looking at me with a very proper expression on her face. Ah.
I walked up in front of Christa and wordlessly held out my hand. She held her composure for maybe three seconds, then sighed and reached behind her. I looked at the bottle, and shuddered as I read the label: Greene Faerie Absinthea. I looked sadly at Christa.
"You know what this stuff is, right? Apart from contraband."
"Yes Ma'am," said Christa.
"It's essentially sugar, ethanol and paint. The only place I've seen worse rotgut was in a boys' dormitory. But their livers are their own to worry about." I looked round the room. "Who of you have been drinking this swill?"
There was some uncomfortable shuffling all round the room, and a few wavering hands went up. I looked at Carrie, but she pointed at a half-a-gallon bottle of a dark fizzy drink that was slowly making its way from the Americas.
"Never touch the stuff," said Carrie. "I've got other things."
There were a few giggles from around the room, and I decided I didn't want to know. I walked over to the open window, held the bottle out and turned it over. Then, I dropped the bottle. I walked over to my trunk and from under a stack of clean shirts produced a bottle of gin, two bottles of Indian tonic water and some lemons I'd acquired from the kitchen. I'd been meaning to invite Margaret over to my room for drinks, but these girls' need was greater than even hers.
"If you smuggle booze into a dorm, girls, at least get the good stuff. Save up for it, it's worth it."
Collective jaws dropped as I pulled out my parang and started slicing lemons. I gave them a grin.
"I'm not a teacher."
Linda sat down at the table next to me and accepted a tea mug of G&T. She sipped.
"What were you doing in a boys' dorm with all that booze?"
I spent the evening in a gentle cloud of nostalgia for my own boarding school days, no doubt enhanced somewhat by the gin and tonic. I stopped short of feeding the Rifle Club drunk, I hasten to add. Bonding through shared illicit alcohol is one thing, drunken orgies and debauchery are another. As Paracelsus says: it is the dose that makes the poison. The discussions leapt merrily from one subject to the other, underscored by the gentle tones of Anna practicing a Vivaldi guitar concerto on her guitar. The subject of boys came up, and I raised a finger.
"If I may ask, Jocelyn, what is going on between you and Nigel? You're giving the poor boy a heart attack every time you're near him."
"He deserves it," said Rina. "Trust me."
"How so?"
Rina and Jocelyn exchanged 'You or me' type glances. Jocelyn waved Rina on.
"Right. Tell me. What is the one subject that boys never get tired of?"
"Girls?" I said. A safe guess.
"Yes, but narrow it down."
"Pretty girls?"
"Nono, I'm thinking of narrowing it down to specific parts of a girl."
"Parts, plural," I said.
"Yes," said Rina.
"Ah."
"So the boys were having a 'scholarly debate' on who of us had the best... parts."
"A really in-depth discussion," added Christa. "About who had the nicest tits. Fascinating."
"I still have the list somewhere," said Linda. "I was going to put it in the Clarion, with full jury's comments. But then I suddenly got a bad case of good taste, so I didn't."
"I won," said Anna, without skipping a beat in one of the hard bits of the piece she was playing.
"But not without a fight," said Jocelyn. She smiled sweetly "Nigel nominated me. As I was walking past."
"I would have smacked him," said Carrie.
"Oh no fun," said Jocelyn. She looked at me with a wicked grin. "I jumped into his lap and showed him what he was talking about."
I pictured this in my mind. Jocelyn, with her long dark hair, lightly tanned skin and expressive dark brown eyes, certainly had a kind of romantic beauty about her. Overly gifted in the dairy department however she was not.
"Maybe he likes you," I ventured.
Jocelyn shook her head, staring ahead of her. "I'm crazy girl. Stay away or you might catch it." She looked up at me, with a sad, serious look in her eyes that was shockingly different from her usual exuberance. "Just as well, really. Wouldn't want to..."
Jocelyn grabbed her drink and emptied it in one go. I was tempted to offer her another one, but it was probably better not to. When she looked back at me, the sparkle had returned to her face, and she snapped her fingers.
"I know! I'll turn Atheist, so I don't have to worry about morality anymore. Then I can borrow one of your rifles and shoot him in the knee."
"Ahem," said Christa. "Where do you get the idea that Atheists have no morals?"
Linda leaned over to me. "Christa is our designated Godless Heathen," she whispered.
"Without God, there are no absolute morals," said Jocelyn. "And shooting people is fun!"
"You say that absolute morals can only come from God," said Christa. "That is false. I hold that we can derive moral values by observing the world around us and reasoning about what we find."
I noticed the change to Christa's vocabulary now that she had set herself to debating. Atheists are a small and universally mistrusted group of people, and I could hear in Christa's voice that she had had to defend her convictions on many occasions.
"Nonsense," said Jocelyn. "Without God, there is no absolute knowledge, so any notion of good or bad is just opinion."
"Really?" Christa blew a blonde curl out of her face. "Is darkness the absence of light, or is light the absence of darkness?"
"Huh?"
"If we didn't have any information, either could be true, but since we know that light comes from a source, we know that darkness is the absence of light, whether that is the sun or a candle."
"So what? So we can know some things, but morality is not a thing to be measured with a yardstick. It's only in our minds. No minds, no good or bad."
"Not so," said Christa. "Imagine there is a kitten, all alone. No people around, and it is being squashed under a rock, and in great pain. Is this good, or bad?"
"Oh you are pulling out the kittens on me," said Jocelyn, with a sniff. "The answer is neither. The kitten may be suffering, but it's only in the kitten's small fluffy mind. And kittens don't know good from bad."
"Is it not a fact that all creatures that can suffer, spend their days trying to get away from suffering? If that is not an absolute, then it is relative to so many creatures that the difference is nearly nothing."
"There are people who enjoy being beaten and humiliated," said Jocelyn. "They are called masochists. So not all pain is bad."
"Ah. Masochists' pain is not suffering to them. Their mind works differently."
"Then it depends on who is in pain. Suffering is just someone's opinion. So why is their opinion more important than mine?"
Christa shook her head. "No. Pain is not the same as suffering, and suffering is something all creatures try to avoid. A masochist likes physical pain. They know that they can stop the pain with a single word. They still do not want to be shot, or suffer hunger, cold, or something like that."
"Yeah, but..." Jocelyn raised a finger. "Why is their desire not to suffer more important than my desire to shoot them?"
"Because you are not alone, and you live in a society where the same rules apply to everyone. Would you want to live with people who could rape you or beat you up or shoot you whenever they wanted?"
"No."
"So in order to be in a society where you are safe from people shooting you, a rule that says not to is objectively good, without the need for a divine ruling on the matter."
Christa looked into Jocelyn's eyes, waiting for a response.
"I need a drink," said Jocelyn.
"Miss Tennant tipped it out of the window," said Christa.
"Tipping that stuff out of the window was absolutely morally good," I said. "I can probably justify another small gin and tonic."
Jocelyn considered, then shook her head. "Got a History test tomorrow. I need every ounce of wit I have."
That evening, despite Linda's assurance that the Porters had never let boy nor man slip by them sad to say, I slept back to the wall. I was in the top bed, with one hand on my revolver under the pillow. I didn't sleep very well, partly due to the idea that I was putting these girls at risk by being here, even though there was no way a would-be assassin could know where I was.
In the middle of the night, I felt the bed move, as someone jumped on. In a single motion, I twisted round, sat up, cocked my revolver and aimed it at my assailant. But rather than a murderer, I found myself aiming for the frightened, pale, wide-eyed face of miss Carrie StJohn.
"Jesus Christ," said Carrie, as I quickly pointed my revolver elsewhere, then put it back under the pillow.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry," I said. "Are you alright?"
Carrie took one or two deep breaths. "I should have known you'd be jumpy, sorry." She closed her eyes for a few moments. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"So..." I said, not knowing quite what to say. "What can I do for you?"
Carrie put her back against the wall, and looked at me, a bit nervously. "I heard you were wondering who of us was, um, interested in you. And it was getting on your nerves."
I simply looked at Carrie. She gave a little nervous laugh.
"Well... it's me."
"Ah," I said, somewhat stuck for words. Carrie was very pretty. She wouldn't have any trouble finding a willing boy, so what would she want with a woman? But that of course was a stupid question. She preferred girls. Not many girls would share her... her tastes. She must be so lonely. But then again, how many girls did secretly desire each other? And it would have to be secret, because despite the matter-of-fact attitude Linda and at least one other girl had shown, inverts were still looked down on by some, if not most people. I felt a measure of sympathy for her, as a person in a difficult situation. Still as she sat there, looking at me, the idea of kissing her, pressing my naked body against hers, filled me with a sense of wrongness I was unable to shake. Quite apart from the fact that I was, in a sense, her teacher, with enough authority over her to make the situation uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry, Carrie," I said, finally. "But I just don't..."
Carrie smiled. "Yeah, I got that. From the way you've pulled the blankets up over your boobs."
I looked and found I had done exactly that, without realising or meaning to. Carrie looked back at me with interest, waiting to see whether I would lower the blanket so she could have another look, or keep it up so she could savour my embarrassment a bit longer. Little minx.
She laughed and looked away. "What I wanted to say is, don't worry about it. It's only a little crush. I'm not going to leave flowers at your desk, or write your name in my diary with little hearts round it. I don't want to do it with straight girls anyway. It never works out."
Despite myself, I wondered what she meant.
"Most of them are ready enough to give it a try," said Carrie. "So I turn them into a happy little puddle, because I'm pretty good if I say so myself. But then it's my turn and then they go all 'yecch' on me. Now how's that fair?"
I laughed, a bit nervously. "Not fair at all. I'm sorry. How hard is it to find a girl who's willing?"
"Unicorn in a haystack," said Carrie. "A miracle when I do find someone."
I sighed. "That must be hard."
"Would be, if I only liked girls. There's a few who really don't want anything to do with boys. Worse for them than it is for me. So. No need to feel sorry, I'm fine really, and I won't try to seduce you. Promise."
"But you'll still be looking at my boobs?"
"Well yeah!" Carrie gave me a grin, and dropped down from the bed.
"Um," I said, to nobody in particular. That seemed to suffice.
Carrie had assured me that I was safe from her Sapphic attentions. Nevertheless, it was written in the stars that I would not sleep easy that night. I hovered between dreaming and waking, and I dreamt mostly of dark figures showing up in the night. This was unfortunate, because it took me a moment too long to realise that the figure that appeared before me was not a dream. I tried to aim my revolver, but my attacker grabbed my wrist and slammed my hand on the edge of the bed, so that my revolver went clattering on the ground. A hand with a knife came down, and I only just managed to grab it. We wrestled for a moment. I could not push hard enough to turn the knife away, but my attacker could not bring enough leverage to bear to press it into my body. To break the impass, I threw myself off the bed, and managed to unbalance my opponent. The movement, though, was not controlled enough to dislodge my attacker, who recovered and tripped me up. I fell to the floor with my attacker on top of me. I clawed at the face, and ripped away the mask. I stared for a moment. Up to now, I'd assumed that the assassin would be a man. Now, I saw my mistake. I recognised the old woman who cleaned our rooms. Except that she was not as old as I'd thought. Her strength was frightening. She pushed down on the knife with all her weight, and I could just barely keep her from pressing it down. With a vicious snarl, she suddenly pulled up, rammed her knee into my midriff, and pressed down again. I coughed, fighting for breath. I felt the strength leave my arms, and the knife slowly came down. I screamed as the point of the knife pierced my skin.
There was a loud noise, and the pressure fell away. Finally seeing my chance, I twisted the point of the knife away from me and threw my attacker off. It was surprisingly easy to do. I raised my hand, and chopped her in the throat. She made a choking noise, and rolled onto her back, gasping for breath. To finish it off, I punched her in the stomach, once, twice, three times. She stopped moving, staring into the air with wide-open eyes.
As I looked round, I saw Jocelyn. She was on her knees, in her nightgown, eyes wide open, and she was breathing fast. In her hands, she was clutching my revolver. I leapt for her, and turned the revolver to the floor. She almost threw it away from her. I put down the revolver, and held her face in my hands. She screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to see. I put my arms round her. She felt so awfully thin and fragile.
"It's alright," I said. "Everything is fine."
Jocelyn looked into my eyes, and her teeth were chattering.
"It's... not... fun," she said.
People came. My attacker had suffered a gunshot wound that had punctured a lung, but she was still alive. She was rushed to the infirmary, where the surgeons managed to stabilise her for now. Porters were now at the doors of every dorm, every hallway. They knew they had failed in their duties and were doing everything they could to make amends. In the bed next to me, Jocelyn was asleep, sedated. The door opened, and Margaret came in. She looked me over once, then embraced me with a surprising force.
"I'm so glad you're alright." She let go of me to look into my eyes. "Are you?"
I forced a smile. "Yes. Yes I am. Poor Jocelyn."
Before she had been given the sleeping draught that had knocked her out cold, I had been reassuring her over and over again that the woman was alive. Jocelyn had saved my life. Nobody had died, thanks to her. I wasn't sure how much of it had penetrated the state of shock she was in. I wanted to be there when she woke up, or the doctors would have sedated me as well. Margaret all but pushed me into my bed.
"She'll be asleep for ages," said Margaret. "I'll be there when you wake up, and then you can be there when she wakes up. Deal?"
Soft pillows touched my face. The blankets were soft and warm.
"Deal," I managed to say, before I fell asleep.
Philip Tennant: A passing kindness
The riddle of steel - The faith that moves mountains - A parting gift - Forever autumn - A solemn oath
One of the advantages of educating one's own children while exploring is that usually, a number of eminent scientists are near, who are quite willing to keep their teaching hand in by explaining to your children all they could need or want of their chosen subject. Another advantage is that the subject of their teachings will be right under your children's noses. Alexandra and Carl took full advantage of this situation. One of the experts, of course, was the ship's captain, who taught them all about navigation and how to manage a ship. Unfortunately, other experts included the sailors, who taught them a large number of choice swearwords and songs that I have forbidden my children from ever repeating until they reach the age of twenty-one, or in one particularly obscene, graphic and explicit case, one-hundred and twenty.
-- Philip Tennant, Parenting for explorers
As I write this, there is on my desk a steel brush, given to me by the enigmatic Mr. Andrew Parsons. The man is simply mentally incapable of recognising a joke when he hears it. Despite this, he is apparently able to design, in his head, a steam-powered vehicle that can safely carry my children through a barrage of mortar fire. There are those who look down on psychology, the study of various types of insanity and human thought. True scientists prefer a subject that does not squelch and shift like mud or loose sand. And yet, if we could study and understand the very nature of thinking itself, we could rectify so many things that are demonstrably wrong in peoples' thinking.
One of the experiences that connects people of faith and the non-religious, is the notion that the other party does not really believe or not believe what they say they do. In the case of Itzel, there was no doubt in my mind that she believed the tenets of her Meso-american superstitions like one believes the existence of the Earth and Sun. If I were a psychologist, I might perhaps have found the right way to rid her of the ridiculous idea that she would be convincing a god to whisper the secrets of metallurgy into my ear. As it was, there was nothing, nothing I could do to save poor Itzel from the fate that awaited her. The hour of her death was set. Even if I were to throw myself into the fire, still she had other messages to convey. All I could do was make her remaining time as meaningful as possible.
And so I applied myself to the problem. I knew how to make steel, in principle: Melt down iron in a crucible, adding just enough charcoal, and removing the impurities that make the steel brittle. In a society that is powered by machines, not to know these things would be unimaginable. I had the people of Anctapolepl construct a kiln, from mud bricks, and willing slaves worked the bellows for hours on end to make the charcoal fire as hot as it possibly could be. The King had his subjects search high and low for iron ore, and I had a good supply.
The King's spies had raided a camp of European travellers for tools such as a heavy hammer, tongs. In fact, even without the great warrior Huitzilopochtli seeing fit to supply me with information, I started a modest foundry, and perhaps with another lifetime, I might have produced a cannon or perhaps blades of steel worth having.
One thing I found quite early was that I lacked the sheer physical strength to work the iron. I mentioned this to the King, and the next day a mountain of a man named Yaotl reported for duty. He was a simple soul, and hit with my hammer what I told him to hit. It worked very well. Yaotl's story was a remarkable one. There were many gods in that accursed city, and each of them had to be appeased in a different way. Yaotl had been a designated sacrifice for Tezcatlipoca and the proper way of killing a man in that god's honour was to give him a weapon with feathers instead of sharp obsidian, tie him to a heavy rock, and have him fight against fully armed warriors. Yaotl ended up killing ten warriors with his wooden stick, and then five more with his bare fists. The priests then decided that Tezcatlipoca did not wish for his death, and gave him a job that his strength and ferocity could do proper justice. As it happens, not all sacrifices go gently into that good night, which is a sign of weakness. Yaotl's job was to remove these miserable cowards from the queue and dispose of them in less honourable ways. Yaotl excelled at this job, and the sight of him standing by the road to oblivion was enough to put some courage into faltering hearts.
"Huitzilopochtli is easy," said Yaotl, in one of his rare talkative spells. "Just a cut here..." he indicated his stomach. "Take out the tona, badoom badoom, and off they go. Huehueteotl hurts much more. They put you on the fire till you are nearly dead, and then they cut out your tona. And then there are the children for Tlaloc and Chalchiuhtlicue They have to cry because every tear is worth a rainstorm on the fields. Many ways to make them cry." he pointed at Itzel, who was sitting a way away, talking to a peasant. "I can tell. She is a good sacrifice. She will lie down herself, and thank the priest. She has strong faith. Her destiny is high. I am honoured to help you, because she also helps you."
Guns do not fire by sheer faith, and I knew that I needed to produce gunpowder. Every school boy knows what gunpowder is made of: sulphur, saltpetre, and a dash of charcoal. The King arranged for me to have a plentiful supply of all these things, and I can only imagine how many of his subjects died in obtaining these noxious substances.
It was plain to me from the start that King Ilhicamina was quite mad. He would come to me every few days or so and ask me how it was going. I made sure always to be able to show him something. A demonstration of the sharpness of a strip of steel, unworthy of being called a knife. I could shatter a piece of obsidian with one of my axes. But most of all, King Ilhicamina loved explosions. I would prepare a bowl of my gunpowder and light it, making fountains of sparks leap up and turning the room black with smoke and soot. It took some experimentation to find the right proportions, and I never showed the King my best mixtures, just so I could show him progress when the situation called for it. I made bombs out of iron, and demonstrated their destructive potential. The King was utterly taken in, and I was denied nothing that I asked for.
Every evening, I would sit with Itzel, and go through my notes. I made sure always to give her only the most important of questions for Huitzilopochtli. If I were to ask her for too much, she might despair of remembering it correctly and go to her death afraid of failing her people, her god, and perhaps even me. However, I still underestimated her, even though the things I did give her to remember would have challenged any of our greatest minds, considering they'd have to remember words in Ancient Greek or Chinese. Her recall was perfect as that of a photographic plate. One evening, I was sitting with her, going through my notes, when she put a hand on my arm.
"Philip? Why do you use so much paper and ask so few questions?"
"It is important that all my questions reach Him without fail," I said. "It is not always that I am able to ask questions of the very Gods themselves. I ask you only the most important of things."
Itzel laughed, and I was drawn in by the sparkle in that smile and her gleaming dark eyes.
"Philip, since I came here, there have been three score and twelve people who brought me their messages for Huitzilopochtli. I remember them all. I even remember the small differences between them, and that is not easy because they are mostly the same. Feed my children. Keep me from harm. Make me a stronger fighter. Help me prove my worth to the King, so he will let me live." Itzel's face was now very close to mine. "They all ask things for themselves, and they are all important. But your words are for my people. Your words are the most important of all, because they ask how you can help every one of them, and nothing for yourself." Itzel bit her lip. "Their words are easy. Yours are hard. I would not want to stand before Him, and have Him scowl at me and say 'Is that all?' I love your words. I want them. I want them all. Each and every one of them. Do not give a strong man just a single straw to carry. Give me a full load, one that I can be proud of."
I gave Itzel a long look. I knew of people in England who had memorised the Bible in its entirety. There were people who could recall every single plant in the Western hemisphere, complete with their names in Latin, English, French, the shapes of their leaves, and the number of petals on their flowers. At that moment, I wanted to take wings and fly with Itzel back to England, and satisfy her hunger for knowledge from the interminable libraries of Oxford, Cambridge, even Ipswich. I wanted her to amaze the professors there with the power of her incredible memory. Suddenly, I laughed with her, then raised a finger.
"'t Was brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe."
I raised an eyebrow. Well?
Itzel repeated the first line of Lewis Carroll's nonsensical poem, perfectly, beautifully.
"I can tell this is different from the others," said Itzel. "What does this mean?"
"Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. These words are just there to be themselves, and beautiful. And I wanted to hear you say them."
Itzel settled back in her chair.
"Give me more," she said.
The days went by far too quickly, and I gave Itzel the heavy load she asked for. Without fail, she repeated back to me questions on metallurgy, on chemistry, on the mechanics of firearms. At the end of each week, she would repeat back to me all that I had given her to memorise. I never did catch her on any mistakes, not even a single one. In the beginning, not all of my questions made sense. I did not expect answers to them, so as long as Itzel felt she was helping her people, all was well. As time went on, though, inevitably my experiments into rocketry, weapon production and chemistry faltered, I found myself asking her things that I really wanted to know. The distinction faded away between a ruse for poor Itzel's comfort, and my own desires for knowledge. One evening when Itzel had retired to her bed, I realised that I was actually working with her, as though each one of my words would truly reach the ear of the gods, and in some impossible way the answers would return to me. I sat down on the side of my bed, and once more racked my brain for a way in which I could escape with Itzel. One look at my misshapen body was enough. I had climbed mountains to come here. I had swum rivers. Things I was now utterly incapable of. I had no fit body, and I did not know the way. Could I convince the King that I had not yet asked all of Itzel that I needed to know, and put off her death to the next cycle? No. Could I denounce her as incompetent? No. Her work was beyond reproach, and at any rate, it would not prevent her from being sacrificed. And the one thing that I could not solve, even if I were magically to overcome all the other obstacles, was this: Itzel would not want to leave. Her resolve, her courage, her dedication to the task before her, was what made her the formidable woman that she was.
That evening, I put my head in my hands, and wept quietly.
Even with my limited knowledge and tools, I was not without my successes. Using the cire-perdu or lost wax method, I was able to produce a primitive small iron cannon, and fire a cannonball with it. The shot destroyed one of their hideous statues, much to the King's delight. But that was the limit of my abilities. I kept myself busy, producing mostly entertainment for King Ilhicamina, and things to remember for Itzel, to distract her from thinking about the looming day of her departure.
Yaotl, my hulk of a man servant, proved more useful with time, and he would no doubt become a competent blacksmith in his own right some day. Already some of the palace guards were wielding battle axes that he had made to my designs. He had also made a metal axe to match his own stature, and could be seen walking about town with it. It was more than up to the task of splitting the skulls of the insufficiently devout.
Except for Yaotl, and the servants who brought me food and tidied up my workshop, I never got to know most of the servants who moved my things around, worked the bellows, or mined for the minerals I needed. They were afraid of me, and I saw no need to engage them in conversation. Towards King Ilhicamina, I affected a servile and fawning demeanor that sickened me, but seemed to convince him that I was his unwaveringly loyal servant, ready to aid him in removing the Spaniards from his beloved homelands with fire and sword.
Autumn drew to a close, and the month of Quecholli drew to an end. The first day of the next month, Panquetzaliztli, would see the great festival in honour of the god Huitzilopochtli. At this point, I had nearly convinced myself that Itzel's faith was true, and that the spark of sunlight that was her life would truly travel to the Gods, to convey my messages to them. There was in her eyes a sense of anticipation, an eager desire to set off on a difficult journey to the unknown. We rehearsed the long list of questions I had asked of the Gods, and she repeated them without fail, without a syllable out of place. She looked at me with a proud gleam in her dark eyes, and my heart beat faster. I took her hand between mine.
"Itzel," I said, "you are perfect. No one else but you could have accomplished this. When you meet... Him, stand before him with your head up high. You have earned it."
"Do you have more to give me?"
I shook my head. "I have given you all I need, and more. Have no fear. The people of Anctapolepl will rise from the shadows. Their tomorrow will be a brighter one, and you will see it from the seat of the Gods."
Itzel closed her eyes, and bowed her head. I could see tears trickle down her cheek. "Thank you, Philip Tennant."
It was the last day of the month. Tomorrow would be the day of fate. I no longer thought of escape for Itzel. It was not possible. I would gladly have given my own life so that she could live, but that life was no longer mine to give. I had pledged it to the King, and to his people. On the last night, I could not sleep. I sat in my bed, looking at the distorted green moonlight through the opaque window of my chamber. There was the noise of the beaded curtain, and she entered, quiet as a shadow. I could not find any words to say to her, and simply looked at her.
"Philip?"
"Yes?"
"I have a final gift to give to you, but I will want something in return."
"Anything that is mine to give, is yours."
"Good." Itzel smiled. She pulled open her dress, and with a shrug of her shoulders, it fell to the floor. She stood before me naked, green moonlight shining on her brown skin, beautiful beyond compare.
"Itzel..."
She sat down on the bed next to me and took my hand. "From the day I was captured in the Flower War, I have been the comfort of others. The Gods will see to their needs because of me. I have been a nurse. I have been a priestess. I have walked the streets as the image of the Gods. But I have not been a woman. I wish to be a woman one more time, and that will be your gift to me." Itzel bent over, and put her hand on my stunted knee under the blanket. For all the beauty of her naked body, I could not look away from her eyes. "And you, Philip Tennant of England, no longer think yourself to be a man, because of what you lost. We have healed your wounds, but we have not healed you of that. I will show you that you are a man, and that will be my gift to you."
She gripped my hand tighter, and put it to her warm breast. In all the time since I met her, I had never once looked at Itzel with lustful intent. Not because I am a particularly virtuous man, but because she was right. Lying with her was a mis-matched concept like eating a cloud, sitting on a line from a poem.
I looked at my hand, then into her eyes, and dared to move my fingers a little. I could hear her breathe in. Felt her move under my hand. I reached up to her face, ran my fingers through her hair. She pulled away the blanket and lay down, half next to me, half on top of me. I put my arms round her, and we kissed.
We made love that night, starting out carefully, not wanting to break the spell, startle the other into retreat. Then, when that notion disappeared, hungrily, urgently, gripping each other tight. We left nothing untried, not an inch of skin untouched, no notion unacted-upon, no pleasure ungiven. Finally slowly, softly, tired, not wanting ever to stop. I looked up at her, her long hair sticking to her skin, gleaming and salty with the exertion. She lay down on top of me, kissed me one more time, then lay down next to me, put her head on my shoulder, and closed her eyes.
The next morning, Itzel was gone, and servants came to help me dress in rich garments, worthy of the King's Sorceror, or perhaps his fool. For the occasion, I was carried in a wooden chair by two warriors. My absent leg throbbed with pain as I entered the cavern with the temple inside. At mid-day, the light of the sun would strike the altar, and the sacrifice would begin.
At the foot of the stairs sat the King and certain of his functionaries on a throne. My chair was set down at his right hand, and at the sound of a horn, the rituals began. Priests slowly, solemnly, climbed the stairs and stepped into the altar room, chanting their eerie prayers to the Great Warrior Huitzilopochtli. The chanting raised to a crescendo as the first light of the Sun touched the top of the pyramid, then suddenly stopped. I heard the sound of voices coming from the tunnel through which we had entered. Flanked by soldiers, the long line of sacrifices walked into the cavern. Yaotl was doing his usual duty of watching over the line of supplicants, searching for any faltering heart. On this occasion, there were none, least of all the proud figure leading the queue. She was dressed in the purest white. Gone was all her jewellery. In her hands, she carried a single flower. She was singing in Nahuatl, a hymn that to this day I have not been able to banish from my memory. As she walked past, she looked up to me, and smiled. I smiled back, and held out my hand to her. Itzel closed her eyes, then stepped forward, pride in her bearing, to the stairs. There were several dozen sacrifices, men, women. I did not look at them. Only one had my interest. Her steps on the stairway were steady and proud, and not once did she falter or hesitate. When she reached the top of the stairs, she raised her hand high, then dropped the flower on the floor. Itzel entered the altar room.
The priests in the room now raised their voices, a loud harsh noise echoing through the whole cavern. There was a moment of silence. Then, I heard the sound that I still hear in my worst nightmares.
Itzel screamed.
I started to shake, hoping beyond hope that something might have gone wrong, that the sacrifice would not have continued. But my hopes and prayers were all in vain. A few torturous moments after I had heard Itzel's voice, two priests came out of the altar room carrying a red-stained bundle of cloth and flesh and bone. With a heave they tossed it onto the giant's stairs, and it came tumbling down, down, until with a sickening thud it landed on the apetlatl. Thank God, I was too far away to see in detail Itzel's lovely face, misshapen into a mask of dread, her arms and legs broken from the fall. I could imagine them well enough, and almost I fainted. From above, more cries were heard, and with the frightening regularity of an abbatoir, more bodies, empty husks, came tumbling down the stairs. I absently noticed Yaotl charging into the line, grabbing one of the miserable men whose courage failed him. He threw him roughly to the floor, put a large foot on his throat, then swung his axe and smashed in his skull. Then, he grabbed his leg and dragged the corpse away.
I closed my eyes, and the shell of faith that I had carefully constructed for Itzel's sake shattered into a thousand pieces. Gone was my conviction that Itzel was speeding towards her God. All that remained was the realisation that a beautiful, gifted, and kind woman was now dead.
There was a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up into the face of the King.
"She is flying to Huitzilopochtli now," said King Ilhicamina, with a sickening tone of satisfaction in his voice. "Soon, you will know all that you need to know, and my people will rise again."
"Yes, your Highness," I said. "I hear her speaking even now."
In that moment, I swore the most terrible oath that I have ever kept. I swore upon my faith, upon my very life, and upon the memory of my beloved Itzel, that I would make the King his weapons. I would make the King his tools of war. And then I swore with all the force left in me. I swore that I would leave no stone of that thrice-accursed city standing upon the other.
I swore that I would bring it down.
Alexandra Tennant: The truth will make you flee
The sick bed of Jocelyn - A father's care - Questions - Glad to see some, others not so much - Answers
These are the golden rules of the Algernon Rifle club.
- Never point a firearm at any creature you are not prepared to kill. Be aware at all times where your firearm is pointing.
- Faith is not a virtue when handling firearms. Believing that a rifle is clean, that a rifle is not loaded, that the safety is on, that there is nobody ahead, has cost people their lives. Do not believe. Know.
- On the range, follow the instructions of the marshal exactly, promptly, and without question. If you are the marshal, you are the law. Act accordingly.
- The rifle you are given is your responsibility for the duration of the session. The session ends when the rifle is clean, oiled, and securely locked away.
- The highest scorer of the session is officially entitled to the last biscuit in the jar.
-- Alexandra Tennant, "Statutes of the Algernon Rifle Club"
"Oh drat!"
I looked up from my copy of the Gazette. Next to me, Jocelyn was sitting bolt upright in her bed, staring ahead of her.
"What's the matter?" I put down the newspaper.
"What's the time? My history test! I spent absolutely ages studying for it!"
"They'll let you sit it later, don't worry."
Jocelyn lay back down. "Blast it. Spent three evenings learning all those bloody dates. All those stupid nations and whose side they were on."
I kept my face completely straight. "That will serve you well later in life."
Jocelyn gave me a hard look. "You're selling me a dog, aren't you?"
"Only a little one. How are you feeling?"
She thought a while. "Alright, I guess... Those doctors have some good dope here. Out like a light." Her eyes opened wide. "What about you? Are you hurt?"
I pulled open my hospital gown, showing a plaster on my ribs. "Have had worse. And it could have been a lot worse if it wasn't for you." I reached out with my hand and touched her shoulder. "Thank you."
"Any time," said Jocelyn. She breathed in. "God, I actually shot someone. Oh damn am I getting arrested? They're not gonna send me to prison are they?"
"Not for this," I said. "This was legitimate self defence. Mind you, if they find the rest of the bodies..."
Jocelyn chuckled. "They'll never find them. They're too well hidden."
"Good."
The door opened at the end of the hospital ward, and a boy came in, He quickly looked round, saw me and Jocelyn, and came towards us. I gave him a smile.
"Hello Nigel."
"Hi," said Jocelyn.
"I..." Nigel stared at Jocelyn. "I heard you got shot! Are you going to be alright?"
"You heard wrong," said Jocelyn. "I shot someone else."
"Oh..." Nigel stammered a bit. "Good."
"Nice to know you approve. Anything else?"
"No... No. Glad you're alright."
Nigel and Jocelyn looked at each other for a few moments, then Nigel turned round and made for the door. I looked at Jocelyn as an older sister might, and pointed at Nigel's back. She looked back at me with an expression that clearly said: "What?" Then she sighed.
"Nigel!" Jocelyn called.
He turned round. "What?"
"Thank you... for coming to see me." She paused a moment. "I'll lay off you now, promise."
Nigel sneered. "Gee. Thanks." He turned round and went out the door.
I shook my head at Jocelyn. "Throw yourself into his arms, why don't you?"
Jocelyn flopped back onto the pillows. "It's a good offer. Don't knock it."
Next to arrive was Dr. Bernhardt, a friendly man in his fifties. He took the bandage from my chest, and inspected the stitches. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, put some ointment on and covered it with a new bandage while Jocelyn looked on. With me seen to, he turned to Jocelyn, listened to her heart, shone a light into her eyes with a little gas torch, and nodded.
"We'll have you out of here by tonight, young lady. We'll arrange a few sessions for you with Dr. Schmidt, so you can get things off your chest, and then the world awaits you."
"And what about my daughter?" Father stood by my bed, leaning on his cane. He had walked all the way from his study to the infirmary, but the look in his eye had nothing to do with any discomfort he mght have felt.
Dr. Bernhardt turned round. "A nasty cut, Mr. Tennant, but she is healing well. No infection."
"Excellent, thank you Doctor," said Father. "Alexandra? Are you ready? We have things to discuss."
I moved my arms experimentally. "I'm fine."
"No bones were broken?"
"None to speak of."
"Up you get then."
Dr. Bernhardt bristled at Father. "I have not discharged her yet! She needs more rest. She was stabbed, Mr. Tennant. You don't just shrug that off. I want to keep her under observation for a day or two."
"Nonsense! What she needs, Doctor, is to get out of here and take action to keep this from happening again. You may be used to treating vulnerable young children..." he turned to Jocelyn. "Meaning no offence, young lady."
"None taken," said Jocelyn, with a gleam in her eyes.
Father turned back to the Doctor. "But we Tennants are made of sterner stuff. We must find out who has, twice now, tried to harm Alexandra."
Dr. Bernhardt sighed. "At least let her have breakfast. Surely you can wait that long to return to fighting in the trenches?"
Father tapped his finger on the back of a chair. "Very well then."
Dr. Bernhardt picked up his clipboard, gave us all a stern look, then walked off as the breakfast trolley rolled in. Father turned round the chair, and sat down with a sigh. He turned to Jocelyn and took her hand.
"My dear," he said, "You have saved Alexandra's life, and I thank you. You are a lady of uncommon courage, and if there is anything I can do for you, you have only to name it."
Jocelyn looked at Father with large dark eyes. "I'm not so sure about courage. I nearly wet myself."
Father nodded. "And still you did what you needed to do. There is no shame in being afraid, Miss Jocelyn, as long as you do not let it keep you from your purpose. Courage under fire is the highest achievable honour, and you have achieved it. If ever you find yourself in the same situation again, I am sure you will..."
"Father," I interrupted, "Breakfast."
Breakfast turned out to be a hearty bowl of porridge, toast and marmalade, a hard boiled egg, and a pot of strong tea.
"Luxury!" said Father. "When I was in the Military, the sick were fed gruel made more of water than anything else. It put some backbone into them. In the South-American jungle, we ate only what we could find. And still we ate well, after we freed ourselves of our Western sensibilities. You can make an excellent stew of insect larvae and fungi, as long as the larvae are still alive and fresh, and you have positively identified the mushrooms as non-poisonous."
Jocelyn gave Father a dark look. "Not for me. I'm a vegetarian. Squirming insects are not vegetable."
"Ah. In that case, may I have that egg?"
"Don't give it to him," I said. "He's trying to put you off your breakfast with army stories so he can have it."
Jocelyn picked up her egg and handed it to Father. "Wouldn't have eaten it anyway. Eggs don't grow on trees, remember?"
Father, looking rather pleased with himself, tapped Jocelyn's egg on the side of the table and started peeling it. Despite his calm and casual manner, I could see he was fretting, and I put away my breakfast as quickly as I could. I got up, and changed out of my hospital gown. I assured Jocelyn that she was still a member of the Rifle Club and she was more than welcome to the next session. Then, we walked off the hospital ward and into the hallway.
As we walked to Father's study, I noticed that he was walking better than he had done yesterday afternoon. I could only attribute that to additional resolve. I was on his blind side, and he had to turn his head further than usual to look at me.
"Really," said Father. "How are you?"
I didn't answer for a moment.
"Angry," I said, finally. "This woman has put my friends in danger. If Jocelyn hadn't shot her, she might have slaughtered all of them to get rid of the witnesses." I paused for a few steps. "And I'm angry at myself for allowing her. I should have been alone and awake. I thought she was a man the first time she attacked me."
Father only nodded.
"You're supposed to say that it's not my fault," I said.
"But you would know I'd be lying," said Father. "You are my daughter. I've never wrapped you in cotton. You don't deny your mistakes, you correct them." Father smiled at me. "On the infrequent occasions that they happen."
"Have the police been back already?"
After my first attack, I had given the Constable a brief and mostly accurate account of what had gone on. He had nodded understandingly, written it all down in his notebook, and gone his way.
Father nodded. "I told them to get lost till you woke up, and that you were in no condition to talk."
"For I am a weak and feeble woman," I said. "And there is never a fainting couch around when you need one."
"They bought it, too." Father laughed. "They don't know you. But they'll be back. We have only little time to make some inquiries of our own. We must find out where this assassin woman came from. Who hired her. How she, and not someone else, managed to get chosen as Algernon University staff. Follow the bread crumbs. Ultimately, we want to know who wants you dead."
"And when we do," I said, "I'll put a bullet in their heads."
"How is she?"
Dr. Bernhardt looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
"Good. She is stable, and with proper care I believe she will make a full recovery. She will have her day in court."
"I need to talk to her."
Dr. Bernhardt shook his head. "Out of the question. You yourself are recovering. You are not ready for such a confrontation. She has not spoken a single word, even to me. In fact, I'm not sure she even understands English. This would serve no purpose, and can only harm things."
I leaned forward to the doctor, and caught his eye.
"This woman has tried to kill me twice. I need to know why."
"And you believe she will open up to you? How were you thinking of achieving that? I will not allow it. These matters are best left to the police. In fact, you ought to be in bed."
"I speak seven different African languages, including Arabic. I hardly believe P.C. Plod has the same advantage."
"Miss Tennant," said the Doctor, "The matter is closed. You will not speak with this woman. Now unless you want me to sedate you and strap you to a bed like her, please leave my office."
I do look fairly attractive in a nurse's outfit even if I say so myself. I'd liberated it from the laundry. I also had a tray with some of Father's pills in a paper cup, and a glass of water. The copper on duty in front of her ward was quite taken in.
"Well good evening, nurse..." he took a good long time to read my name badge. "Tennant. I was expecting someone else."
"It's her day off," I said. "Medicine for the cleaning lady."
"Wasted on her, if you ask me," said the copper. "She's been refusing her medicine. So when is your day off?"
My laugh was sparkling as a waterfall on a summer's day. "Naughty naughty. May I?"
"I can refuse you nothing." The guard stepped aside. "For all the good it'll do."
"Thank you," I said, with a brilliant smile. I am such an actress. If ever I give up shooting people, the Ipswich Shakespearean Society will be lucky to have me.
I walked into the ward. They had pulled her bed to the middle of the room. Her arms and legs were tied down with broad leather straps. I was reminded that Algernon University had a psychiatric ward where the criminally insane were studied. A place where I sincerely hoped I would never have to go, even as an observer.
As I walked closer, the woman's eyes turned to me once, then looked away again. There was no sign that she had even recognised me. I put down the tray on a side table. I picked up the glass of water and put it to her lips. The water simply poured down her face, down her neck. I put the glass back on the tray and looked at her. From her disguise, I had assumed that she had been in her sixties. She had lines on her face, but she could not be older than perhaps late forty. Her sleeves were pulled up, and a bottle of saline solution hung above her, keeping her from becoming dehydrated. Another smaller bottle contained pain killer. Her arms were thin, but there was a wiry kind of muscular tone to them, and I knew from experience how strong she was. I checked if the straps were still tight, then I moved my face closer to hers.
"Why?" I asked.
She blinked, but otherwise her face was completely motionless.
"Don't you have anything to say? Nothing personal? Just a job?"
Nothing. Not even a muscle moved on her face.
"You wanted to kill me. Fair enough, if that's your job, but you would also have killed my young friends. And that, I'm a bit disappointed with."
Her eyes were looking right at me, but even so, there wasn't even the smallest sign that she even saw me. I stood up with a jerk. I looked round the room. In one of the glass cupboards, I saw a pair of heavy cutters, normally used to remove plaster casts. I took it out and held it up for her to see.
"You're all doped up with painkiller. Good. That means you won't feel any of this."
I put the cutters to the little finger of her right hand. I looked at her. The blades were pressing down on her skin, and still not a muscle stirred on that face.
"This little piggy went to the market," I said.
I tightened my hands on the cutters. She didn't even brace herself. For all intents and purposes, she might as well have been somewhere else. I could probably cut off all her fingers and still achieve nothing. I could do nothing to this woman that would not put me in serious trouble, and she knew it. Putting my real name on my badge had been a calculated action. All I could be accused of now was dressing up as a nurse, much to the guard's enjoyment. If I had used a false name, I would have been guilty of fraud. If I were actually to go through with this... torture, I would be guilty of much, much more than that. And to be honest, I lacked the stomach for it. I took away the cutters.
"Sod you," I said. She might have given me a little smug smile, but even now, her face remained completely motionless. I picked up my tray, pocketed Father's pills, drank the water, and left.
I had left my clothes in a bag behind a rubbish bin. I picked it up and ducked into the ladies to drop my secret identity. Just as I walked in, one of the doors opened and out came Carrie. She stood still, staring at me. Her eyes went down to my feet, back up again.
"Oh come on," said Carrie. "That's just mean, tempting me like that."
"Shh!" I said. "I have to get out of this uniform."
"You are not helping here."
"And into my own clothes. I'm in disguise."
"So this is not for my benefit then?"
"No, for the copper in front of the cleaner's hospital room." I started to unbutton my uniform. Carrie looked away.
"How's Jocelyn?"
I paused buttoning up my skirt. "She's coping as well as can be expected. And winding my father round her little finger."
"Crazy girl." Carrie sighed. "It's an act, you know? She's not really... well that way."
I buttoned up my blouse and put my shoes on. "Thought it might be. But unless she wants to tell me about it, it's not really for me to pry."
"I guess not."
As I turned round to leave, Carrie's hand was on my arm.
"I'm glad you're alright."
We looked at each other a few moments. Then, I gave her a grin.
"We're like weeds, we Tennants. Impossible to get rid of."
"Good," said Carrie. As I turned round to leave, she added, "Oh. One more thing."
"Hm?"
"Keep that uniform."
As soon as I entered the main hall, carrying the nurse's uniform in a bag, because what can you do, Margaret saw me, pointed at me to fix me in place, and came towards me at full speed.
"I've been looking all over for you! Some people stay in bed when they've nearly been stabbed to death, don't you know?"
"Lack of backbone," I said. "What's going on?"
"Guess who's just turned up at the gates?"
Margaret and I walked double-time to the main gate, where I saw my long-lost brother help a woman dismount from a horse-drawn carriage. She was wearing Carl's overcoat over a white dress. Her face was dark, hidden in the hood of the coat, and she was carrying a small bundle in a sling. I rushed out to meet them.
"Carl!" I grabbed him and gave him a fierce hug. I looked at him, and he looked a picture of health. I turned to the woman.
"Fatin! Salam Aleikum!" I had never got round to learning her language, and Arabic was the closest I could do, geographically. I held out my arms to hug her, but she put her hand up.
"Careful. Do not wake him."
I looked, and saw a crumpled-up little brown face, eyes closed, poking out of the bundle of cloth Fatin was holding. I held my breath. Margaret stepped up and shoved me aside.
"Awww, look! He's adorable."
Carl put his arms on my and Margaret's shoulders.
"Ladies? Meet Raage Tennant,"
"Well ain't that just peachy?" Another man had just stepped down from the carriage, and I would have recognised that American drawl anywhere.
"Mr. Riley," I said. "What brings you here?"
He gave me one of his unpleasant smirks. "Well how could I stay away? I heard someone finally managed to perforate that thick skin of yours, and I had to come and have a look-see. Who's the lucky guy?"
"Woman," I said. "Got a job as a cleaner here, and tried to stab me in my sleep. You'll probably like her."
"Lady, I'm gonna be her best new friend. Where is she?"
"Ask the doctor," I said. "She's in the hospital."
"That's the spirit," said Riley. "Who's in charge here?"
I pointed him at the Chancellor's office, and he marched off. As I watched him, I noticed he had acquired a limp. But at that moment, Someone else, also with a limp, came walking up to us. I looked at Carl's face, and secretly enjoyed the way his jaw dropped.
"Father?"
"Yes, my boy?"
"You're back!"
"Evidently! Did you think I would just stay in South America when someone went and made me a bloody grandfather?"
"Um... Sorry?"
"Oh do stop talking nonsense, my boy." He turned to Fatin. "I assume you are my son's young wife?"
I drew a bit closer to her, because Father can be a bit overwhelming when the mood takes him. I needn't have worried.
"I am his woman, yes. I bore his child. He was late in arriving, and for that he is named Raage."
Raage, not to be left out of the conversation, gave a snort, woke up and started wailing.
Margaret laughed. "Well you old codger, look at that! He likes you."
"He is hungry," said Fatin. "He wants the breast." She jiggled him up and down a bit. "Maybe both."
Father took one look at the situation, then grabbed Carl's arm. "Let's leave the womanfolk to handle this, we're not equipped for it. Alexandra? Did you get anywhere with you-know-who?"
"Not a chance," I said. "Too tough a nut."
"Right. I expected as much. Come on, Carl. we'll compare notes."
The men made their cowardly retreat, no doubt into one of the houses of ill repute on the Algernon campus, leaving us women with the task of providing for our young. Isn't it ever so? I looked around, wondering what to do, and spotted Rina lurking by the door. The Clarion's reporters were always ready for a story, and there was usually a good story to be had from arrivals at the gates. I caught her eye and she came walking up.
"Hi Miss Tennant. What's going on?"
"Family reunion," I said. "My brother has just returned from Africa. This is my sister-in-law, and that is my nephew. He's called Raage."
"Aww cute," said Rina. "Good pair of lungs."
"He is hungry," said Fatin. "I need a place to sit down and give him the breast. Too many people in the..." She waved her hand at the horse and cart.
"Carriage," I said.
"Carriage," repeated Fatin.
"Well come on inside then," said Rina. "Let's go to the dorm."
Margaret threw open the door to the girls' dorm. "Incoming teacher! Put out your fags, hide your booze!"
Christa looked up from her maths coursework. "Intoxicating liquour and tobacco are against the rules, Ma'am."
"Thank goodness someone remembers. Get off the sofa, Miss StJohn, it's needed for lactative purposes."
We installed Fatin on the sofa, where she could lower her dress, and finally Raage went quiet. The girls pulled up chairs and watched. Having an African lady breastfeeding in your very dorm was not a common sight after all.
Rina pulled out her notebook. "Um, Ma'am? What's your name please?"
"I am Fatin. I come here with my man Carl Tennant."
"Fatin... How do you spell that?"
"You are writing what I say?" Fatin laughed. "You will write it right when I say it wrong?"
"Sure," said Rina. "Where are you from?"
"I travel the dark forests by the an nil al 'abyad river."
"Sudan, by the White Nile," I added. "That's what the English call it."
Rina gave a nod. "And what brings you to England?"
"The dirigible," said Fatin, pronouncing the word slowly. "And the train. I ate fish in the clouds!"
At that moment, the door opened and Jocelyn came walking in. Everyone cheered her. Jocelyn raised her arms. "Yes! The conquering heroine returns. Schmidt wanted to stick me in a straitjacket, but I tied him to his chair and made my escape."
"Well done," said Margaret. "I'll write to the chancellor to have him released."
"I'll get to you in a minute," said Rina. "When I finish interviewing Mrs. Tennant here."
Mrs. Tennant stuck a finger in Raage's mouth to dislodge him, and moved him to the other side. Jocelyn flopped down on the sofa next to Fatin. She tried to get Raage to grip her finger, but young Mr. Tennant was busy.
"Aww, he's so cute! Can I hold him?"
Fatin grinned. "Only if you can give milk. If you can't he'll eat you."
Jocelyn's jaw dropped. "Do your folks eat, um... people?"
Fatin looked at her with large round eyes. "Does not everyone?"
There was a somewhat uncomfortable pause.
"Only temporarily," said Anna.
Everyone burst out laughing. Fatin looked at me.
"Only for a little time," I said. Fatin shook her head, and I made an explanatory gesture. Fatin threw her head back and laughed out loud.
"Only stupid people cook and eat men," said Fatin. "Think it makes them strong. Their camps are not good places to live in."
Rina made a note of this, then looked up. "What do you think of England so far?"
Fatin took a deep breath, staring far away. "Cold. Colder than waters of the Nile. There are so many people. No one looks at each other as they pass. They only looked at me when I was not looking at them." Fatin looked into Rina's eyes. "So many people, and they all look so... alone."
Rina held Fatin's eyes for a moment, then wrote in her notebook.
"Don't the big machines scare you? Locomotives, um, the iron horses, can be awfully loud."
"Raage sleeps through it," said Fatin. "There are soft places to sit everywhere. And they make the world go by faster than birds. Almost like there is no place between sitting down and getting up again." She smiled. "And there are nice people who bring you tea. When next we meet, I will make flat bread and roasted goat for her."
Fatin looked down on Raage. He had stopped feeding and his eyes had fallen to.
"Sleep, eat, make water and filth," she said.
Rina reached out and touched Raage's head. "He'll be a mighty hunter some day."
"But you do not hunt kudu here," said Fatin. "You keep them in farms so you do not have to run after them. Carl told me. Maybe Raage will be a farmer."
"He is here now," said Carrie. "He can be anything he wants."
The door opened and Carl came in, furtively, a man in a place where men fear to tread. He was appropriately stared at by the Algernon Rifle Club.
"Um... Alex?"
"Yes?" I said.
"They have tidied up your room, and put us in the room next to yours, but apparently they assumed that Mr. Riley was with us, so they have put him in the same room as us."
I sneered. "That is very efficient of them. I assume you are less than thrilled about this?"
"Quite."
"Well, he can sleep in the bed above me. On the day that little demons go to work on skates. What do you suggest?"
Jocelyn laughed. "Why don't you two and the little one sleep in Miss Alexandra's room, and she sleeps here? We love having her here. Never a dull moment!"
I hesitated a moment.
"They did catch her," said Carrie. "Should be safe now."
"Alright then," I said. I pulled the key from my pocket and gave it to Carl.
"Thanks, Sister," he said. "Fatin? Let's go to our room."
"My room, dear brother of mine. Until you can arrange for a room with no irksome Yanks in."
"A thousand apologies, Sister. Fatin? Let's go to the room that my darling sister is letting us use at great cost to herself."
Carl and Fatin weren't gone for more than a few moments, when there was another knock on the door, and once more a male person graced us with his presence. This time, it was Professor Alan Wadcroft, the leader of the expedition that took me and Margaret to darkest Africa, where we found an extinct species of scientist, my brother, and a mysterious kind of metal ore that seemed to intrigue Wadcroft a great deal.
"Dammit Alan," said Margaret. "This is a girls' dormitory. You're not a girl so push off there's a good chap!"
Wadcroft gave Margaret a look over his half-moon glasses. "But then how would I bask in the warm glow of your kind personality? Be that as it may, we've been summoned. You, me, even Miss Tennant. Chancellor's office."
"Who by?"
"Our good American friend Mr. James Riley. Quite insistent, he was. Something seems to have him all excited. Wouldn't tell me what it was because he doesn't like to repeat himself."
"What, he doesn't like to hear himself talk? Must not be from around here, then. Alexandra, we have been summoned."
I got up. "On pain of death!"
"Only the lucky ones," said Margaret.
The way from the girls' dorm took us past the hallway to the infirmary. As we walked past, I saw Dr. Bernhardt, who stopped me. I could see the man was shaking with anger.
"Miss Tennant? A moment of your time, please."
Margaret looked at me over her shoulder, but I waved them on. I'd catch up.
"Doctor? What can I do for you?"
The Doctor took my arm and pulled me aside.
"Did you go and see that woman?"
"Um..."
I really must train myself to come up with more coherent answers when confronted with Life's little quirks. Dr. Bernhardt glared at me.
"When you left her, was she alive?"
My jaw dropped. "Yes... yes!" I stammered. "Do you mean that she is dead?"
"She is very dead indeed, Miss Tennant. Now a little over two hours ago, Mr. James Riley from Arkham came to me, waving official documents, demanding to be admitted to her ward. I verified with the Chancellor, who authenticated his document. When I returned not fifteen minutes ago to check on her, I found her dead. Mr. Riley is not speaking to me." The Doctor moved closer. "I will have to perform an autopsy, of course, but I know what a person looks like who has died of suffocation. Would you be so good as to enlighten me?"
"I did enter the ward, Doctor," I said. "But I only spoke to her, and got no response from her at all. When I left, she was still alive." I paused a moment. "Are there no poisons that kill by depriving the victim of oxygen? She might have hidden a dosage in her mouth, to be used when caught."
"I could easily name half a dozen such poisons," said the Doctor. "Toxins, curare, even hemlock. But there is one thing I am quite sure of." He scowled. "None of these poisons leave a deposit of adhesive around the victim's lips, accompanied with reddening of the skin. This woman was murdered. Whoever did this, bandaged her mouth shut. Then, it was a simple matter of pinching her nose. This was done several times, Miss Tennant. She was tortured, and finally killed. Under my very nose. You were the last person, besides Mr. Riley, to see her alive."
"Riley," I said. I recalled with distaste the occasion when he had described to me the ordeal he had witnessed, of men and women. At the time, he had told me this to warn me against getting caught.
"Of course," said the Doctor, but the tone in his voice clearly indicated that he had not cleared me of suspicion. "There will be an inquiry, Miss Tennant, and I promise you, whoever is at the bottom of this, will pay the price."
I walked into the Chancellor's office, to find not only Professor Wadcroft and Margaret, but also my brother. The Chancellor was not there, and Riley was sitting on the edge of his desk.
"Sit sown, Miss Tennant, and we'll begin."
I gave him a dark look, then found a chair. Riley stood up and looked at each of us.
"I have found out who it was that tried to kill you."
"So have I," I said.
Riley scowled. "Sure you did. But I managed to find out who sent this woman."
"And how did you manage to do that, Riley?"
"Same way you tried, only I'm not a goddamn amateur like you."
"You tortured her, Riley, and then you murdered her."
Riley crossed the room towards me and glared at me from a distance of hardly ten inches.
"Damn straight I did! What the hell did you think you were going to do? Sneak in and beat the crap out of her? Good thing you got out when you did."
"People under torture will tell you whatever they think makes you happy, Riley. What makes you think you got the right answer?"
Riley held his mangled right hand in front of my face. "Damn you, do I look like some goddamn greenhorn who don't know that? I already knew most of what I was going to ask. All she needed to do was confirm it. And putting the screws on them works just fine for that. Now do you want to know what I found out?"
I said nothing.
"Good," said Riley, sitting back down. "Then keep that pretty face of yours shut and listen." He looked round the room. "Any more stupid questions?"
Carl sat back in his chair and gave Riley a friendly smile. "Mr. Riley, please do enlighten us. We are all eager to know how clever you have been." His smile disappeared in a splintered moment. "But if you talk that way to my sister again, I'll break your bloody neck."
"Oh for God's sake..." Riley started.
"Get to the bloody point Riley," said Professor Wadcroft.
Riley gave kind of a grunt. "You'll all remember the Balian-Ibelin Mining Company. They tried to kill us back in Sudan."
"What? They're all the way over in Africa!" Margaret shook her head. "What would they want with us here?"
Riley thumped his fist on the desk. "Can I finish a goddamn sentence here? Our pretty rifle girl here is not the only target. Why the hell do you think you're all here?"
Wadcroft put his hand to his forehead and sighed. "Everybody, pipe down and stop interrupting. Riley, start talking."
"Thank you. Turns out, that mine is only one operation of many. They are overseen by an organisation that is mighty interested in those glowing rocks our dear departed friend Hammond was digging up."
I could see Professor Wadcroft stirring, but he kept himself quiet.
"They seem to think that there's huge amounts of energy in them," said Riley. "More than in coal, hell, more than in all the coal in the world. And they get a bit annoyed when someone else gets in on their turf. Now Hammond did them the favour of dropping dead on his own, together with his whole damned expedition..."
"Present company excluded," said Carl.
Riley gave him the evil eye, and continued. "But we managed to get out of there in time. Heh. They tried to assassinate Oberst Klemm as well, but he's a bit hard to assassinate. So someone had the marvellous idea of hiring him instead. As I told young Mr. Tennant here, stay the hell away from Klemm and any of his soldiers."
"Staying the hell away from enemies is what I do, Riley."
"We still have some of Hammond's rocks in our collection," said Wadcroft. "Haven't been able to find out more about them than that they glow prettily. Less and less every day. Apart from that, it's perfectly boring and ordinary pitchblende."
"So they've found something you can't find out about, Prof? Say it ain't so. And here I was, high hopes and all."
"Fascinating though it is, Riley, I do have other projects."
"What interests me more," I said. "Who are they?"
"Ain't got a smidgen of a clue," said Riley. "Could be a secret chapter of the goddamn Boyscouts of America for all I know."
"I met Lord Baden Powell once," said Wadcroft. "Batty old chap. Wanted to turn our children into little soldiers. Wouldn't have thought he'd go in for assassination though. A Scout Does Not Assassinate People. I'm sure that's in the Rules somewhere."
"Dyb dyb dyb dyb, Professor. I did manage to over hear a name though. While they were beating the crap outta me. The organisation is called..."
Even Riley, consummate pragmatist as he was, could not resist a dramatic pause.
"Prometheus."
Carl Tennant: The Big Sky Theory
The iron road to Ipswich - Castles in the sky - Navigator Taras Nerandzic - Learning the ropes.
Travelling seems to be our most common state of being. I hardly remember us ever living in a house for more than a few months at the time. It allows you to make more friends than you would while staying in the same place. It also makes you lose more friends. The Ajuru tribe had it right. You travel together, and meet many new friends and enemies. Some of them stay, some of them leave. I have now returned to the Western world, with its steam-powered convenience, its vast knowledge of medicine, its technology, its literature, that allows millions of people to live together on a small island that would not support a tenth that number without the sheer ingenuity of its scientists and engineers and farmers and industry. My wonderful wife Fatin has come with me, and so far, she seems to enjoy this new world. Her pride will not allow her to show the tears shed for her family back in Africa.
Fatin and I are now a happily married couple (not to mention legally, which is a story all by itself). We are no longer the people we were because we both have been taken away from our native lands, and changed profoundly by that experience. This is both good and bad. We miss the good things about our lives at home, and tend to forget about the bad. Fatin is no longer the tribal girl she once was, but neither is she simply the Mrs. Tennant that an English girl would have been. And for that matter, part of me will always be Kal of England, Feeder of Lions.
-- Carl Tennant, "My life with the Ajuru"
As the airship Baldur pulled into Heath Row, it was raining. A changeable wind pulled our vessel hither and yon, but the helmsman was alert at his post and navigated us to one of the mooring poles. Fatin and I were standing by the window in the observation lounge. Fatin was holding Raage up so he could see. He seemed unimpressed, unconnected as it was to sleeping or eating. Fatin was quietly talking to him in the Ajuru language. With this much maneuvering going on, the engines were going at full tilt to provide enough power for rapid course corrections. Now and then, Baldur lurched from one side to the other. We made our way to the mooring pole that had a flashing light. The cables were dropped fore and aft, and we had officially arrived.
We walked down the gangplank. Formalities were taken care of, temporary proof of identity was provided for Raage and Fatin, who for administrative reasons had to be registered as my property. I was immensely grateful that Fatin found this amusing rather than insulting, and resolved to provide them with full British citizenship as soon as possible.
Mr. James Riley joined us in the arrivals lounge, and led us to the ticket office for the train to Ipswich. We had to rush to make the twelve-fifteen train, and I only barely managed to convince Riley that one does not run with a heavy trunk and a small child. Nevertheless, we managed to make it on board just as the whistle blew and found a place to sit. I could see pain on Riley's face, and he was putting his leg straight with his hands.
"Gonna need a goddamn cane," he muttered.
"Who did this to you?" I asked.
"Curious people," said Riley, and would not be drawn on the subject. He stared out of the window with an angry scowl on his face as the train rolled on in a North-easterly direction.
We could hear the rattle of wheels in the corridor, and presently, the tea trolley rolled into view, pushed by a middle-aged woman wearing a white cap and apron.
"Tea? Coffee? Confections? Anyone?"
"Tea please," I said. "Riley?"
Riley looked up from the window, and shook his head. The tea lady poured me a large cup, added milk, and handed it to me. She looked at Fatin, then back at me.
"And would the little Negro girl like a cup as well?"
I sat there, unable to find the right words for a moment. Fatin smiled at the tea lady.
"Yes, please. Is it Tetleys?"
The tea lady clutched her breast. "Oh I'm sorry Ma'am. I didn't realise you spoke English. No, it's Taylor's, but none the worse for it." She poured tea from the small spigot in the urn, added a dash of milk without looking at her hands. "You are a long way from home, Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying."
"No, I'm not." Fatin's eyes briefly turned to me. "I am with Carl."
The tea lady's eyes wrinkled. "Oh that's nice, dear. Have you travelled far?"
"We walked for fourteen days, then we were on the boat. Then, the dirge... dir..."
"Dirigible?" said the tea lady.
"Yes. Carl says we travelled farther by dirigible than we walked or went by boat. But it doesn't feel like travelling."
The tea lady nodded slowly. "I suppose it wouldn't. Well, enjoy your tea, dear. Have to keep going."
"Wait. My name is Fatin. What is yours?"
The tea lady tapped her name badge. "Just call me Mildred, dear."
"Fatin."
"Fatin. Bye now."
With a little wave, she set her trolley in motion, richer by another story to tell her children. Fatin looked at me.
"Feeder of Lions," she said in Ajuru. "You look like you ate a fish without taking out the bones. What is wrong?"
I sighed. "I just didn't like what she called you. It's not a nice thing to say."
Fatin shrugged.
I took her hand in mine. "I am so sorry, but people are going to look at you, and think you are stupid, just because you have a brown face."
"You don't. Alex doesn't."
I looked at my knees. Fatin bent over to me.
"My love, I can tell when people are nasty to me and when they just don't know. I promise you I will set my big strong man on them when I need to." She sat back, picked up her teacup, and tasted. "Drink your tea while it is hot. This country is cold and our friend would not want us to warm each other the usual way."
We had to change trains in the small town of Manningtree, and pulled into the waiting room and restaurant. Fatin was shivering in the rain, so I gave her my coat. Our train rolled in, we got on board and went for the final leg to Ipswich. Riley lapsed into a complete silence, and Fatin sat quietly looking out of the window at the landscape passing by. I had Raage on my arm. He fit just right in the crook of my arm, and was fast asleep. I was trying to move as little as possible, because as soon as he'd wake up, he'd be hungry.
We arrived at Ipswich Station when it was starting to get dark. The rain showed no signs of stopping, and Fatin was still wearing my coat. Luckily we Brits are made of stern enough stuff to weather such harsh conditions. Riley hailed one of the station carriages. As she saw the cart roll up, Fatin's eyes opened wide. She gave Raage to me, and walked up to the horse as Riley and I installed ourselves. She gently stroked its head, speaking to it softly. The horse gave a friendly kind of snort and pushed its nose into her. The driver scowled.
"What's that woman doing with my horse?"
"Putting an African blessing on it," I said. "To keep us from harm."
"I don't hold with the Unseelie," said the driver. "She coming?"
Fatin pulled herself into the carriage, wedged herself between me and Riley and wordlessly held out her arms. I gave Raage back to her and she pulled my coat over him. She sang to him in Ajuru, then looked at me.
"How long before we get there?"
"Not long," I said. "Driver, Algernon University!"
The first person to greet me when our hansom pulled into the ornate gates of Algernon University, was my sister. I was immensely glad to see her, and she appeared to have suffered no permanent damage from her ordeal. The next person I saw was Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby, whose considerable intellectual capabilities were instantly turned to jelly when she saw Raage. Few men over the age of six retain that power, so it was unfortunate that he was not awake to enjoy it.
From the entrance a man came walking towards us, leaning heavily on a cane. He was wearing an eyepatch. I could see from the way he walked that his right leg was a prosthesis. It took me the longest time even to recognise him. For years, Alex and I had thought him dead, but here he was. My father. I am afraid I was reduced to mindless staring, stammering, having not even the presence of mind to introduce him to Fatin. As Raage woke up, and started to wail at the inexcusable absence of food, he took me by the arm and walked me to his chambers.
Father pushed me inside and locked the door behind us.
"My boy," he said, "I am glad to see you. Alexandra tells me that you were quite seriously ill, but you seem to be in rude health."
"Life in the African jungle agrees with me," I said.
Father grinned broadly, and slapped my shoulder. "I can see that. I did not expect you to come back a married man."
"Umm..."
I thought of Fatin as my wife. We had a child together. We slept in the same place. But actually, there had been no rites or rituals to bind us.
"You're not married? Is my grandson born out of wedlock?"
"Out of Christian wedlock," I said. "Back in Africa, we are as married as anyone there is."
Father looked at my face intently. Losing an eye had evidently not robbed him of the ability to guess my thoughts with uncanny precision.
"Well we can hardly expect a proper church in those wild regions," he said. "A mere administrative procedure and all shall be well." His face darkened. "We have more pressing business to attend to."
"Alex," I said. "Someone tried to kill her."
"Yes. Now I have no idea who that someone is, but I think I am not far off the mark if I think it may have something to do with Hammond's expedition. In which case not only Alexandra, but anyone on that expedition is at risk, even Mr. Riley himself. We caught one of their..."
"Operatives?"
"As good a word as any. But if the enemy is determined, more will follow."
I looked at Father's face. I could only imagine then what had happened to him, but the expression on his face, I recognised. I had seen that expression many times as he led us away from the bandits in Angola, where Mother died. Alex and I saw it again as he sent us back to England by boat. He visited us at boarding school once upon his return from Africa, and before he set off for the Americas, to look for African civilisations in that faraway land. I could still hardly believe that he had really returned. I know now, as I write these words, that parts of him never returned.
Father put his hand on my shoulder. "My boy, I have no desire to sit here, waiting for attack after attack, until one of these devils gets lucky. The Tennant family, including the recent additions, are about to disappear from the face of the earth."
"Do you mean hide? Go to some place away from civilisation? I have just returned from such a place."
Father stepped to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy. He poured two glasses and gave one to me.
"Do you expect me to hobble through the inhospitable places of this world on a leg and a half? Sad to say, I have become used to the comforts of home these last few months. But no matter, we will bring these comforts with us. Let me show you." He pulled a key from his pocket and opened a drawer in his desk. He produced a thick manila envelope and unwound the piece of string that held it closed. From it, he pulled several sheets of paper, which he spread out on the desk.
"These are the drawings and ownership papers of our new home." He grinned, making him look like a pirate with his eyepatch. "I have always wanted to be an airship's captain. And now I am."
I looked at the papers. It appeared to be an airship about four hundred feet in length. Its lines were sleek, if that was the word for such a massive vehicle.
"Ignore anything about the engines," said Father. "I'm commissioning a pair of Mr. Parsons' finest turbines. This ship will have a fair chance in any cross-continental race. We'll be running the engines at a fraction of their full power, which makes them remarkably efficient. We will be able to fly half way round the world without ever coming down. Pursue our enemies wherever they may go. We will not be cowed by these miscreants."
"But... These airships must cost a fortune! How can you afford this?"
"Sold the place in Windsor Gardens," said Father breezily. "For the price of a London terrace, you can buy a small nation-state these days. Also, this is an ex-military dirigible. In the Franco-Prussian wars, The French commissioned maybe a hundred of these vessels for the purpose of bombing trenches. This was abandoned quickly when the Frogs found that these things respond rather badly to incendiary rounds. Armoring them was of course out of the question. Lead balloon and all that. So they fell into disuse and I could pick one up for a song. The bastards did remove the cannon. Thought their customers would blow up Paris with them."
"They just want to suck the joy out of everything," I said. "Father, airships cost more than houses, even London ones. Will Raage's grandchildren be paying off this airship?"
"None of it! She is mine up to the last nut and bolt. It even includes the services of an experienced navigator, who will stay on board until you children know the ropes. Splendid fellow, Russian named Taras Nerandzic. Has been flying all kinds of dirigibles since childbirth. He'll be instructing you and Alexandra in the fine art of flying airships. I'm hoping you will take to it."
I gave Father a Look. "Father. Where is the money coming from? And please don't change the subject."
"I've had a bit of a windfall in South America," said Father. "I can afford this. Beyond that, you don't need to know."
This, of course, made me all the more curious, but once my father digs his heels in, there is no helping the matter. I put aside my fears of the poor house and looked at the drawings. This was a rigid-frame dirigible that would keep its form even with its hydrogen bags pumped empty of gas. Its engines were in the gondola underneath, with crank shafts rather than the less reliable chain drives used to turn the propellers. The gondola also held the living quarters. With an eye to the future, there were rooms for myself, Alexandra, Father, and eight guests.
"I may have to move to a larger room," I said. "There are three of us now."
Father laughed. "True, true. I knew you had, let us say 'met' someone and got her pregnant. I didn't expect you to take her home with you."
"I almost didn't," I said. "It's a long story."
I looked back at the drawing. Behind the bridge were two massive engine rooms. Behind those was a hallway with two sleeping cabins for the crew, and a stairway going up into the envelope itself, so one could access the propeller pods and the supply of hydrogen gas. From the inside deck, I could see with stomach-churning anticipation a ladder going all the way to the top of the airship and an observation deck. I could already hear Alex' delighted squeals running up to do handstands on top of the airship. She has a considerably better head for heights than I do. All I have is the good sense to keep myself from plummeting to my death. Behind the first two cabins was the now sadly defunct bomb bay. Next was the mess hall, next to the galley, surrounded by four more cabins, one of which had a scrawled note "Library". Under the galley were the washing facilities and the heads. Even airships have a poop deck, apparently.
I only slowly realised that such an airship might possibly be our new family home. Father put a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up into as delighted a grin as any young boy's on Boxing Day. I could not resist grinning myself.
"We will name her the Lady I," said Father.
"After Mother," I said.
Father only smiled.
Our new castle in the sky made its appearance above Algernon University's bell tower about a week after Mr. Riley's exposé about the peril we were in. Father stood next to me, leaning on his cane. He was wearing a blue naval overcoat and a captain's hat. A big, big smile was on his face. Alex and Fatin stood on my other side. I could see Alex' eyes shining. She had been considerably less concerned with the finances, which were still a mystery to me and likely to remain so.
Fatin gave me a little nudge. "Feeder of Lions, do all the English live in dirigibles?"
"Only the lucky ones," I said. "Do you like it?"
She looked up with a doubtful eye. "It is large. All the Ajuru could live inside."
I shook my head. "Most of this is hydrogen. It wouldn't stay up otherwise."
Fatin reminded me with a gentle look where she came from and asked wordlessly what I was blathering on about.
"It's a kind of air, but it is lighter than the air around us so the dirigible floats."
Fatin smiled. Explain yourself more plainly, my love.
"Do you remember the boat of Elder Ramaas and the River People?"
She nodded.
"It can hold all the river people, but if you would fill it up with sand or rocks, what would happen?"
Fatin laughed. "It would sink and Elder Ramaas would throw you in the river."
"Right. It's the same with this dirigible. It's big, but if you put too much weight in, it just stays on the ground."
"It's coming down," said Alex.
As the dirigible descended, we saw the landing wheels extend - one for'ard and one aft like a giant bicycle. A rope ladder came down and two sailors with sledge-hammers came out and drove posts into the ground to which they attached tethers. Father stepped forward. He looked much more comfortable with his prosthetic leg now. One of the side-doors to the gondola opened and a gangplank was extended. We followed him inside. The inside of the dirigible smelled like engine oil and rubber. We walked into a hallway with cabins and storerooms left and right. Father knocked on the door marked "Bridge" with the head of his cane. It opened, and a man looked at us. He was wearing a white shirt and tie, and a navigator's cap.
"Philip Tennant?"
"Yes. Navigator Nerandzic? A pleasure to meet you in person. Please let me introduce you to my children, Alexandra and Carl, and his wife Fatin."
Navigator Nerandzic stepped back and pointed inside.
"How are you doing. Welcome to the bridge. Please no touching of the apparatus before I am explaining."
The bridge was as wide as the whole of the gondola. To the front were large windows with spinning discs set in them. Much more efficient than wipers, these would keep the rain off, allowing the helmsman to see where he was going in the most severe of weather conditions. The airship had a steering wheel much like a ship's. Father stepped forward and put a hand on the steering wheel. All the paperwork, money, and procedure meant nothing. From that moment, he was Captain Philip Tennant of the good ship Lady I.
Next to the steering wheel were levers controlling the direction of the propellers and the horizontal planes that could steer the bow of the ship up and down. I saw an array of valves off to the side that I assumed were used to pump hydrogen in and out of the gas sacs in the envelope. I imagined that while one person could keep the ship on course, at least two more people were needed for more complex maneuvers such as landing or taking off.
I looked round to see Fatin standing next to me, Raage on her arm, laughing quietly.
"Do you see something you wish to play with, my love?"
"This is not a toy, this is a ship!"
"You are looking at it the same way you looked at me when we first met. Do I need to worry?"
She was speaking English, and I could feel the smirks of my family on me.
"Never," I said. "You will always be my first thought when I wake, and the last when I go to sleep."
Fatin bit her lip, still laughing. "That is good to know. Will you show me our new home?"
"The crew are in first starboard cabin," said Nerandzic. "I am in first port cabin. Other cabins are empty, but maybe need a bit of tidying up."
Alex bumped her fist into my shoulder. "Come on, brother. Let Father take care of the boring things with Mr. Nerandzic. I want to explore!"
She trotted out the door, and we followed. We were just in time to watch her bottom disappear up the ladder that went into the envelope. I do know my sister. Fatin and I walked into the bomb bay. The cranes used to maneuver the thousand-pound bombs to the hatches on either side of the gondola were still there, but the bomb racks, the bomb sights and the launching mechanisms had all been stripped. I supposed we would re-purpose this room as a cargo hold, so we could at some point air-lift expeditions into inhospitable places. Stacked neatly along the walls were crates containing everything that had been in our place in Windsor Gardens. I wondered about the stack of 'special' illustrated magazines that I had hidden beneath my floor boards at the age of fourteen. Lost forever, no doubt. Fatin looked around, but asked no questions, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to have to explain to her that our new ship, the Lady Iris, named after our mother, could have destroyed her entire tribe with one shot. On the other side of the bomb bay, stairs led up to the rear cabins, the galley, and the mess hall. In the middle of the hall was a mahogany table and benches bolted to the floor. Fatin frowned, sniffed, and out of her bag pulled a sheet of leather, a few cloths and a fresh nappie. Another thing she'd had to get used to. Babies in the Ajuru did not use them, which was a lot more healthy for them, to be honest. No nappie rash and no sitting around in your own excrement. I moved forward to lend a hand, but Fatin shooed me away. I stepped into the galley instead, and filled a bowl with warm water. Fatin raised her eyebrows, then started to clean Raage, singing to him in a low voice. I leaned into the wall and watched them. She looked up at me.
"Warm water? Where did you find that?"
"The galley," I said. "It has hot and cold running water. I'll show you."
She smiled, nodded, and folded a fresh piece of white cloth round Raage's bottom. She put him in the sling. I showed her the galley. It had a butane stove and oven, large enough to cook for sixteen men. I showed her how to turn the taps and she held her fingers under the water, shaking her head.
"Warm water. As much as you want, just by doing this."
She turned up the hot tap before I could stop her, and with a sharp intake of breath pulled her hand away. I closed the hot tap so she could put her hand under it again, but she just looked at it, moving her fingers.
"This looks like magic..."
"It's not magic," I said. "It's science and engineering."
"I know it is not magic, my love. Witch-doctors are just people who know a little more than everybody else, and make you think that they know everything. We had a witch-doctor once, but only... temporarily. Magic is the sounds you hear without hearing them. The things you know without seeing. When you see the kudu, or the lion, and know what they are thinking. When you know where the forest and the rivers hide their treasure. The things that my mother, and her mother told me, through her blood."
"We call that instinct," I said. "I will never be as good at that as you are."
Fatin smiled, moved Raage to her hip. Then she put her arm round me and kissed me, slowly, deliberately. I looked into her dark brown eyes.
"You will be fine," she said.
I looked round to see Alex leaning against the door frame. From the little smirk on her face, I could tell that she had been standing there long enough.
"Father wants us on the bridge," said Alex. "We're to start learning how to fly this thing immediately, before Andrew rips out the engines."
I could easily imagine the formidable Andrew Parsons walking down the gangplank with a steam engine on his shoulders. We followed Alex to the entrance hall, where we found Father beset by several members of Alex' rifle club. The slender raven-haired girl, and the shorter but more ample one who had greeted us when first we arrived. A few other boys and girls were standing outside, craning their necks to see how their delegation was doing.
"Come now, Miss Prescott. I'm sure there will be time for an interview once we have completed our first flight."
"But what better opportunity to observe you in your element?" said Miss Prescott. "We won't be a bother."
"And Linda can draw a picture of you," said the other girl. "She's brilliant! You should see the one she did of Professor Wadcroft. Well, the one after the one with the goofy spectacles. I have to say that Captain's uniform suits you very well. Very..." She faltered.
"Authentic," added Miss Prescott.
I looked at Father's expression, and it was clear that he was fighting a losing battle. Maybe he wasn't even too sorry to lose it in this case.
"Very well then. Let them all come up. But no..."
Miss Prescott waved at the people outside, while her friend beamed at Father. "Oh thank you Captain Tennant! I've always wanted to see the bridge of a dirigible."
Alex stepped forward and put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Jocelyn, stop seducing my father. It's most unbecoming."
"Aww, but he's got a dirigible!"
"I have guns," said Alex.
"Huh. You're trumped!"
Alex gently pushed Jocelyn in the direction of the bridge, where Navigator Nerandzic was looking at this sudden influx of pretty girls with a puzzled, but not necessarily displeased expression on his face. He watched as a brunette walked by to the front window, and offered an opinion to his crewmate in Russian. The brunette turned her head round, and answered tersely in the same language. Nerandzic gave a kind of snort, and busied himself with the steering wheel, muttering something about Armenians on his ship. He gave an order, and two of his crewmen ran off to cast off the mooring lines. Nerandzic pointed out of the window.
"Now you can see that the airship weighs nothing. Vladimir is holding it down just by holding the rope. Now..." As Vladimir let go of the rope, he pressed down a piston and the rope was hauled in by a pneumatic winch. "Now Vladimir and Igor come on board, but still the airship, it goes nowhere. That is because we have so many pretty ladies on board. Now I am going to put more hydrogen gas in the gas sacs." He walked over to the wall behind him and turned two valves. "Now the hydrogen gas is flowing into the sacs, and making us lighter. And now we go up until the air is thinner, and then we stop."
I held my breath as the Earth fell away below us, slowly, majestically. I had travelled by ship many times, but only seldom by airship. My trip aboard Boreas, almost a year ago, had been fairly short. I'd hopped over the English Channel to the Netherlands, and moored at their debauched capital of Amsterdam, where ladies of the night plied their trade, not hidden in dark alleys, but freely and openly in brightly lit brothels, and all kind of mind-altering substances might be obtained with ease. Not that I did, of course, but several of my companions did. To be plucked from that city by air, put one in mind of the Rapture. And now, this! We could go anywhere we pleased, with only adverse weather to stop us. The sheer realisation of the freedom we were about to enjoy, filled me with a hunger for the future and set my explorer's blood to boiling. Infinite horizons, America, Africa, Asia, perhaps even the North Pole!
Nerandzic gathered us closer, Alex, Father and me, and started to explain in his characteristic accent what all the controls did. I drank it all in, eager to put it into practice. Father was the first to take the controls in hand, gaze fixed on the horizon. We turned North, crossing the river Gipping. We were making for the village of Akenham, to avoid the busy air traffic in the direction of Felixstowe. Even with the old engines, we were making good time. Being a military vessel, Lady I was designed to be fast and maneuverable. The steering wheel controlled the back rudders, with separate wheels and levers for the aillerons that could point the ship up and down. These, of course, only operated at speed. For turning on the spot, we could control the pitch of the propeller blades, so that they would provide forward or backward thrust. Alex now took a turn at the wheel, eyes aglow. Under our navigator's instructions, she made our airship run figure eights between the two main manors of Akenham.
While I waited my turn at the helm, I watched Alex' friends, scattered along the large windows of the bridge. Fatin was chatting with Miss Prescott, who was holding Raage. A girl with long blonde curls was pointing out something on the ground to the Armenian girl. Jocelyn, who had probably saved Alex' life by shooting her assailant, was standing at a short but non-negotiable distance from one of the boys. They were both looking straight down, and not at each other. Miss Davenport, the student's newspaper's editor was making a sketch of Father, who had ascended his throne. Occasionally he swivelled it round to see what Alex was doing. Leaning against the wall was a dark-haired girl with an interesting ring in her lip, who was watching Alex at the controls. When finally my turn at the controls came, I turned round to her.
"Miss..."
"StJohn," she said. "Carrie."
It is relatively uncommon for girls to be interested in technical things, so I felt like encouraging her to follow her star if it led her in that particular direction.
"How do you do, Carrie. Please call me Carl. Would you like to help me at the controls?"
She blinked. "Oh. Uh... Yes certainly, thank you."
Carrie took up a place by the aillerons controls, while Nerandzic walked to the back wall, and turned all the valves open. He turned back to us as Lady I shot up like a cork. Enthusiasm was radiating off the man as he trotted back to the steering wheel.
"Now we see how high we can get in this ship, yes? Without breaking the sacs." He raised his voice. "Listen up everybody. When your ears hurt, you are going to yawn, or hold your nose closed and blow like this. Also the air is going to be thin, so if you feel dizzy you sit down. This will only take a few minutes."
As I looked out of the window, the Earth fell further and further away from us. Nerandzic walked over to the engine controls and set the engines to 'all ahead full'.
"Now you are going to push the collective, Mister Tennant. Both at the same time or we will turn."
As I pushed the levers, the whole ship started to shake, and we shot off in a Northerly direction. Nerandzic pointed out the altimeter, which showed that we were still climbing.
"It is fast, isn't it? The French are using this to run away from the Huns. When the new engines are coming, it will be even faster." He waved his hand to get Carrie's attention. "Hey pretty lady? When I say, you will push the levers forward."
"Huh," said Carrie. She seemed to be enjoying herself. "Now!" Carrie pushed her levers forward as far as they would go. The ship groaned as it flipped its tail up, and driven by its engines, started a dive. "Now we will see if the ship is tidy! This is why you will always pick up your things behind you when I am Navigator."
To Mr. Taras Nerandzic's credit, not even a pencil was there to roll off the navigation table. Lady I thundered down. The blonde girl looked at us at the controls and shouted.
"Hey StJohn! Do you see that great big green thing ahead of us? That's the Earth!"
Jocelyn raised her voice in a surprisingly pleasant mezzo-soprano.
Oh that magic kingdom in the sky!
We will all be there together by and by
In that Paradise we'll be then
But not you, you Godless heathen
When we reach that Magic Kingdom in the sky.
The blonde laughed out loud. "We're going to find out who is right, bitches!"
At that moment, there was a very loud hissing, whistling sound, like the scream of a banshee. This could only be one thing: We'd sprung a leak! Hydrogen was venting out into the air. We were all going to die on Lady I's maiden voyage! Everybody looked round at Nerandzic, who was standing there calmly, one hand holding on to the engine controls, the other stroking his thin beard. He looked round suddenly, as though the situation only now occurred to him. He turned to Carrie, who was still pushing the ailleron handles forward with a mad gleam in her eyes.
"Please to return levers to neutral," he said.
"What, now?"
"Yes please." Nerandzic's voice sounded like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Carrie pulled back the levers to the midle position and the Lady I came out of its dive, bouncing back up. Nerandzic stepped over to the back walls and with a professional eye adjusted the hydrogen gas controls. Lady I sped forward, driven by the engines. With one hand, Nerandzic throttled back on the engines, and with the other, he brought the ship about, till we were heading back South at a more reasonable speed. Alex came running up.
"What was that noise?"
"Safety valve," said Nerandzic. "It keeps the sacs from bursting." He grinned and adjusted his goggles.
"Safety is number one priority."
Philip Tennant: The end of the beginning
A different kind of hell - Speaking to the Gods - The King's Sorceror - The oldest game - The seeds of destruction
People have often asked me about the danger I have put my children in on my expeditions. They make a valid argument. Ships sink. Dirigibles crash. Trees fall and crush the unwary child. Wild animals, insects, fire, and above all human beings, all conspire to make your child's life a very short one. To make matters worse, one cannot watch one's children every second of every minute of every day. It takes a leopard only a moment to kill a child and drag it to some secret place for its children. How can anyone have that on his conscience?
The answer to this is simple. Our children did not stay children for long, but became adults before any others. We taught Alexandra and Carl about the dangers of the jungle by the age of seven. Rather than tell them cautionary tales about ghosts and goblins and bogeymen, that they then have to unlearn once they realise that ghosts are not real, and wonder what other of these fairy tales are pure fantasy, we told them cautionary tales about lions, crocodiles, venomous snakes, deadly plants, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. And they have seen with their own eyes that these were true stories. It may have robbed them of their innocence before other children their age, but it hardened them to a harsh reality.
-- Philip Tennant, "Parenting for explorers"
I am a patient man. During my time in the cursed city of Anctapolepl, I never lost the anger I felt at the fate of my beloved Itzel. And yes, dear reader, I know that Anctapolepl is not a Nahuatl word. It is no word and no name at all, ugly and unpronouncable, and that is how I want it to be. There were more sacrifices after Itzel's death, but they all coalesced into one single sacrifice, one single death. I could watch them with a dispassionate expression on my face, the burning, the drowning, the decapitation, the torture. Every sacrifice I witnessed, I calmly added to the account, biding my time until I could destroy the corrupted, rotten head of this foul and ravenous beast. I knew that failure would mean my death in the most ignominious way imaginable, and I didn't care. I knew also that success might mean my death, and I did not care either. All that I lived for was to see this roiling cauldron of evil destroyed. It only remained to determine how.
The City was built some four hundred years ago with the most important part, the temple, in the belly of an extinct volcano. Even when it was built, the main purpose of the city of Anctapolepl was concealment. A place where the most exalted and secret rituals could be performed. In the wars against the Spaniards, it had never been found, never betrayed, by the simple measure of never allowing anyone to leave once they had entered. Apart from the temple, which was a free standing structure, all dwellings had been carved into the living rock of the mountain, all round the circumference of the volcano. There was an upper level and a lower level, with rooms varying in size from that of an English dining room to that of a small church. Between the temple and the dwellings was a paved street with only two exits. The one through which I had entered was to the North, a rabbit-hole presumably known only to a few select people long dead. As the population of the City declined, the Northern half of the city was the first to be abandoned, which is why I had believed the whole City desolate. Whether I was lucky to be wrong or not, I cannot say.
To the South was the main entrance, the terrace where King Ilhicamina and I had witnessed the passing of Itzel, and the antechamber. Goods and produce were left there, and those inside took it and distributed it. It reminded one of a lock gate in a river. Only the most trusted of soldiers were allowed to move from the inside out and back. In its glory days, the City might have housed fifteen to twenty thousand souls in its belly and in the surrounding farms, but these days, most of the rooms were empty and unused. My chambers were west of the Priests' chambers, which were next to the King's chambers, the largest rooms in the City. My sleeping chambers and laboratory were larger than most of the dwellings. My foundry was outside, between wall and temple. Yaotl had moved my bed to one end of the laboratory, away from the noxious chemicals I worked with, though sadly not quite from the smells. A servant girl named Citlali had provided me with a curtain for a sense of privacy. She kept the place clean and tidy. Her husband, named Tenoch, would do the more heavy tasks that were below Yaotl's dignity. They went about their duties quietly and quickly, leaving me time to study. When this was my hospital and place of recovery, Itzel had brought in sweet-smelling herbs to drive away the spirits of illness. With her gone, all I could do was meticulously close all my pots and vials before going to bed. I had also had Yaotl remove the green window to improve ventilation and allow more light in. As a side benefit, I now had a view over the green fields outside the city.
On the mountainside to the South was the City's main wealth: large fields of beans and corn. The fields were tilled by peasants who lived in carved-out dwellings and wooden buildings near the fields. There was an ingenious system of irrigation. Between long narrow strips of cornfield were troughs through which flowed the water of a nearby river. These waterworks were constructed when the city was first built. They were carefully maintained by the farmers, as their fathers and fathers' fathers did before them.
Corn and brown beans were the staple food, and were consumed in the form of gruel, or pancakes called tlaxkalli made from corn meal. These were flavoured with copious amounts of salt, which could be found in abundance nearby, red and green tomatoes, and hot chilli peppers that set one's mouth on fire. It was a fitting flavour for Hell. To this day, Indian curries in England hold no fear for me, immunised as I am to the hottest of spices.
Meat was scarce, gathered by a specialist group of hunters, and reserved for the elite. There were a few llamas in the city, and about half a dozen alpacas, but these were not for food. Their wool was used for the king's richly coloured garments. They were the most spoiled creatures in the City, more so even than the King himself. Fish was caught in the river that served as the City's water supply. Occasionally, the hunters would find small gophers and green iguanas that were roasted on spits and eaten with great relish by the nobility. In addition, there were several dishes made from insects; locusts, or various larvae and maggots. As if that were not enough to set one's stomach to boiling, there was a recipe more grisly still. Some of the sacrificial victims, their bodies empty and broken, were butchered, and their flesh stewed as a meal for the warriors. This was purely ritualistic in nature, and since I was no warrior, I was spared having to eat such dishes.
To wash down their feast, the rustics drank an alcoholic drink called octli which the Spanish call pulque, a drink fermented from the sap of the Agave Americana, a fleshy plant that took years to mature, but then yielded its sap for two more years. Octli was about as strong as dark ale, but nowhere near as pleasant. It must be noted that there were harsh penalties for over-indulging. A commoner would be cast out into the fields to live as an animal. For the nobility, being held to higher standards, punishment was even harsher. At any rate, the nobility would not be seen drinking such a boorish dreg. They indulged themselves in xocolatl, made, as the name indicates, from cocoa beans and flavoured with chillis and a large variety of spices.
Driven perhaps by necessity, there were many occasions for fasting. For the rustic, this meant to abstain from chillis and salt. For the nobility, to forego the more extravagant indulgences of the table. This habit was observed with great conviction even by the King, though some of the priests were less disciplined. As for me, I preferred the more simple foods, with perhaps the occasional meal of fish. My austerity at the table was duly noted, and grudgingly admired.
At the time I was there, the city of Anctapolepl counted maybe five thousand souls. Of these, simple peasants formed the greatest part, a willing workforce that had been in this situation for so long that they would probably be surprised to be called slaves, in the same way that fish have no word for being wet. It was the way of things. The King ruled supreme, and ordered the hour of their birth, and the hour of their death.
The King was assisted by about a score of High Priests, an unsavoury lot, each of which deeply mistrusted and despised the others. They enjoyed great privileges, because they were among other things the men who selected which of the people, man, woman or child, would be the next to be sacrificed, and to which god.
Every tenth man in the city was a soldier, though Anctapolepl had no enemies from the outside. They were the King's whip hand, and he wielded them with carefully measured cruelty, rewarding good behaviour with a position in the Guards, and brutally punishing those who displeased him.
I occupied a curious position in the hierarchy. I could not hope ever to match the priests' knowledge of the gods, but unlike them, I could demonstrate a result to my prayers. Immediately after Itzel's departure, I adopted a sorcerous manner, as befitted one who received the words of Huitzilopochtli. My advanced knowledge of Alchemy, shared by a thousand shool boys in England, proved to be of immense value. I filled my chambers with crucibles, glass, candles, walls of secret ingredients labelled in Latin, and books filled with incoherent gibberish, designed to fool the ignorant. My real notes, where I documented the results of my experiments, I kept well hidden in a secret compartment underneath my writing table. The priests hated me with a passion, since I could speak with the King any time I wanted, a privilege none of them could have dreamed of ever obtaining. I was at a notable disadvantage dealing with these people. Not being a native speaker of Nahuatl, their conversation sometimes escaped me. The gist of their opinion did not. Each one of them wanted to see me dead. Which is ignoble and vile, but since I had similar desires for them, I can hardly complain. Somehow, I would make this snake eat its own tail. That this would let the poor people of this cursed city govern their own lives without the constant fear of death was a side benefit.
A few months after Itzel's death, I had optimised my mixture of black powder to the point where a small barrel of it could demolish a wall, and was unlikely to advance any further. I now concentrated on making more and more of it, storing it in clay pots well away from my quarters. My forge produced better and better metal, and I was almost ready to start calling it steel. The main advancement was temperature. I went through copious amounts of charcoal to produce my own tiny spot of Hell in a kiln that I would use only once. Yaotl became more and more capable of producing axe-heads and small blades. Privately, I was satisfied with my achievements, but there was a danger. I could not simply make bigger and bigger explosions, and once I had fired one of my cannon at a statue and brought it toppling down, any improvement seemed like more of the same. I needed to produce rifles to please my King, of a quality similar to those of the cursed Conquistadores. It was little consolation that the Spanish muskets had gone out of fashion at least a century ago. Andrew Parsons would look at my feeble attempts and... well, not laugh, but calmly and correctly point out that there were better ways of making steel pipes.
To my trouble, I was not the only person who suspected this. One of the priests was named Nochtli, a name associated with a kind of prickly pear fruit, which well suited his temperament. While I could usually befuddle the King with coloured smoke, lights, or bubbling water, Nochtli cared little for all these ornaments. Having the advantage of language over me, he planted countless little seeds of doubt into his every conversation that I was not competent to catch and respond to. I did not have Itzel's memory for foreign words. A confrontation was inevitable, and never in all my adventures have I been closer to death than that day.
At the end of one of my demonstrations of smelting, from which I produced an ingot of metal that I hoped to turn into a longer blade, I saw Nochtli exchange glances with the King. King Ilhicamina rose, and asked me to approach. From the look in his eye, and the concealed glee in Nochtli's eyes, I knew something was up.
"Philip Tennant," said the King. "As my High Priest Nochtli rightly points out to me, we of the Kingdom of Anctapolepl know what happens to metal when you light a fire under it. Let me show you what I mean. Follow me. Yaotl, join us and assist the King's Alchemist if he needs it."
It was immediately clear to me that this 'Assistance' would include dragging me if I were fool enough to refuse. Not that I would. On my single leg, I could not run, and it was much easier to outwit the King than to outrun him anyway. Nochtli, though, was a different matter. Evil he might be, but stupid he was definitely not. Assisted now and then by Yaotl, we went up to the Royal Chambers, then down a flight of winding stairs. With my crutches, it was a challenge to descend without falling. When I reached the end of the stairs, Nochtli raised a torch, and I held my breath. Gold gleamed at me from every direction. Call me feeble if you will, but I hold that not a man alive can be in the presence of that much gold and not feel the slightest tinge of avarice. It is what moved the Spaniards to conquer this whole land.
Nochtli pointed at one of the statues, a sitting figure with pronounced teeth that I recognised as Mictlantecuhtli, the Death God of the Aztecs, roughly comparable to Plutoon in the Greek pantheon. No doubt the old devil chose that statue as an example on purpose.
"As you can see, the artificers of Anctapolepl are well capable of shaping metal. You light a fire under it, and it becomes water. You remove the fire, and it becomes hard again. This is all you have shown us, Philip Tennant."
"Gold melts easily," I said. "Iron is much..."
Nochtli stood in front of me. "So you have to make it a little hotter, Inglese. That is all we have seen you do. Make it a a bit hotter than gold. Is that truly the knowledge bestowed on you through Sister Itzel by the Great Warrior Huitzilopochtli?"
"Itzel speaks to me constantly," I said. "Do you doubt her faith? Do you think she faltered along the way perhaps?"
"No, Philip Tennant. Itzel is truly the manifestation of the Rainbow Lady Herself. To doubt her, is to doubt sunlight. It is you that I doubt. Does Lady Itzel truly speak to you, or are you lying?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Yaotl had positioned himself beside the door. As a means of preventing escape, that was as effective as bricking the door up. The King now looked at me with a gleam in his eye.
"Fortunately, Nochtli, there is a simple means by which we may test the King's Alchemist. You may think you were the last to speak to Itzel, Philip Tennant, if we may call it 'speaking'." The King laughed quietly. "I am sure that what you did that night served to strengthen the bond between the two of you. But you were not the last to speak to her. In the early morning, she came to me, and we spoke. I asked her for a sign, and she gave me one. She spoke words into my ear, and only into mine. You may now ask her what those words are, and so will the truth be known. Your King is waiting."
A shudder went down my spine as I looked from the King to Nochtli, who was by now openly grinning, and in his mind deciding which knife to use to slit open my belly and rip my heart out of my chest. With a stroke like the hammer of doom, I knew that I had failed, and that I was dead already. I closed my eyes, and prayed.
But then, almost as clearly as if she were really standing behind me, I heard her sweet voice in my mind, repeating... repeating... And in that dark place, I suddenly smiled.
"Thank you, Itzel," I said. Then I looked the King in the eye, and spoke.
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe."
The King took a step back as though he had been struck. He clutched his chest, and took several deep breaths.
"Those were her exact words," he said. "Words that mean nothing. Words that none could guess." The King bowed his head. "Forgive me, Philip Tennant, for doubting you, and her. Please forgive me."
Nochtli glared. Being an intelligent man, he knew exactly where this seemingly incontrovertible proof failed. Itzel and I could easily have prepared for just this occasion. But to bring this up now? Impossible. The King would have him executed where he stood. The old goat actually kneeled before me.
"Forgive me, Alchemist. I was blind, but now I see."
I turned to the King. "You were right to test me, Your Highness. Forgive Nochtli his doubt, for it was an honest and justified one. I thank him for this opportunity to prove myself your humble servant, and Itzel the finest lady ever to grace Anctapolepl with the imprint of her feet."
I looked at Nochtli, and he looked at me. Never have I seen such a look of pure hatred, and at that moment, I savoured it like xocolatl.
For my efforts, the King gifted me with a large gold statue of the Great Warrior Himself, to oversee my work. It weighed about eighty pounds, and was placed on a pedestal in a corner of my laboratory-cum-bedroom, squinting at me from the corner of its eye. Yaotl carried it there without any visible sign of effort, and I stood for a long time, just looking at it, thinking of Itzel. As I turned round to go back to work, I heard the soft noise of footsteps in the corridor, coming from the direction of the Royal chambers, and the priests' abode. Then, I recognised the voice of another one of the priests, a man named Matlal.
"Citlali? Where are you? Come here, my girl. I have a job for you."
I limped to the door and pulled away the beaded curtain. Citlali, the servant girl who tidied up my laboratory, stood just outside, shoulders hunched, looking behind her. Startled, she looked round at me. She opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted.
"Citlali? I know you are there. Don't make me come to fetch you."
I beckoned, and she came into my room. I heard her breath quicken as we heard Matlal's footsteps in the corridor. I pointed at my bed. Citlali's eyes grew large, and her lips trembled.
"Hide," I whispered. "I'll get rid of him."
Citlali sprang up onto the bed like a startled deer, and pulled the curtain behind her. I turned towards the door. Matlal looked at me, frowning.
"Good evening, Alchemist. Have you seen Citlali perhaps?"
"No, tlamacazqui Matlal, I have not seen her since this morning."
Matlal's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure? I could have sworn that I heard her voice."
I sneered. "Do you think I have her hidden away in my room perhaps?"
Matlal laughed in a most unpleasant way. "I wouldn't put it past you, Alchemist. She is most charming and your rooms have been rather empty of feminine beauty of late."
"Would I eat a tlaxkalli after you have already licked off all the sauce and salt? She is not here."
"You are a fine one to speak, Alchemist, having enjoyed the company of Itzel for all these months. But you were not the last to touch her naked flesh." Matlal's teeth showed in an evil smile. "I was. The feel of her before I set my knife in her. I cut her slowly, Alchemist, and yet, she saw her own beating heart before her soul departed her body. A worthy offering for Huitzilopochtli."
If I had a weapon, I would have killed him where he stood. Such things being unavailable to me, I calmly, coldly, added more weight to the balance. This man would die, by my will if not by my hand.
"Itzel is not in my room. Citlali is not in my room. All that is in my room is myself and a statue of Huitzilopochtli. And I have work to do, tlamacazqui."
"Citlali likes a firm hand," said Matlal. "Keep that in mind, just in the event that she does find herself here." He turned round and walked away.
I took a deep breath, limped to my bed and pulled open the curtain. Citlali was sitting on the bed, arms round her knees, staring at her bare feet. I sat down next to her. She was about Alexandra's age, with deep black hair tied in two thick plaits reaching half way down her back. She was slender, strong like Alexandra. She should be running round this city laughing, loved, happy. Instead, she was the plaything of a depraved old man, who would kill her when at last he tired of her.
As I put my hand on her shoulder, she breathed in, startled. She looked up to me with large frightened eyes. I pulled her closer, stroked her hair. She closed her eyes and put her head on my shoulder. Iris was always so much better at this than I was.
"It'll be alright," I said. "Everything will be alright. You will be fine. I promise."
Citlali sniffed, opened her eyes and looked up at me.
"Tlaxkalli?"
I brushed the tears from her cheek and smiled at her. "It got him out of here. I didn't mean it. You are almost as beautiful as my daughter."
That got a little laugh out of her. I got up, told her to wait and looked up and down the corridor. There was nobody there, and I waved her on. She ran down the corridor to her home, her husband. Safe for perhaps one evening. I sat down at my desk, pulled out my plans. I used to think that I had all the time in the world. But that evening, I knew I did not. People were suffering. I had work to do.
Alexandra Tennant: The French are coming to get us
Settling in - The Rifle Club - The maiden flight of Lady I - Superior knowledge - An African girl in Paris - The enigmatic Mr. Slate
Dear Friends,
It is with the greatest regret that I have to announce that I will no longer be able to conduct the weekly lessons at the Algernon Rifle Club. I will be leaving Algernon University on board our airship Lady I, for an undetermined amount of time. I am afraid I cannot be more specific about the reasons.
Please rest assured that this will not mean the end of the Rifle Club if I can by any means prevent it. I will find a suitable person to take my place, so all members can continue to improve their skills in the impressive manner it has been my privilege to witness these last months. I am certain the result will be staggering.
All that is left is to thank you, the members of the Algernon Rifle club, for your enthusiasm, friendship and dedication. I do not say farewell.
Until we meet again, I remain most truly,
-- Alexandra Tennant, The Algernon Clarion
After our first run aboard Lady I, we tethered her to the ground in one of the University's fields and set about adapting her to our needs. The first thing we started on was to replace the outdated engines with a pair of turbines of Andrew Parsons' invention. To mount the new engines, he had to remove the sides of the gondola, and then lift them in and out with a crane. Why he didn't just carry the engines out on his back, I can't possibly say. Poor Lady I looked like she would never be right again, but our faith in Andrew had never been betrayed yet. Because of the greater forces exerted by the new engines, the rest of the propulsion system also had to be strengthened. The engines were connected to the transmission, the transmission was connected to the drive shafts, the drive shafts were connected to the propeller shafts, the propeller shafts were connected to the propeller pods, oh hear the words of the Lord. I watched Andrew at work for a while, and he seemed to be in his own personal Heaven, so I let him be.
There were four cabins in the aft section, surrounding the mess hall. In the middle was a very sturdy hardwood table that only needed a sanding-down and a few layers of lacquer to erase the memory of countless Frenchies who'd cut their baguettes on it. The port and starboard aft cabins, on either side of the galley, were larger than the others. The aft starboard cabin was turned into our study and library. Carl, Fatin and Raage claimed the large port aft cabin, and I got the cabin in front of it. Father took the cabin opposite mine, away from us noisy children. My cabin had four bunk beds, two of which I immediately had removed to make room for a table and a cupboard, constructed by a rather handsome pair of carpenters who crawled all over Lady I like a constructive plague of termites, leaving only sawdust in their wake. Fatin and Carl's cabin was frankly the prettiest ever seen on board of a warship. Raage slept in a cradle that would swing gently with the movements of the ship. They had brought the leather sheets that had been their tent in Sudan, and used that as a curtain in front of their bed, and as a cover for Raage's cradle. Father's cabin was simple to the point of being dull: Desk, bed, cupboard. The only concession to practicality was a portrait of Mother, hanging above his desk. The other two cabins were more or less left in their original state, so that if we needed to, we could sleep eight passengers in the midships cabins, keeping the aft section to ourselves. For now, our Russian navigator took up one of them. About a week later, Carl and I were hanging on the sides of the ship, painting the name Lady I in large white letters. We moved our things from the cargo bay to our rooms, and from that moment on, we lived among the clouds. I recommend it. Lying in a warm bed, watching the moon-lit earth pass by far below, must be one of the finest ways to spend the night on your own.
It was a beautiful bright Saturday at the Rifle Club, and we now had the targets at two hundred yards. Since I was about to set off to possibly hostile places, I had my own rifle out as well, though I was shooting across the now-empty corn fields. I had put a good number of paper targets up against the stone fence so I wouldn't have to run the half-mile every five shots or so. For a bit of variety, I had also put down some empty tin cans. I was lying on my stomach with the sun beating down on me. With new focus, my skills were quickly returning to me. I was using the opportunity to use up some of the tracer rounds that some idiot had put in my order. Just in case you don't know, a tracer round is like a normal cartridge, but the bullet is hollow. The cavity contains a material like phosphorus or magnesium that will ignite when the bullet is fired, and leave a trace of light in the air. They are used mainly by infantry soldiers to mark targets for their squad mates. For a sniper, they helpfully tell the target where the person is who just shot their leader, which is not a recommended tactic. But for target practice, they are fun to watch and make pretty sparks on impact.
Someone picked up my binoculars to see how I was doing.
"I really wouldn't want to get on your bad side."
I looked up, and saw Carrie sitting cross-legged next to me.
"Would you like a go?"
"Are you serious? Of course I would!"
I moved over and Carrie took my place. I could see her take a deep breath, then another. She became still, then fired a shot. She cycled through, fired again. I picked up the binoculars. Both of her shots had hit the target. A two and one outside the one, but still impressive with an unfamiliar weapon.
"Where'd you learn to shoot?"
"Member of the junior rifle team in my last school. Hadn't held a rifle for years until I got here, which is why I was shooting like a drunk monkey. Getting back into it now, though."
I looked. She had now compensated and was hitting sevens and eights out of ten, spread evenly around the bullseye. I compared it to my consistent tens, with the occasional nine, and realised I was competing with a school girl. She looked up at me.
"You're leaving, aren't you?"
I sighed. "Yes. I need to find whoever is trying to get at me, and politely ask them to stop it. They missed twice now, and if any of you got caught in the crossfire, I'd never forgive myself."
Carrie sat up and handed my rifle back to me.
"What'll become of the rifle club?"
"Elect a chair. No reason why you shouldn't keep going. You've all been marshalls at some point, even Jocelyn. Nobody died."
"Oi!" Jocelyn was standing behind me, as was the rest of the club. "That's only because we're all scared of you!"
I laughed. "Well, I'm at my most deadly when I'm far away."
Rina sneered. "Anyway, they'd never let us girls handle firearms on our own."
"Nor us boys, neither," said Bert. "We need a responsible adult."
"Mr. Parsons!" said Christa. "Can't get more responsible than that."
"Not Prof. Wadcroft," said Florence. "We'd have to teach him what the dangerous end of a rifle is."
"Perhaps Margaret... Professor Enderby, I mean." I said. "I'll ask her if she'd be willing to keep an eye on you."
"She's not the worst of them," said Nigel, which was the highest praise anyone could hope for. "But she's not a sniper like you."
"Well then, get better," I said. "I was never going to stay forever. I'd just love it if this club didn't fade away as soon as I've left."
"Never! Shooting things is too much fun!" Jocelyn realised what she'd said, and her bright grin flickered, only for a moment.
I looked round the circle of young snipers in training, and wanted to hold them all.
"I'll be back," I said. "And when I am, I expect you all to be able to hit the bullseye at four hundred yards."
"Yes, I will admit it, I give up." Wadcroft took off his half-moon glasses and breathed on them, pulling out a handkerchief. When the lenses were once more fit to see through, he held up one of the rocks. "I haven't the faintest notion what anyone would want these things for. I have gone through every book and journal in the Library. Not a word on the subject, except for one woman at Paris University, who is an authority on glowing rocks. Unfortunately, she hasn't replied yet to any of my letters."
"Perhaps she doesn't like Sassenach," said Chancellor Monroe. The Chancellor was a man in his early sixties, with an unruly mop of grey hair and a beard, impeccably dressed in a green suit and waistcoat. He was lighting his pipe with a gas lighter that looked like a small-scale flamethrower.
We were in the Chancellor's office, cups of tea in hand. Father, Carl, Wadcroft, Margaret, and myself. Raage was asleep in his new pram, a gift from the Algernon University faculty. Margaret had gone round with the hat, and none could refuse her. Fatin was attending an English class for non-native speakers. Her teacher was quite impressed with her. James Riley had left. He seemed to enjoy some kind of diplomatic immunity which kept him from being arrested. The Chancellor had cordially invited him to get lost, and Riley had booked the first dirigible for Cairo. We were all heartbroken to see him go, with only gin and tonic for comfort.
"Well, she is French," said Wadcroft. "It comes naturally to them."
"Why not pay this fine lady a visit," said Father. "I find it's always harder to blow someone off in person than it is to lose a letter."
Wadcroft's eyes wrinkled. "But that would require travelling across the English Channel. How can we hope to accomplish this? If only we knew someone with a means of transportation equal to such an expedition."
"You know? I might know someone like that. Perhaps the captain of the good airship Lady I might be persuaded. Joking aside, Professor, it would be the ideal opportunity to test her new engines. I would be happy to take you to Paris. A much better test run than running rings around Akenham."
Chancellor Monroe stirred. "If I may make a suggestion? I have asked one of my old Army friends for help with our current situation." He pulled out a pocket knife and poked in the head of his pipe, which was not burning to his satisfaction. "That is to say, I was in the Army. He was in the Secret Service. His name is Pike. Godfrey Pike. He owes me a favour and he is in Paris. His last letter said that there was going to be some sort of knees-up in the Eiffel Tower, and he was there to meet some old friends. If he's willing, you can bring him back here."
"Haven't been in Paris for ages," said Margaret. "What are the prices like on Lady I?"
"Extortionate, Professor Enderby," said Father. "But for you I'll make an exception."
"You can sleep in my cabin," I said. "Wadcroft can have the starboard midships one. Unless you fancy our navigator, of course."
"Oh be still my heart," said Margaret. "Who wouldn't lust after such a fine specimen of Siberian perfection? But you would want him to take the helm now and then."
Father gave Margaret a stern look. "Professor! No lewd conduct towards Lady I's crewmembers! It is the first rule!"
"Followed only by 'No smoking near the hydrogen supply', said Wadcroft. Are we going? Then I will pack up some samples."
It was night, and I was at Lady I's helm, keeping her steady on a southern course, to compensate for a slight west wind. The heavy engines were both spinning at half speed, providing a deep undertone to the noise of the propellers and the whispers of the wind. The door opened, and Fatin walked in to join me, bare feet on the corrugated metal floor of the bridge, dressed in a nightgown. She had her hand underneath, and was rubbing her breast.
"Hello. Raage fallen asleep?"
Fatin laughed. "Tomorrow, I will show him the galley, and he can find his own food." She walked over to the railing and leaned on it, looking out. The red night-light of the bridge showed her dark form like a shadow underneath the thin white gown. She looked over her shoulder.
"How can you see where you are going?"
"The compass," I said. "We're going south-by-east."
Fatin joined me at the helm and looked. I moved the helm a few spokes to starboard so she could see the compass move. Then I got Lady I back on course.
"It's not actually moving," I said. "It always points in the same direction. we are turning, not it."
Fatin looked from the compass to the wheel and back. It moved a bit to the South, and I gently moved the wheel. With my nautical experience, I found it easy to pilot Lady I. She handled like a ship, albeit with the added dimension of altitude. Fatin raised herself to her full height, closed her eyes and listened for a while.
"She sounds happy," she said. "She is running through the fields where she is home."
That was a strange way of putting it, but sailors have a large tradition of imbuing their ships with minds of their own. And now that I listened myself, I could imagine a content, satisfied purr in the engines. Andrew's work was, as usual, superb.
"Would you like to try steering?"
Fatin stepped over, and put her hand on the wheel. I took a step back as she looked at the compass. It started to drift to the west, and Fatin turned the wheel to starboard, making it worse.
"Remember, steer us to the compass, not..."
Fatin gave a little nod, compensated. The rose turned to south-by-east, and stayed there. I watched it for a whole minute, but the compass didn't budge. I looked at Fatin's hand on the wheel, and saw she was moving it, tiny amounts, in response to goodness only knows what. She was whispering softly in her own language, with a look on her face that combined complete concentration and a deep joy. A gust of wind pushed us off course, and with a few gentle words, she put Lady I back to where she needed to go.
I stepped over to the back, where there was a well-secured teapot on a petroleum burner. I poured two mugs of tea, and held one out to her. She blinked, then accepted it with a smile and went back to steering.
"Keep going like this," I said, "And we can take you back home."
Fatin shook her head. "I can never go back. There are things in my head now that would break me if I saw my tribe again." She took a sip of tea and looked at me. "Three days ago, I took Raage to one of your witch-doctors, and he wasn't even sick. He just looked at him, and wrote things down, and listened to his heart with a..." She stumbled on a word. "thing. He let me listen, too. I heard Raage's heart, strong. I heard him breathe. I would want that for Kinsi's child, and I cannot give it to her. I gave birth to Raage the same way everyone did it. It hurt, but the women were with me, and singing the pain and the fear away. I told your witch-doctor, and she was... troubled."
"People tell me the first time is always worst," I said.
Fatin stared ahead of her, still keeping the ship on course. "Raage is not my first child," she said.
I looked at her face, still, sad. I said nothing.
"Before I met Carl, a man came to our tribe. He saw me, and wanted me. I felt so proud to be wanted. Nobody had before except Obsiye, but he is an idiot." Fatin smiled sadly. "He was kind. The spear was blunt, but the child was only small, and only cried and didn't want to drink. Then it fell asleep and did not wake up again. I took it out into the woods and gave it to the forest."
I breathed in slowly. I put my hand on her shoulder.
"Oh Fatin, I am so sorry."
She shrugged. "These things happen. You are sad, and then there is bread to make, meat to dry, clothes to repair. And you forget, except when there is nothing else to think about. But here, in England, it would have lived, and born its own children. How can I go back, knowing that?"
There was another gust of wind, and before the compass had time to move, Fatin pushed Lady I up against it. We both fell silent, looking into the distance, as Lady I, named after my mother, carried us safely where we needed to go.
The morning was getting on when Paris came into view. I waved Fatin over to join me at the bridge telescope which I had pointed at the most famous piece of architecture of Paris: The Eiffel Tower. Designed by a man co-incidentally named Gustave Eiffel to serve as the symbol of the 1889 World Fair, and built over a period of three years, it dominated the skyline of Paris. It had been used for several grand galas, been fitted out with insane amounts of fireworks on new year's celebrations, and finally relinquished to the hordes of tourists that arrived by the dirigible-load to be transported in hydraulic carts up the legs of the tower, or if they had something to prove about their physical prowess, using the stairs.
But that was not our goal yet. Taras Nerandzic took the helm himself in these busy Parisian skies, and steered us towards the École supérieure de physique et de chimie industrielles de la ville de Paris. We moored at one of the mooring poles, and Wadcroft asked me and Margaret to accompany him for, as he put it, an extra touch of charm. As we walked to the entrance of the University, Margaret and I spent a delightful fifteen minutes of insulting the French architecture, nature, people, science, gardens, and plumbing. Wadcroft walked a few steps ahead of us and pretended that we were nothing to do with him. We made our way to the reception desk and were greeted by a lady who made us sign our names in the visitors' register and led us to a waiting room.
"This is what they call tea?" Margaret held her cup away from her. "Have they even heard of putting in milk?"
Wadcroft looked up. "Game faces, Ladies. Someone's coming."
We composed ourselves, and an elegant lady in a severe dark dress walked up to us.
"Messieurs-dames? My name is Elise Rossignol, personal assistant to Madame Curie. How may I help you?"
Wadcroft rose, and made a small bow. "Delighted, my lady. I am Professor Alan Wadcroft of Algernon University, Ipswich. These are my associates, Professor Margaret Enderby and Miss Alexandra Tennant. We are here on a matter on which Mme. Curie's expertise might shine some light, concerning a mysterious variant of pitchblende which we found on an expedition in Africa."
"Madame Curie is not well," said Mme. Rossignol. "Surely, such a thing can be settled by consulting the many works in our library?"
"We have copies of all the relevant works, but books will not help us. We need Madame's mind. We do not ask this frivolously. Her information and insight may well help us save lives."
Madame Elise Rossignol raised a single eyebrow. "Mineralogy may well be a tumultuous subject on the geological timescale, but one can usually avoid being hit by approaching continents."
I caught Madame Rossignol's eye. "That may well be the case, Madame, but someone thinks the matter urgent enough to make attempts on our lives. Were this not the case, we would leave Madame Curie in peace. As it is, we fear that she may be the only one who can help us find out what we are facing."
"Attempts..." Madame Rossignol frowned. She had bright green eyes, and she turned them on me. If I had told even a fraction of a lie, she doubtlessly would have seen it. She nodded slowly, once. "Very well. Please follow me. I will see if Madame is well enough to receive guests."
We followed Madame Rossignol up the stairs to a remote part of the University. She stopped at one of the doors, and turned round to us.
"Please wait."
Madame Rossignol knocked, entered the room. A few moments later, she re-emerged.
"You may enter, all three of you. Do not outstay your welcome."
Her tone of voice made it quite clear that she would make the rest of our lives a living hell if we inconvenienced Madame Curie in any way. We quietly entered the room. It was a spacious office, tastefully furnished in green. A painting of a man with a short beard and moustache was on one of the walls. The window was open, letting in the smells and buzz of bees outside. Standing by her desk was Madame Maria Salomea Skłodowska-Curie. She looked at us with a severe, but not unfriendly look on a face framed by hair that had almost finished turning grey from black. As we watched, she closed her eyes, put a hand on her chest, swayed. Wadcroft stepped forward and put her chair behind her, while I held her arm and helped her sit down. Margaret moved in with a glass of water. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Madame Rossignol appeared. She opened her mouth to throw us out, but Madame Curie raised a hand.
"C'est bon, Elise, ca va." She took a small sip of water, put the glass on her desk. Madame Rossignol hovered by the door.
"Ladies, sir, please sit down. What can I do for you?"
Wadcroft opened his briefcase and produced a square box, from which he took one of the rocks that had nearly cost Carl his life back in South Sudan. He gave it to Madame Curie. A sad smile flitted over her face as she ran a finger over the gleaming seam of light on the rock's surface.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she said. "But it is deadly as well. How large a store do you have, Professor Wadcroft?"
"We have one hundred eleven samples, similar in size to this one. Not counting this one, which I would be happy to offer to you as a gift."
"Thank you, Professor. Tell me, how are you storing your samples?"
"We store them in air-tight glass bottles, in a wooden case."
"That is not enough. Line the wooden box with lead when you return. The radiation from small samples like this will probably not hurt you, but I have found that more concentrated specimens will."
"My brother carried large sacks of ore," I said. "He received something like burns to his chest and back. The rest of his expedition died, but he survives."
"Your brother is a lucky man," said Madame Curie.
"All the expedition members who died were trying to extract the luminescent material from the ore," said Wadcroft. "They may have breathed in dust particles. Carl never did."
"That may be the case," said Madame Curie. "Beautiful but deadly, as I said."
Margaret moved in her chair. "There is a creature in the sea, a crustacean with a brilliantly coloured carapace, that can perceive five times more different colours than we can even imagine. And yet, its claws can move so quickly that it boils the water around it when it strikes to dismember its prey. It's called a mantis shrimp. We had two in one of our aquaria, but they slaughered all the other creatures in the tank, and then smashed their way through inch-thick glass."
Madame Curie smiled. "Then this may well be the mantis shrimp of geology."
"Do you know what this is?" said Wadcroft.
"I should," said Madame Curie. "The luminescent part of this sample is radium. It has many uses. Its radiation will shine through solid objects, revealing what is inside them to the photographic plate. It will allow a physician to examine the inside of a patient's body without cutting him open."
"Radiation..." Wadcroft nodded quietly. "That's what spoiled the photographic plates. There were strange wisps almost of smoke on photographs stored with this sample."
"Yes."
"But why... why would anyone want to keep this knowledge from getting out? It could benefit Mankind in any number of ways."
Madame Curie took a deep breath, closed her eyes a moment. "This mineral may have properties thet even my husband and I have not unearthed. We were approached by an organisation seeking our knowledge. They did not seem trustworthy. I have heard from learned colleagues that they too have been approached. Some of them... disappeared."
"Have you heard the name Prometheus?" said Wadcroft.
Madame Curie nodded. "I have heard of them. They approached me again last year. They were very insistent, but I declined their offer."
"They will stop at nothing," I said. "Aren't you afraid for your safety?"
A grim defiant look was on Madame Curie's face. "What would they do? Murder me? I am already dead, Miss Tennant. I brought the world the knowledge of Polonium and Radium, and in return, it spoiled my bone marrow. My blood runs thinner and thinner each day." She pointed her hand at a notebook. "I will keep writing until I can write no more. Elise will keep the apparatus moving as long as she can. When even her skills cannot sustain me any longer..." Madame Curie looked at Wadcroft. "There is a reception on the third floor restaurant of La Tour Eiffel tonight. I have found it impossible to accept their invitation, but it is open to all scientists. There, you may find your adversaries."
I noticed the word scientist. Madame Curie had known the time when the term was 'men of science', and had laughed in its face. Elise Rossignol stood behind us, moving silently as a ghost.
"Messieurs-dames? Madame Curie must rest now. Please excuse her."
We walked down the hallways of the University of Paris, quiet, with plenty to think about. The Prometheus organisation seemed to be larger than we had thought. Madame Curie had felt their influence and defied them.
"Do not go gentle into that good night," said Margaret, out of nowhere. "Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."
It is not often that I get to see my brother wearing full black tie. He does scrub up well. Fatin was standing next to him in one of the homespun dresses they had bought all the way over in Kodok. I looked at her, then at Margaret.
"Fatin?" said Margaret. "Follow us."
We took Fatin into their cabin and assessed the situation. Fatin was a slender young woman. Her skin was a deep brown and her jet-black hair stood out in a mass of small curls, unless she tamed it with a scarf or a ribbon.
"We're about the same size," I said. "Let me get something. Margaret, you get her out of that dress."
I ran to my own cabin and from the new wardrobe pulled my only light blue dress and corset. Margaret and I helped Fatin into the skirts and tightened the corset.
"Just say if it's too tight," I said, pulling on the laces.
"I am too large for this," said Fatin.
"This dress is meant to change your figure," Margaret replied. "Makes you look slimmer. Men are naturally attracted to small waists, wide hips, and large breasts. It's really interesting. The appeal of the hourglass figure is almost the same over all cultures since ancient history."
"And bulging eyes? I can hardly breathe!"
"Sad to say, breathing is not what this dress is best for," I said.
We smoothed down the dress, fussed a bit, then stood back and admired our handiwork. I handed Fatin the matching parasol.
"What is this?"
I took it back and opened it. "It's meant to keep the sun off your head."
"The sun?" Fatin chuckled. "Do I need to be afraid of the sun? Here?"
"You can also stab people with it if they don't get out of your way, and hook your man if his eyes wander."
"Not a chance," said Margaret. "You look lovely, dear."
"Just make it clear to my dear brother that you're not making a habit of dressing up like this."
Margaret pointed at me. "What are you wearing?"
I thought a moment. "I'll put on a frilly shirt over my all-environment suit. I'll just say that is what everyone wears these days. Ready?"
We went to the bridge in single file, me, Fatin, Margaret. Carl was talking to Wadcroft, his back to us. Wadcroft, clad in gala University colours, raised a finger, then pointed Carl at us. The expression on his face was priceless. Margaret and I looked at each other, and grinned. Mission accomplished. Fatin said something to Carl in her own language. Carl laughed sheepishly. Fatin turned round to the pram, to pick up Raage and his carrying sling.
Margaret stepped up. "You aren't taking the little nipper to a gala dinner, are you? Lots of people smoking cigars, very bad for little lungs."
Fatin looked a bit worried. "But what if he gets hungry? You are not..." she made a vague gesture in the direction of Margaret's rather generous personality.
"We have milk in the cold-box," said Margaret. "And you've just fed him, haven't you? Go on, enjoy yourself."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Margaret was almost ready to hiss, "Give me the child!"
Fatin looked into Margaret's eyes with an expression that combined gratitude, worry, and a dash of menace. She handed Raage to Margaret, and Margaret settled into one of the comfortable observation chairs that we had added to the bridge. She waved us away.
"Shoo! Get away the lot of you. I have this in hand."
We watched Raage rub his cheek against Margaret and look up at her.
"Right young man. The first law of Thermodynamics. Heat is work, and work is heat." Margaret looked up. "Are you still here?"
Professor Wadcroft offered me his arm. I took it. The four of us walked down the gangplank, hailed a cab, and set off for the Eiffel Tower.
We arrived at the South leg of the tower, and were herded into one of the lifts that took us up to the first level. Then, we had to change into the only technical part of the lift that wasn't manufactured in France: the Otis lifts that were special in that they needed to follow the inward curve of the Tower's leg using a complicated set of chains. We walked into the restaurant. It was a large room, with tables arranged along the walls. People were standing around in small cliques, talking. I noticed several people looking at us, either because I had the audacity to show off my legs, or because Fatin's was the only brown face in the room. A string quartet was in the corner, playing one of Vivaldi's Four Seasons. A waitress in a dark dress and a white apron walked past with a tray full of glasses of champagne. Carl, Wadcroft, and I took a glass. Fatin gave the waitress a brilliant smile. The waitress allowed herself a little glimmer.
"What is this drink?"
"Bollinger Special Cuvée, Madame. Please help yourself."
Fatin picked up a long thin glass, and looked at it, fascinated. "Where do these bubbles come from?"
"It is Champagne, Madame." The waitress nodded and glided off to the next group.
"Thank y..." Fatin looked at the waitress' disappearing back.
"This is a kind of wine," said Carl. Have a taste, see if you like it.
Fatin did, and gave Carl a Look. "Do all the white people drink horrible things?"
"It's a thing you learn to like," said Carl breezily.
"Canapé Messieurs-dames?" Another waitress came by bringing offerings of salmon mousse on toast, and eggs with a dash of caviar. I grabbed one of the eggs, as caviar is not a daily treat for me. Fatin followed me.
"This is..." I began.
"Oh I know what this is," said Fatin. "It comes from the inside of a fish. The River People bring it to the feast. They bring more than this, though." She put the egg in her mouth. "A bit too salty, but still nice." She sipped more champagne. "Ah. This..."
"Champagne."
"Champagne. It tastes better with something salty."
Wadcroft narrowed his eyes, looking at a man on the other side of the room, with long hair and a little unkempt beard, in an obviously rented suit that didn't fit him well.
"Good Heavens, Is that Dr. Mason? What is he doing here? I thought he was at Cornell throwing bits of sodium into bottles of water. Excuse me, I have to go and have a word with him."
Wadcroft wandered off. We wandered round, keeping Fatin between us, watching the people. We ended up at one of the high tables, for standing by rather than sitting at. Carl kindly offered to fetch us some pieces of food from the buffet, leaving me and Fatin to observe the mad scientists' hairstyles. On the other end of the table were two women, likewise abandoned by their men. Their dresses were slightly too small for them, and they were wearing a bit more make-up than strictly necessary. They were casting surreptitious glances at Fatin, until she noticed.
Fatin smiled at them. "Good evening. I am Fatin. Are you enjoying the evening?"
One of the ladies gave a little affected laugh. "Tiens. Qui a apporté sa p'tite Négresse? La robe bleu ne va pas du tout avec sa teint."
Her companion tutted at her. "Well, does anything? I hear they normally walk around naked, comme les animaux. Though it may not be entirely polite to mention it here."
The rude lady looked into Fatin's eyes. "Elle ne comprend pas un mot."
"Mais moi, je comprends," I said sweetly. "Would you like me to translate?"
"I love this place," said Fatin, eyes aglow. "People here are much nicer than the M'bari tribe." She turned to me. "You have to be very careful only to visit them after a hunt, when their bellies are full. If they are hungry..."
"Oh, do they put you in their cooking pot?"
"Oh no," said Fatin. "We don't have those. They put leather straps round your arms and legs, and wind them very tight with sticks, and then they cut below, so you don't bleed to death and go bad. In the forest, meat spoils in only one or two days unless you dry it. Then they eat the arms and legs first, and save the body for later."
"So they can't run away. That's clever."
"Yes. And it is easier like that to push the spit from one end to the other for roasting." Fatin's eyes turned to our new friends, who were looking a bit green about the gills. "But that is not my tribe of course."
Carl returned with a plate full of fried chicken parts. With a delighted 'Ah!', Fatin picked one up, and bit into it. Carl, gentleman that he was, offered me the plate first, offered it to the ladies who refused, and only then took a piece himself. One of the waitresses walked by with a tray of glasses.
"Mm," said Carl, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin. "With white meat, you have white wine."
"You do?" said Fatin, picking up a glass. Her eyes strayed to the French ladies, who started fanning themselves, turned tail and fled.
I nearly rolled under the table laughing. Fatin looked a picture of sweetness and innocence. Carl looked from me to Fatin and back.
"What are you two up to?"
Fatin looked at me. I looked back at her.
"Nothing," we both said, at the same time.
Wadcroft returned from his chat with Dr. Mason, and we found our table. Already seated at the table was a small frail old man, smiling distractedly into a half-pint of shandy. We all nodded politely at him, and sat down. Wadcroft held out his hand.
"Good evening, Sir. Alan Wadcroft, of Algernon University. How do you do?"
The man shook Wadcroft's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sir. My name is Pike. Godfrey Pike."
Carl, having courteously assisted Fatin into her seat, pulled up next to me, raised his eyebrows and whispered. "Is this the man Chancellor Munroe has asked to keep the wolves from Algernon's doors?"
"I wonder how long ago he retired," I whispered back.
"Oh, only last year my dear," said Mr. Pike. "Her Majesty's Secret Service finally got sick of the sight of me. How is Malcolm these days? Leg still giving him trouble?"
"Oh, pardon me," I said. "Not that I could tell, thank you for asking."
Godfrey Pike gave me an amused look. "It's just that he keeps going on about how he carried me to safety on his shoulders on a leg and a half, under heavy fire. Do ask him. He loves telling that story."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" said Wadcroft. "I understand he made you an offer."
"Indeed he did," said Mr. Pike. "I am sorely tempted. It would be retirement of sorts, without the cessation of movement. People our age need something to keep our minds occupied, or we reduce ourselves to simply waiting for the next cup of cocoa in the retirement home."
The first course arrived, a thin vegetable broth with a basket of the long thin crusty white bread that is as much a symbol of France that the very Eiffel Tower is. Fatin, having had her fill of wine, poured herself a glass of water. We finished our soup, and while waiters removed the bowls and plates, a dark-haired woman took the stage, to sing an aria by Puccini. Fatin, who had been talking to Carl in her own language, stopped in mid-sentence. I could see her holding her breath. Carl looked at her.
"You like that?"
"Shh."
The piece wasn't very long, and the singer took a well-deserved applause from the diners. The next course arrived, a well-cooked leg of duck, lettuce with a walnuts and cheese, with potatoes fried in duck fat, a traditional dish of the South of France. As we ate, Mr. Pike coughed politely.
"I would like you all to keep concentrating on your plates please, and not look up or around you. Our host, a Magister Nicholas Slate, is at the main table and he has looked in our direction more times than can be explained by chance. Also, a man, I would guess Prussian by the cut of his suit, is studiously avoiding looking in our direction. Furthermore, I notice several men of rather exaggerated physical build sitting at strategic positions that allow them to reach the doors before anyone else does. I saw one of them is armed with a large caliber handgun, so we must assume that so are the others. Finally, the gentleman sitting two tables behind you still wearing his rather unfashionable Panama hat, Miss Tennant, seems to know you." Mr. Pike heaved a deep sigh. "And to think that I was considering retirement precisely to avoid these situations."
After a few moments of silence, Carl stirred. "Is there anything else you've observed?"
Pike's eyes gleamed at Carl. "The gentleman four tables away from us has his hand under the skirt of his companion's lady friend. But that need not disturb us. The French are a passionate people."
"Mr. Pike, could you please point at my face and make some comment or other? Maybe I can tell you more about these mysterious guests."
"Certainly. I think the lip colour you are wearing is a bit too flamboyantly red. A brown colour would suit you much better, to match that rather nice all-environment suit you are wearing."
I pulled out my compact mirror and pretended to apply powder to my nose. "I tend to go without," I said, and turned my mirror so I could see.
"The very optimum," said Pike.
"Riley," I said. "Agent of an Arkham University. I wonder what the bastard is doing here." I turned my mirror, and held my breath. "And the gentleman not looking at us is Oberst Gustav Klemm."
Wadcroft sneered. "This is starting to look like some kind of reunion. At my last primary school one, there were also little cliques that didn't talk to each other."
At the end of the room, Mr. Nicholas Slate rose, and tapped his knife against his glass for attention. The first thing that I noticed, was how tall he was, easily towering above his companions. Mr. Slate was quite handsome, with a trim black moustache, and meticulously dressed. He wore no jewellery, except for a silvery lapel pin that I was too far away to make out precisely. When he spoke, his voice was clear and high.
"Friends and colleagues! Welcome to my little soiree. It is very gratifying to see that so many men and women of Science have chosen to join us here. Those who have not, will envy you this experience in years to come, for you have the unique opportunity to stand at the cradle of a new world! One that will no longer be powered by the black coal and its belching smoke, but by the clean and radiant energy of the stars themselves! Some of you have been invited specially for your knowledge, others are here more or less by chance."
Mr. Slate walked round the table. "Ladies, Gentlemen all! I, Nicholas Slate, Magister of the New Order, extend to all of you my invitation. Those of you who accept my invitation will gain renown beyond their wildest dreams."
It was more or less at this point in Mr. Slate's speech that the heavy men stood up, drew their pistols, and stood by every door. I recognised them as Klemm's Jäger, though none of these had been present on our expedition to Sudan. Magister Slate raised himself to his full impressive height and crossed his arms.
"Those of you who do not accept my invitation, will regrettably never leave this tower alive. Be assured that I bear you no ill will. I simply cannot allow any news of this to be revealed to the public."
Mr. Slate pointed his hand at the East entrance, where a monstrous shape now slid into view, a dirigible, until then hidden at great altitude, that almost dwarfed the very Eiffel Tower itself. A gangplank was extended, to come to rest on the walkway.
"After you, my future colleagues! Join me now, on the path to glory!"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, one of the men stood up and marched towards the dirigible.
"Mason, you idiot," hissed Wadcroft.
But more of the scientists now got up and walked towards an uncertain future. Mr. Slate looked at each of us, assessing our willingness to either join or resist. He came over to our table, with two armed Jäger behind him.
"Professor Wadcroft," he said. "Will you not join me? I can use a man with your alchemical knowledge. I assure you, what I have to offer you is far better than vegetating in that dusty university in Ipswich. I'll even allow you to bring your companions with you."
Wadcroft snorted. "My seat at Algernon may be a bit worn at the edges, but it is my chair. I'll keep it."
"And how about you, Miss Tennant? You may not be a scientist, but I can always use a woman of your capabilities."
I glanced at Mr. Slate's lapel pin, the only identifying piece he wore. It portrayed an eagle struck by a lightning bolt, plummeting to the ground. I looked up into Slate's eyes.
"Your organisation tried to kill us, Mr. Slate, and not only that, you threatened the life of my young friends. The next day that you come within a mile of me, will be your last."
Slate laughed unpleasantly. "I'm afraid that day will not come. You can either follow me now, or die."
"What will you do? Have your soldiers kill us?"
"Oh good heavens, no," said Slate. "That would be a grotesque act, lacking in all sophistication. No, I'm afraid something dreadful is about to happen to the work of Mr. Gustav Eiffel."
"Explosives can be detected, Slate," said Carl.
"Pah! Explosives! Do you expect me simply to throw a stick of dynamite at this tower?" He pointed up. "My inventions will allow me to make this look like an unforgivable miscalculation on Mr. Eiffel's part." Slate looked round, and saw that no more people were marching into his dirigible. He nodded at us. "A pleasure to meet you, ladies and gentlemen, a singular pleasure."
And with that, Mr. Slate turned round and boarded his dirigible. The gangplank was retracted, and with a mocking bow to us, the doors closed. The dirigible moved up and away. I looked at the elevators, but the Jäger had taken them down and smashed the mechanism. The doors to the stairwell had been chained shut.
"No explosives?" Carl shook his head. "Is he expecting this tower to rust away before they come to rescue us?"
"Um..." Fatin had closed her eyes, and had her head tilted slightly backwards to hear and feel better. "Does any of you think the floor is shaking?"
Carl Tennant: The dance of the knights
The steel tower - A resounding failure - David and Goliath - Traitors among us - Nerves of steel - No place like home
I am sure most of you read with great interest, as I do, the reports of the expeditions to remote places in the world.
On top of our assignments? I think not! Study points or no dice. --RPWhile the lion share of the attention is, properly, on the expedition leaders,Especially if they look good with their shirt off. --LDYou've seen him with his shirt off? --RPI have pencil. I have paper. What more do I need? --LDI want to see that drawing! --RPand the scientific results brought back to the University, and the world at large, the sheer logistics of setting up an expedition is fascinating. It starts with the equipment needed for scientific observations. In most cases, these devices are disassembled into manageable parts, so bearers can carry them. Then, there is the small matter of keeping expedition and bearers fed. This is no picnic, pardon the expression.Ah, it pleases Mr. Tennant to insert a droll jocularity. Shall I cut this out? --RPHe'll notice. Leave it in. It's dry enough as it is. Get on with the daring chases and mortal danger already! --LDNot to mention the savage passion and how he met Mrs. Fatin. You did ask him about that didn't you? --RPThought he might mention it without prompting --LDIt means bringing cooking equipment, pots and pans,A kitchen sink, a kitchen, a fireplace... --RPthe food itself, and for the larger expeditions. people to do the actual cooking. Add to that tents, weapons, basic living equipment such as knives, hatchets, some tools, clothes, and anything else one needs to live away from home in a small measure of comfort. This amounts to a heavy load to bear. With the advance of technology, especially airship technology, it is no longer necessary to carry that equipment on one's back.Is Mr. Tennant suggesting someone hire his father's dirigible at a very reasonable price? Do we allow this? --LDThis allows expeditions to travel much lighter, being supplied from the air. Still, we cannot simply fly over the area to be explored, as ably demonstrated by the expedition of Dr. Samuel Ferguson, who crossed the whole continent in a balloon, without bringing in any data of value.Oh *meow*! Aren't our Brave Men of Science supposed to be above such petty competitiveness? --RPIf I had done that, I would never have met and befriended the tribe that I spent almost a year studying.Now we are getting somewhere. Please tell us more about this 'befriending' you speak of, it sounds absolutely fascinating. --RPI have fond memories of the hunts I was asked to join, where the tribal huntsmen honoured me with the moniker "Feeder of Lions", for my efforts in keeping them safe while they stalked the wily kudu.Mr. Tennant, unless you brought us one, we are *not* interested in your picnics with the hunters. --LD Behave yourself, you shameless hussy! And ask him to bring enough for all of us! --RPIf we had flown over this wild and beautiful land, we would never have known the kind hearts of these people, seen their deep and enduring love of the forests where they dwell. We would have observed from afar their naked bodies, their primitive spears, their rude huts, and never have guessed what skill is involved in hunting one's prey, how experienced these people are in the construction of their dwellings. I would never have known the sheer joy of living in such a place, and I would never have met my beautiful wife.And then he *stops*! Honestly, Mr. Tennant... --RPI concur. Shall we set Jocelyn on him for a follow-up interview? --LDTempting, but... probably better not. I'll do a little introduction for the front page, and then we can put the bulk on page three. - RP
-- Carl Tennant, "The care and feeding of expeditions", article in the Algernon Clarion.
I asked Miss Davenport if I could use Mr. Tennant's article to add a bit of charm to the expedition report, and she sent me, perhaps by mistake, the version with the editorial notes still attached. I have elected to reproduce them here for the fascinating insight they give into the editorial process at the Algernon Clarion. -- Wadcroft
Mr. Slate had given us two very good reasons to join him on board of his dirigible. One was that we might stand at the cradle of a new, enlightened, young civilisation. The other was that we wouldn't die. Excellent reasons both, but nevertheless we had declined, and now we were facing a problem. The slight tremors that we could feel in our feet, had been steadily growing stronger, until we could now hear the steel supports groaning. Alex peered up through the network of metal beams.
"Do they have some kind of saw sawing through the supports?"
Wadcroft shook his head. "I think it's something to do with the resonant frequency of the whole tower. They have something that shakes it with just the right time. For the same reason that soldiers are not allowed to cross a bridge in formation."
"But Mr. Eiffel designed this with the wind in mind," I said. "This pile of scrap isn't supposed to have a resonant frequency."
"Speak no words of ill omen," said Alex. "So how much time do we have before things get... unpleasant?"
"By my calculations, exactly ten minutes and thirty-two seconds," said Wadcroft, irritably. "How should I know?"
"The tower sounds afraid," said Fatin. "As if it knows it will fall soon."
I stared at Fatin. "You can hear that? Could you ask it what the matter is?"
Fatin's dark eyes burnt at me. "Don't be an idiot, my love. It is not a living thing. It just sounds like one."
"Just before he left, I could see Mr. Slate pull a piece of wire leading up," said Mr. Pike. "I'll wager that that is what activated this Hellish contraption. You can see it hanging there."
"I don't suppose we could turn it off by pulling it again?" We walked over and I peered up, gave the wire a tentative tug. Nothing useful happened.
"They didn't chain up the stairs leading up," said Alex. "Maybe we can follow the wire and see where it leads."
"If we are going to be climbing..." Fatin shrugged her shoulders. "Can someone please loosen this dress for me?"
I reached behind Fatin and pulled the laces. There was a quiet snap and Fatin's dress blossomed out, allowing her to breathe. Alex gave me a look.
"You are very handy with a lady's corset, my brother."
I gave Alex an enigmatic smile, and said nothing. A gentleman does not divulge. In general. Divulgement is frowned upon.
We left Wadcroft below to organise the panic. Fatin, Alex and I trotted up the stairs. Fatin turned out to have the best night-sight between us, and could follow the wire as it snaked up one of the supports. We heard a metallic noise about two hundred steps up, and Alex pointed at a small device attached to one of the metal supports holding up the tower. I put my hand on one of the beams, and it was noticably shaking.
"Someone needs to get out there and turn that damned thing off," said Alex.
"Someone dressed for the occasion," I said. "Who doesn't have a family to support. Someone expendable."
"Oh I can feel the flood of brotherly love," said Alex. She unbuttoned her shirt, took it off, and handed it to me. She made to climb onto the balustrade. I put my hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes a moment.
"Don't fall off, little sister," I said.
"I won't." She smiled at me. "It'll be fun!"
And with that, Alex climbed onto the balustrade, balanced a moment, then leapt out and caught herself on the next beam. I turned to Fatin.
"She does that to give me a heart attack."
"What's a heart attack?"
We watched Alex climb from beam to beam to the device that was causing the very Eiffel Tower to shake in its boots. I have seen Alex climb trees, mountains, walls, roofs, and recently a dirigible. This tower didn't seem too difficult. Still, I was gripping the railing with white knuckles until I heard a noise and looked behind me. Propellers spinning lazily in the Parisian summer breeze, Lady I was making her way towards the tower. She was heading towards the bright lights of the restaurant. I leant out and waved Alex' shirt at them, shouting, even though they were too far for them to hear it on the bridge.
"They don't see you," said Fatin.
I looked at the nice frilly white shirt in my hand.
"Alex is going to hate me."
I pulled out a box of matches and lit the thin fabric, which burnt with a bright yellow flame. I waved the improvised torch at Lady I, until she changed course. The flames were scorching my hand, and I threw the shirt over the edge. Lady I's search light ignited and bathed us both in a bright light. The side door opened, and in the opening stood Father.
"Hello my boy! Are you trying to set fire to the tower? It won't work, you know. It's steel."
"It's good to see you, Father, but how did you see something was wrong?"
"We saw a ruddy big dirigible hovering by the tower, and the place is crawling with Gendarmes. They can't seem to get up so I thought we'd come and see what the blazes is going on. But you look fine to me, so tootle pip, enjoy your evening!"
"Wait! We found some kind of earthquake device. It's going to destroy the tower. Alex is climbing towards it to dismantle it."
"What, a bomb? Is she mad? Get her out of there!"
"No! It's some kind of vibrating device that'll make the tower shake itself apart. Give her some light to see by!"
Father called inside, and the light widened and became less bright. I looked back to where Alex was now sitting on the beam that held the device, looking at it. She turned round and shouted.
"It's some kind of automatic hammer. It's making me feel strange in my stomach."
"Can you turn it off?"
"There isn't any lever. It's bolted to the beam. Got a spanner?"
"Not on me, no."
Alex shifted, and gave the device a good hard kick. It kept on hammering away in its specially designed rhythm.
"Alex? Maybe we can attach a steel wire to it, and Lady I can rip it away."
"That light is Father? Has he come to chaperone us? Good grief, this is like my graduation ball all over again!"
I shouted the plan back to Father. He threw Fatin a long thin line with a weight on the end, to which he attached a strong thin steel cable. Lady I turned and lowered its mooring cable to us. One end of the steel cable, I attached to the mooring line, the other to the thin weighted line. I swung the weight round my head a few times, then threw it over Alex' head so she could catch it and pull in the steel cable. She attached it to the device, and headed back to the safety of the balustrade.
Due to her acrobatics at the start of her climb, she couldn't reach the balustrade from where she was. I quickly climbed over the railing, anchored my hand and feet securely, and held out my arm to her. Our hands were still one or two feet apart. I looked into Alex' eyes and nodded once. With a heart-stopping leap she flew towards me, and we grabbed each other's wrists securely. Of course, she couldn't resist looking down to the ground far below her before I pulled her up. She put her arms round my neck so I could grab her by her belt and pull her to safety. I held her a moment, looking into her eyes, aglow with the thrill of danger.
"You're mad," I said.
"I love you too, big brother."
Fatin shook her head. "Your brother once climbed a tree and hit a hornet nest to show how stupid he was. I hope nobody wants me to kick a sleeping lion or walk over hot coals."
"Oh you can..." started Alex.
"Actually, that's not..." I looked at Alex. We both burst out laughing.
There was a shout from Father. "Would you circus monkeys get your selves downstairs? We're going to pull! Once this thing comes loose, we'll give you all a ride to the ground!"
We all ran down the stairs far enough to be out of danger, then looked up as Lady I backed up. The steel cable pulled tight, and with a loud snap, the device came loose from the beam. The tremors that had been going through the tower lessened, then disappeared. So if ever you visit the Eiffel Tower, you have Alex to thank for its continued existence. We never brought this up with the tower's owners, because none of us felt like explaining what we were doing climbing around on the outside.
We rejoined what was left of the party, where the general mood had shifted from screaming in fear of their lives to loudly complaining to the one person who looked like he was taking charge, despite him being English and not having anything to do at all with the operation of La Tour Eiffel. Wadcroft looked ready to explode. Mr. Pike had taken a seat, and was watching the crowd with amusement, sipping a glass of red wine from a bottle that hadn't fallen over. Beyond a few champagne glasses fallen over nothing seemed to be very wrong with the restaurant. The staff were quietly moving about the place with mops, dustpans and brushes. No doubt, they would have the place looking spotless and up to their very high standard again within the hour.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I shouted, "Mesdames et Messieurs. In a few moments, the airship Lady I will be mooring at this tower and you will all be able to descend while the authorities repair the elevators. Please follow exactly the instructions of the crew, namely myself, my sister, and my wife."
One of the ladies stepped up to me, outraged. "Are you expecting me to get on a dirigible with a..." she glared at Fatin, "a cannibal?"
I stared at her, then looked at Fatin, who looked a picture of amused innocence.
"It is entirely at your option to stay here, Madame, and wait for the authorities to free up the elevators. Anyone else, please form an orderly queue."
A few minutes later, Lady I appeared majestically at the Tower's mooring port. Now at this point, I have to explain that queueing is a bit of an art on the British Isles. People have been beheaded, or worse, glared at, for jumping the queue. Even the most violent of hooligans will form an orderly queue to get into a sports stadium, even courteously rolling forward with their feet one of their number who has decided to take a little nap due to a slight miscalculation in the strength or quantity of their ale.
Clearly, for all their cultural accomplishments, the French have not mastered this particular art form. Alex and I scarcely had the time to secure the gangplank to the tower before a wall of human flesh rolled over us and bundled into the doorway. It was a miracle that nobody fell off. Inside, I could hear the voices of Professor Enderby and Father herding this stampede into the cargo bay. Above that, I could hear the hiss and thunder of the hydrogen pumps as Taras Nerandzic pumped more gas into the envelopes to compensate for this sudden extra weight. I looked over my shoulder to see if we had missed anyone. The staff were still going about their business. If they were to leave the restaurant they were doomed to haunt for all eternity, they would simply vanish into thin air. Fatin was standing in front of one of the ladies, hands on her shoulders, talking to her in a soft voice. I walked over.
"I was joking," said Fatin. "I do not eat people."
"No matter how delicious," I said.
Fatin shot me a look, shook her head. "Come on dear, get on board. We'll take you down and the carriage will take you home."
Fatin gently nudged the lady into Lady I's entrance, and pointed her at the cargo bay to rejoin the rest of the party. Fatin leaned into me, and I put my arms round her.
"She had stepped on a bees' nest," said Fatin, "and the bees were buzzing around inside and outside her head. No use being angry at her."
The cargo bay was filled to the very corners with the awful noise of everybody trying to shout over everybody else. In some cases into each other's faces at a distance of two inches. I looked at Alex, who looked as worried as I did.
Like a valkyrie out of a Wagner opera, Professor Enderby strode down the stairs, scattering all in her path, until she came to one of the crates that were still in the hold. She clambered on top. I could see her taking a deep breath, and her impressive clear voice rang out over the din.
Allons enfants de la patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie...
The effect on the masses was pure magic. Everybody turned towards Prof. Enderby and joined in, all enmity, fear, and danger forgotten for a few glorious moments as, accompanied by the notes of La Marseillaise, the airship Lady I drifted majestically towards the ground.
It took Navigator Nerandzic only ten minutes to find a clean spot to land and set our airship down, but by that time, Father was quite ready just to open the bomb hatches and cover the Champ de Mars with annoying Frenchmen. The wheels hit the ground, and Alex and I ran out to tether Lady I to the ground while Nerandzic pumped more hydrogen out of the envelope, anticipating a sudden drop in weight from discharged passengers. The device that had almost collapsed the Eiffel Tower was still hammering away furiously, hopping about on the ground. I picked it up by the steel wire, and took it inside. The last passengers stepped down to the grass, and Father slammed the door shut behind them.
"Navigator! Take us away from this place!"
"Aye-aye Kapitan," said Nerandzic.
There was a loud hiss of hydrogen, and Lady I rose up into the air. We hadn't climbed more than a hundred feet, when there were some forceful Russian terms from the bridge. We all sprinted for'ard, and stared.
"Daddy," said Alex. "I want a bigger dirigible. Buy me a bigger dirigible please."
Taras Nerandzic turned round abruptly. "Size is nothing. Speed is everything. We leave now." He pulled the two levers that transported more coal to the furnace, turned the hydrogen valves fully open. Like a cork in a bathtub, Lady I shot upwards, leaving the Prometheus vessel far below her. He pushed the collective levers forward, and Lady I set herself in motion, deliberately flying over the larger vessel so they would have to turn before pursuing. His eyes glued themselves to the dial that indicated pressure in the turbines, until they started to climb and hit the red. The large turbines, no longer purring along at ease, now growled in the bowels of the ship. The propellers shredded the sky, pushing Lady I forward, outstripping the larger vessel with every moment. Nerandzic laughed.
"Our Lady, she is quick on her feet, no? We will hide in the clouds, and then turn towards England."
At that moment, there was a loud bang off our starboard bow, and a rain of sparks. A moment later, another explosion on our port. It was clear that due to Lady I's well thought out colours, which were dark on top to reflect the Earth seen from above, and light on the bottom to reflect the sky, they could not see us in the distance. This was little comfort, though. They had plenty of ammunition to throw at us, and it was only a matter of time before they'd get lucky.
"We need to stop them somehow," said Father.
"Stop them?" I said. "Have you seen how big that thing is? What way do we have of stopping a dirigible?"
"I've got a great way of stopping a dirigible," said Alex. "Kill the pilot, stop the dirigible."
"I'll spot for you," I said.
Alex and I ran to the aft section. Alex disappeared into her cabin to grab her rifle and spotting scope. I stepped into Fatin and my cabin. She was sitting on the bed, gently rocking Raage in her arms, singing to him, and I suppose to herself as well.
"What is happening?"
"The big dirigible is after us, but we're running faster. They are throwing fire at us. We'll try to tell them not to." I leaned over and kissed her. "Don't be afraid. We'll get away from them."
Fatin wrapped her free arm round me, pulled me close for a moment. "I am still glad I came with you, Feeder-of-lions. A good hunt to you."
The observation deck at the very top of Lady I was cold and windy. We secured ourselves to the ship with tethers. Alex lay down on the deck with me crouched behind her. I pointed the spotting scope at Prometheus' dirigible. I had to shout over the wind to make myself heard to Alex
"Range thirteen hundred meters, increasing." I saw Alex adjust her scope. "Wind sixty five knots in our back." I scanned the gondola underneath the massive envelope of Prometheus' airship. It had three decks. The middle deck held their bridge. I tried to ignore their rather impressive artillery on the lower deck.
"Middle deck, off to the left a bit."
"Got him. On target." Alex squeezed off a round. A bright streak of light shot out to the Prometheus airship. Alex looked up. "Oh shoot!"
Through the scope, I saw the helmsman collapse. The next thing I saw was the cannons training on us and firing. The grenades exploded a little short of us, but that was not a great comfort. They had seen us, and once seen, always remembered. Meanwhile, Alex was working through an impressive list of very unladylike expressions under her breath.
"Alex? You got him!"
"I know, blast it! With a bloody tracer! If it wasn't going to cost us our bloody lives, it would be bloody funny!"
I looked through my spotting scope. The front window of the bridge now had a single bullet hole. Now they knew about Alex and her rifle, the replacement helmsman was kneeling behind the instruments, peering over the edge of the window.
"Think you can hit the new one?"
Alex had pulled the magazine from her rifle, and was flipping out the tracers into her hand and flinging them over the side.
"I think so. I use high-velocity rounds. I can hit him straight through the instruments. Let me reload."
I didn't need to remind her to be quick about it. Despite their trouble steering, the Prometheus airship kept firing grenade after grenade at us. She took aim again and I looked at the airship. Riflemen had now appeared and were firing from cover at the gondola, expecting us to be there rather than up top. I could hear bullets hit, and a cold hand squeezed my heart. They were shooting at my family, my friends, my wife, my child.
"Alex?"
As she looked round at me, I could see in her expression that she had come to the same conclusion I had, and had likewise lost all inclination to play nice.
"Do you have more tracers?"
"Yes. But giving away our position..."
"Why don't we put a few in their supply of hydrogen?"
"There's people on there who aren't trying to kill us."
"It won't make the whole thing go up in one fireball, but a couple of fires should keep them busy. Maybe too busy to bother with us for now."
Alex' face tightened. She nodded once, pulled one magazine out of her rifle and put in a different one. She aimed.
"You don't need me to spot for this, do you?"
"Broad side of a barn, dear brother of mine. Even you could hit it."
"Good. I'll head down and warn the rest."
I dropped down the hatch and slid down the ladder to the in-envelope deck with the massive steel tanks that held our supply of hydrogen. As I turned to the other ladder into the gondola, a strange man stood in front of me with a pistol. He raised it, aiming for my head. I looked into his eyes.
"Really? You are going to fire a gun, surrounded by several tons of hydrogen? You'll arrive in Hell before even I do."
The man gave a contemptuous little half-laugh. "Da haben sie Recht," he said. He put away his pistol and instead pulled out a long knife. "Knives are more fun anyway. Hurts more."
He slowly walked towards me, knife in front of him, slowly turning it round in his hand so I could see it glint. With a sudden lunge, he slashed out, trying to scare me into a freeze. I fell back, positioned my feet. He gave a sudden shout and leapt at me, knife out. I ducked, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him on, tripping him up. He landed on his face, with me lying on his arm. Filled with a wrath that drove out all compassion, I grabbed his wrist in both hands and pulled up till I felt and heard the bones of his elbow crack and his arm bent the wrong way. He screamed, and the knife fell from his hand. I caught it, turned round and stabbed him in the back. His screaming stopped, for a choking noise. I turned round, put the point of the knife at the back of his skull, and rammed it in with my hand on the butt. The noises stopped. He twitched, then lay still.
"Brother? Why is there a dead Hun on our nice clean deck?"
Alex came sailing down the ladder, rifle on her back. She rolled the dead Prussian over, reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. She popped out the magazine, counted the bullets, put it back in and pulled the slide. A cartridge jumped out and fell to the floor, where it rolled away somewhere into the envelope, never to be seen again. Alex put her rifle behind one of the hydrogen tanks and opened the hatch that led into the gondola. Slowly, she descended the stairs, pistol following her gaze. Before I could follow her, she had dropped to the ground, and disappeared into the corridor to the bridge.
I tried to follow Alex, armed with only a knife, but before I could, there was a subdued "Psst" coming from the starboard cabin door. I looked round to see the face of Mr. Pike in the door opening.
"Come in," said Mr. Pike. I pointed at Alex' back, but he shook his head. I stepped into the cabin. "They'll see her. No sense in them seeing you as well. Do you know who these plebeians are?"
"Prussians. I think they are with a man named Gustav Klemm."
Mr. Pike sucked his teeth in a thoughtful way. "I've heard of him. Mostly in connection with civilian casualties at the Khartoum siege. I saw someone walk onto the bridge. No shots were fired, which is heartening, but there was a lot of shouting in Russian, which is less so." Pike looked at the porthole. "I also note that the bombardment has stopped. Good. I like the quiet."
"They'll be back once they put out a few fires," I said.
"Hmm. Follow me. Quietly, please."
Quiet as a proverbial quiet thing, we made our way to the bridge. The door was open, and Alex was standing in the middle of the room with her back to us, pistol wavering back and forth between two people. One was Mr. James Riley. The other was Oberst Gustav Klemm, who was sitting in one of our observation chairs. Both had their revolvers out, and were aiming at each other. Riley had found a cane and was leaning on it, glaring at Klemm. Navigator Nerandzic was lying on the floor, moving feebly, a thin trickle of blood running from his bald head.
"Thank you, Fräulein Tennant, for distracting our pursuers. They were over zealous in bringing us all down. I comfort myself with the thought that if they had known I was on board, they would have tried a boarding party instead."
"Wouldn't bet on it, you goddamn Kraut," said Riley. "You're a liability."
"Please leave me my illusions," said Klemm, with a little smile.
"Alex," said Riley, "Shoot the Hun already. He's not your friend anymore."
"Fräulein Tennant, if you shoot me, Herr Riley will thank you by shooting you. He is an agent with Prometheus."
"That's a bit rich coming from you," said Riley. "You are the piece of garbage that did this to me. You're in Slate's pocket."
"I might be," said Klemm, "or you might be lying. I offer services of a rather brutal nature to discerning customers, but I have never been in anyone's 'pocket'. Not since my military days natürlich."
"Alex..." Riley said.
"Shut up Riley," said Alex. Her pistol turned to Klemm. "Herr Klemm, what proof do you have Riley is a Prometheus agent?"
"Did Herr Riley tell you about the horrible tortures he endured? Bravely holding out where lesser men would have crumbled?"
"Yes. What of it?"
"What makes you think he actually did hold out?"
"He's an obstinate bastard."
"Come now, Miss Tennant. Every man has his limits, even Mr. Riley." Klemm shook his head. "He isn't even the most... hartnäckiger Mann. Not by far."
"You have yet to give me a reason to believe you, Oberst."
"Let me ask something else. Have you seen or heard of our mystical friend, Herr Nazeem? Who was the last person to see him alive?"
"Alex! He's messing with your head. I don't know where on Earth that bastard is, but I'm sure he's fine. Now let's stick that goddamn Hun in the tank and I'll tell you everything I have."
I started to get up, knife in hand, but Mr. Pike held me back. He put his lips to my ear. "We have to know which of these two is the traitor. With our luck, both will be traitors."
Pike reached into his jacket and pulled out a silenced small-caliber handgun. He pulled back the slide with what I thought was a far too audible click. A moment later, Alex raised her pistol, aimed at Riley and fired. Riley cried out and fell to the deck.
"Danke, Fräulein," said Klemm. His revolver swiveled round. At that moment, there was a noise like a cork popping, and a tiny hole appeared in Klemm's forehead. He slumped into his seat. His revolver dropped to the floor. Pike put away his pistol and walked up. He kneeled by Mr. Nerandzic, and put a finger at his throat. Apparently satisfied, he turned him onto his back and walked on.
"You utter goddamn syphillitic bitch!" It appeared that Riley was still alive. Gladsome tidings indeed.
"Shut up Riley," said Alex.
"What the hell did you have to shoot me for?"
"It's only a nick, Riley. I am a sharp shooter, remember? I could have fired into your lughole. Nothing vital there." She glared at Riley. "I heard someone's pistol behind me. They didn't kill me, so they had to be friendly. And I wanted to know if I could trust Klemm."
"You bitch! You could have shot him and found out about me."
Alex bent down and picked up Riley's revolver. "I already know I can't trust you."
There was some low-level swearing from behind the wheel. Navigator Nerandzic got to his feet, then steadied himself. He bared his teeth, and growled. "Which suka is on the wheel? Can't you see we're heading the wrong way?"
We looked out of the window. To our port side, we could see the bulk of the Prometheus airship, with bright flames spouting up in several places. Against the light, we could see dark figures, and the water plumes of fire hoses. Alex studied her fingernails.
"Is there anything else you want me to shoot?"
Nerandzic grabbed the wheel and spun it round. Lady I turned about. He adjusted the collective, trimmed the hydrogen supply to take us up, and pulled back on the aillerons.
"Now I am setting course for England. You get these damned Prusskiye off the ship."
"We will," I said. "When we are gone, lock the door and don't let anyone in."
As soon as Mr. Pike crossed the doorstep, the heavy iron door slammed shut. We all stalked into the cargo hold, pistols out, and up the stairs.
"Halt! Stehen bleiben!"
We all froze. At the far end of the dining table stood one of Klemm's Jäger. He had Prof. Enderby bent flat over the table, and a pistol against her head.
"Drop your weapons. Meine Damen und Herren. Or Frau Professor will have extra holes in her head."
We all hesitated.
"Schnell!"
One look at Professor Enderby's face was enough. We all dropped our weapons on the floor.
"Very good. Now you will join your captain sitting down against the wall. Do keep in mind that I have more of your women to kill. The Negro girl and her little half-blood are in the next cabin. Now move!" We all shuffled towards the wall, except for one man: Riley. Riley stood still, glaring at the Jäger.
"Möller."
Möller slowly started to smile in a very unpleasanty way. "Ah, Mr. Riley. We meet again. How is your hand?"
"Hurts like hell," said Riley.
Möller laughed. "A reasonable precaution, Herr Riley, given your skill with firearms. When we have all your friends securely tied up, maybe we can renew some memories."
"There ain't no 'we', Möller. You're the last. Schmidt is dead. Klemm is dead. They're all dead."
"Get your Arschloch against the wall, Riley. I can smell it when you're lying. If you think I won't kill this sow, you are mistaken."
"There's still a few things you don't know about me, Möller." Riley bent down, leaning on the table, and calmly picked up Alex' pistol.
"Riley..." Möller poked his pistol into Professor Enderby's neck, making her gasp.
"First thing, I'm a southpaw. And the second thing is, I don't..." In mid-sentence, Riley raised the pistol and shot Möller in the head. Professor Enderby screamed. Möller fell to the floor dead. "Give a damn about anyone on this whole goddamn airship."
Riley flicked on the security and tossed the pistol at Alex, who fumbled twice before catching it.
"Now one of you assholes put a goddamn bandage on my arm. Think you can sweep the rest of the ship for Krauts without me?"
We had cleared our airship of intruders, gathering them up and dropping them out of the bomb hatches into the English Channel. Lady I was sailing at a moderate speed towards England. We hadn't seen any pursuers yet. Alex had led Professor Enderby to her cabin, given her a strong sedative, and put her to bed. The rest of us were on the bridge. Nerandzic was at the helm. Father was in the Captain's chair. Fatin was sitting on my lap with Raage in her arms, both fast asleep. Wadcroft was reading a book. Riley was in one of the chairs a little distant, looking outside and brooding. We didn't trust him enough to let him out of our sight, but on the other hand, we didn't distrust him enough to slap him in irons and put him in the closest lockable cabin. Alex was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her rifle in parts on a white sheet in front of her. She was looking out of the window and thoughtlessly oiling all the parts. My tough little sister was now at fifteen confirmed kills. As for me, I never started counting. She felt me looking at her, glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Our brains were busy beating down what our hearts were telling us. Our brains would win. Both Alex and I would do the same again, even this very evening if need be. Fatin stirred in my arms, and I wanted to stroke her hair, but didn't want to wake her up.
With the engines droning on steadily, we sailed on to Ipswich.
Philip Tennant: Wrath of the Gods
The faithful couple - A missing urn of gunpowder - Explosive evidence - The passing of Matlal - Royal sacrifice - The fall of Eldorado - Escape from Hell
The one thing that to my knowledge is exclusive to schooling one's children on a scientific expedition, is that your children might learn to kill. E___ does not, to my knowledge, provide live targets for their rifle team. On that fateful trip along the Kasai river, before we lost Iris, both Alexandra and Carl had firearms, and used them. I would have given anything to spare them that experience, but we have to accept the hand that Fate deals us. I watched them closely after the firefight. Carl lost his lunch when the first fight was over, but he had kept firing accurately throughout. Alexandra didn't seem to be affected at all, which was frightening, until Iris found her a little way off, crying inconsolably.
What do you say to your child after that? Our use of deadly force was completely justified. We would all have been slaughtered if we had not defended ourselves. But nevertheless, they were both old enough to understand fully what they had done. Carl regretted most the bandits he had missed. Alexandra regretted most that she had not killed some of the bandits outright, but only wounded them, condemning them to a slow death.
Both Carl and Alexandra came out of that experience not only adults, but warriors, willing and able to use whatever measures are needed when the time comes. In the places where we must go, that is an advantage. My children are frightening creatures. Which is a condition that I will probably never fully come to terms with.
-- Philip Tennant, "Parenting for explorers"
One evening, instead of Citlali, her husband Tenoch, a silent, lean man, came to bring me my dinner of tlaxkalli, a kind of pancake filled with beans, tomato, and of course a copious amount of hot chillis and salt. He looked round for a place to put down the plate, and I pointed him at one of my work tables.
"Where is Citlali?" I asked.
"Sick," said Tenoch, with an angry scowl on a face that had never smiled as long as I had known him.
"Sick?"
Tenoch said nothing, only looked in the direction of the Priests' quarters. We looked at each other a moment, both knowing, neither of us knowing what to say.
"Good ixhui." Tenoch turned round.
"Wait." I put a hand on Tenoch's shoulder. "It's not her fault, Tenoch."
As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I had misspoken. Tenoch's body tensed up, as if he were going to punch me in the face for even hinting at any wrongdoing on Citlali's part. I would have gladly accepted it.
"I know, Alchemist." Tenoch clenched his fists, then slowly got the better of his anger. "I have seen what happened to my friend's sister. And to the daughter of the man who used to work next to me. They are seen. And then they are called. Until they become ugly, or until they fight. Or they become pregnant. And then they are..." Tenoch closed his eyes. "Sent away," he said, in a whisper.
"I will end him," I said. "Will you help?"
Tenoch gave a low kind of grunt. As he turned away to leave, he gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then he disappeared down the corridor.
There is a knack to walking quickly with a single crutch on one leg, but not a particularly graceful one. It comes down to a balanced hop. In this manner, I made my way to the King's chambers. I knocked on the door and was let in by one of the King's personal servants. I don't remember his name. The King had already gone to bed, and I waited patiently for him to re-emerge. He came in, wearing only a long woollen garment, richly decorated with gold beads and painted in bright colours. He sat down on a chair, and looked down on me.
"Alchemist?"
"Forgive me, your Highness, I would rather the Sun fell from the sky and devour me than for me to disturb the sleep of him on whose shoulders rest the entire kingdom of Anctapolepl."
"Then why have you come?"
"Your Highness, I have disturbing news. This afternoon, I made five urns of gunpowder to further the King's goals. I added them to the two hundred and twenty urns that are already there. But something was wrong. The Great Warrior Himself, in the voice of Lady Itzel, told me to count the urns. When I did, I counted only two hundred and twenty four urns. Knowing of my own failings, Your Highness, I immediately recounted, but it is inescapable. One of the urns... is missing."
The King looked at me with a thoughtful expression, slowly rubbing his chin. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Unknown to me are the motivations of our enemies, your Highness. But whoever laid his hands on that urn, is a traitor."
The King nodded slowly. "Clearly the fear of angering the Gods is no longer sufficient to keep the unfaithful from the door. I will have a guard posted by the room where the powder is kept. And I will have this matter investigated."
"Your wisdom, as always, shines with the power of the Sun, your Highness. By your will, this traitor will surely be caught, and all his secrets laid bare."
The next evening, Citlali was back. She was wearing a hood covering her hair and most of her face, part of a long-sleeved dress. I watched her closely as she put down my dinner as she always did: Plate, stack of tlaxkalli, bowl of sauce, cup, jug of water. As she reached out to put my cup down, I could see a bruise on her wrist that had almost faded away. She glanced at me, then quickly looked away. She mumbled a few words, then made to walk away.
"Citlali."
She looked at me. I limped over to her and took her to a corner of the room, where I had one of the barrel-sized urns that I used to store my rapidly growing supply of gunpowder. It was marked with the single Nahuatl symbol for tletl, meaning 'fire'. To avoid any sparks, I had coated the rim of the urn and the lid with grease, which I touched with a finger and showed Citlali.
"One of these urns is missing. It contains a powder most important to the future of the Kingdom of Anctapolepl. You are allowed in many of the chambers of the Nobility, are you not?"
She nodded, and the ghost of mutual knowledge shimmered between us.
"There are only two places where these urns are allowed to be, and they are these chambers and the storage place in the square. If ever you see one of these urns anywhere else, you must not come to me, but you must go directly to the King, and tell him that you have found that which was stolen from the Alchemist's store. Will you do that?"
Citlali looked at me, guessing I don't know how much of what I had planned. She slowly nodded her head, eyes shining with held-back tears.
"Good girl," I said. "Do not fear. All will be well."
My other good friend in the Priesthood, Nochtli, was still plotting my doom. Though to go against me openly now was a sure way to ruin, he found numerous ways to sow the seeds of doubt in the King's mind. Overtly, he had adopted an amicable attitude towards me, often inviting me to his table. I accepted his invitations as often as I turned them down, and invited him back to my chambers. And so, while to all appearances being on the best of terms, we both seethed with hatred. I almost enjoyed these meals, often waited upon by Citlali, and eating the rarer dishes that contained either meat or fish. It felt like a game of chess, both of us waiting for the other to make a mistake, and then to swoop in for the kill.
Nochtli was the child of peasants who had tilled the fields far to the North, where the ground was barren and crops would often fail. In desperation, they had left their home, with Nochtli a twelve year old boy. They had stumbled on Anctapolepl's rich fields, and not knowing what else to do, had offered up their son to the priesthood, claiming some kind of vision Nochtli had told them about, of the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl calling him. Nochtli had been accepted, and at a very young age had learnt about the power struggles even among novice priests. Through a careful choice of friends, enemies, and victims, he had quickly climbed through the ranks and grown into a ruthless young man with a keen mind for politics. The Anctapolepl priesthood did not have a High Priest as such. All that stood above the priests was the King himself. Nevertheless, Nochtli was the first among them.
Of course, even though the King's inquiries were supposed to be secret, he knew of the disappearance of a barrel full of gunpowder. Nothing much went on in the city without Nochtli knowing about it. I'm sure he knew the habits and tastes of every priest in the city, including Matlal's.
One evening, we were sitting at one of our shared meals. I had a cup of hot xocolatl, he had felt the need to revive childhood memories with a mug of octli.
"Strange business, Alchemist. Why would someone steal an urn full of fire? Unless one has your secret knowledge, all one can do is kill oneself."
"A little knowledge is a dangerous gift, tlamacazqui. They may think from watching me, that they know how to tame this beast. But it will betray them."
"They? Do you think there are more traitors than one?"
"There is no such thing as one rat, tlamacazqui. Where there is one, there are more. I am confident that the King will weed them all out and make an example of them."
I sipped my hot drink of xocolatl, a word meaning 'bitter water'. The way the Aztec drank it is far away from our cup of hot cocoa before bed. It included, unsurprisingly, chillis, and a range of herbs. I was slowly acquiring a taste for it.
"Who do you suspect, Alchemist?"
"Not you, of course," I said with a little laugh. "Already you wield more power than anyone else in the kingdom, save only the King himself."
Nochtli laughed with me. "And you, Alchemist? Are you likewise above suspicion?"
"Why would I steal one urn? I have hundreds. To put at the King's disposal, of course."
"It will be interesting to see where finally that urn turns up," said Nochtli. He drained his mug of octli and put it down on the table. I finished my drink.
"If you will excuse me now, tlamacazqui, I must return to my work."
"Count well your urns, Alchemist," said Nochtli.
Every few days, there would be an audience with the King, all of his priests, one or two administrators, and as a recent addition, the King's Alchemist. These meetings were usually nothing special, to do with the daily running of a city of five thousand souls, the organisation of the festivals. Given my limited grasp of Nahuatl, most of this went far over my head. My presence was mostly ornamental. This particular meeting, though, was to be more exciting than many others. The chief administrator sat next to the King with a sheet of paper and ran his finger down a line of dots, lines, parallellograms and flags. The Aztec had a number system unlike our own, in that it was based on the number twenty rather than the number ten. Mathematical historians will be interested to know that the Aztec were among the few peoples that invented the number zero. The administrator was in the middle of the projected corn production, when the beaded curtain was pulled aside and a functionary came in and whispered into the King's ear. King Ilhicamina asked a short question, and the functionary nodded.
"Send her in," said the King.
The functionary left, and came back a few moments later with his hand on Citlali's shoulder. The poor girl was shaking like a leaf under the gaze of the entire Antapolepl priesthood.
"Speak child," said the King. "Why have you come to our meeting?"
Citlali went down on her knees before the King. It took her a few tries to find her voice. "I have found that which was stolen from the Alchemist's store."
The King looked at Citlali with burning eyes. "Approach, child."
Citlali got to her feet and stood before the King. I felt a pang of guilt for having involved her in this scheme, even though she herself would be the first to benefit from it. If this went wrong, she would die. She walked over to the King, who bent over.
"What have you found, and where have you found it?"
Citlali whispered into the King's ear, then kneeled before him, head bowed, not daring to look up. The King's gaze fell upon Matlal. He said nothing, waiting for Matlal to make the first comment. Matlal bowed his head deep.
"Your Highness, brighter than the Sun..."
The King interrupted him. "Matlal. Have you anything to confess to your King?"
Matlal turned pale as a sheet under his brown skin. He raised his hands above his head and kneeled before King Ilhicamina.
"Your Highness, I swear upon the light in my eyes! I have done nothing wrong! I have nothing to confess!"
The King barked an order to the guards outside the doors, who came in and positioned themselves by the door.
"Nobody leaves this room without my orders! Alchemist! Nochtli! follow me, and bring this child."
I followed the King and Nochtli as fast as I could, not looking at Citlali. We entered Matlal's chambers. Standing in a corner, covered with a blanket, was my missing urn. The King turned his eyes to me.
"Alchemist, open that urn."
I hopped over on my crutch and obeyed. I scooped up a handful of black powder and let the small grains fall back into the urn.
"This is the Holy Fire that was stolen from my store, Your Highness. Enough to take down the wall of the temple. What a fool Matlal is to keep this in his very chambers."
Nochtli's eyes darkened. "Matlal is many things, but he is not a fool. Nor is he tired of life, with so much to occupy himself." He shot Citlali a look. "I humbly suggest that Matlal may not have been the one to put this powdered Hell here."
"Who else?" I said. "This powder represents the power to destroy kingdoms! Matlal was always hungry for power."
This was a safe assumption. One does not become a tlamacazcui if one is not a power-hungry scheming conniving bastard. It is the most important survival trait in such exalted circles.
"He would have hidden it somewhere else. Not in his very bedroom, for the maid-servant to find."
"Alchemist!" The King turned to me. "What does Huitzilopochtli say of this theft?"
I closed my eyes, turned my head away, a gesture that represented talking to Itzel.
"The Great Warrior is silent on the subject, Your Highness, as He often is when we already know all that we need."
"No matter," said the King. "We will get the needed information ourselves."
From the fate of many a sacrificial victim, I would have expected Matlal to be tortured for information, but nothing of the kind happened. There were many questions asked of many people, and they were answered. In a group of people who were so fierce in their political battles for supremacy, even the slightest crack in one's armour would quickly be exploited, and that spelled the end for Matlal. Rumours had been carefully planted by Tenoch, about strange behaviour. These rumours grew like a snowball, until the story became clear enough. Matlal, overcome by a hunger for power, had taken an urn of the black powder for his own, and hidden it away in his room. The truth of these stories was completely irrelevant to the proceedings. The accusation was the proof. Nochtli, seeing with unerring precision which way the wind was blowing, promptly denounced his colleague. Matlal undoubtedly had planned to use the gunpowder in ways counter to the interest of the King, the people of Anctapolepl, and the very gods. For this, there could be only one punishment: death.
Execution methods in Anctapolepl included stabbing, stoning, and strangulation. The King, however, wanted to make an example of Matlal. The King had commanded me to carry out the execution, and I had felt no hesitation. Matlal was taken out to an unused part of town. Stakes were driven into the ground, and Matlal was tied to them, wearing only a loincloth. The very urn of gunpowder Matlal had acquired was buried underneath him, and I laid a track of gunpowder to a safe distance. I bent over him.
"Do you feel the urn beneath you, Matlal? I put that in your room to kill you. I will kill all the priests, and I will kill the King. Know this before you die." I ran my hand over his stomach. "You are right, Matlal. The touch of flesh before you destroy it is quite extraordinary."
As I limped away, he started screaming, I could not understand what he was saying. I wasn't even sure that anyone else could. I held out my hand, and someone handed me the torch. I dropped it onto the gunpowder, and it started to hiss as the fire crept to where the priest lay, writhing, pulling at his restraints like a madman. The fire reached him, and with a deafening roar of anger, the gunpowder exploded. There was a huge cloud of smoke, and from it, I could see shreds of human flesh flying upward.
I should feel remorse.
To this very day, I do not.
On the rare occasions that I do feel the pangs, all I have to do is remember the fear and pain in Citlali's eyes, remember the horror of Itzel screaming as Matlal ripped her beating heart from her body, remember the line of sacrificial victims walking slowly to the top of the temple. That makes any regret vanish like smoke on the wind.
Nochtli was not a stupid man. The idea that someone had planted the gunpowder in Matlal's room was not far-fetched and he had not abandoned it. We resumed our weekly dinners together. Citlali would bring us our dinner, and observing her, I imagined that she looked more energetic. She would catch me looking at her, and a hint of a smile would pass over her face. Or maybe I was fooling myself. Citlali was not out of danger yet. The priests were still committing their horrors upon the population of Anctapolepl, in some cases raiding nearby settlements and bringing its inhabitants in for sacrifice. I mentioned this to Nochtli.
"They are honoured, Alchemist. How many of us can say that they will sit at the side of the Gods? You have the ear of one who does. You should know."
"She has ascended, tlamacazcui Nochtli. She has grown beyond human emotions such as joy, sadness. She has become truly holy. And yet, she has not forgotten us. I see her often in my dreams, shining in many colours."
"Of course. Our devotions teach us this. What is the last thing she has told you?"
"She has told me that it is time to start forging the tools of war for the final days. They must be made from tempered steel and sanctified gold. The King was wise to gift me... no, to allow me to be in the presence of the golden statue of Huitzilopochtli. The spirit of the Great Warrior, combined with the strength of our steel, will make for unstoppable weapons. No conquistadores will stand in our way. They will be as corn before our scythes. To this end, I have commanded Yaotl to melt down the statue, that we may blend the gold into our weapons. Axes, swords, cannons."
"The days of reckoning are finally upon us, then?"
"Not yet, but soon. Long will be the making of our ultimate weapons. The first weapon, I will give to the King, that he may lead us into battle. Can you imagine, Nochtli? The life-giving Sun glinting upon his golden stature as our soldiers, ten times the strength of mere humans, march before him. Our mighty cannons breathing fire and death upon our enemies. Would that I still had two legs, Nochtli, that I might march beside him to witness our glorious victory."
"I have seen that might, Alchemist. Matlal has felt it."
"And despite this display of the king's might in his anger, there are still those who seek to possess the gunpowder. What they want with it, I cannot begin to imagine. But it must be protected, and protected better. Last night, the guards heard noises. The sound of running feet. Clearly someone expected them to pursue, so that their henchmen could do their worst. The captain of the guard told me this."
"Did they catch whoever it was?"
"No, they escaped, curse them. This cannot be allowed to continue, Nochtli. We must store our gunpowder in a safer place."
The next afternoon, I requested and obtained an audience with the King. I explained what had happened. The powder on which we depended for our glorious victory was in danger. There was only one place where none dare go, and that was the vault His Highness had shown me on the day of my testing. The King saw the wisdom in this, and soon after, a row of peasants walked back and forth between the vaults and the gunpowder store, much to the relief of the guards, who had witnessed what a single barrel could do, and were acutely aware of how much gunpowder was stored behind their very backs. I had all the torches removed from the vault, and the vault was closed. From that moment on, I made no more gunpowder. We had enough, and it was exactly where it needed to be.
Gold, as it turns out, combines very badly with steel. Using it in any quantity turns the steel unworkable, and I needed much thought, experiment, and prayer. In the end, Yaotl and I ended up forging an axe as normal, then gold plating it. I was actually marginally pleased with the way it looked, shining yellow up to the edge, which shone bright. And as it turned out, we had some gold left over, which I returned to my chambers. It looked much better in neat tidy ingots than ever it did in the shape of a blood-thirsty deity.
And so the axe of King Ilhicamina the Second was forged, to wield in the glorious battle to restore power to where it rightfully belonged. It would probably shatter on the head of the first person he attacked with it, but that was not my concern.
Of course, we didn't just hand the King his axe with a simple jovial 'There you go, then,' and be done with it. When the metal had cooled, and we saw it was good, we wrapped it in woollen cloth and placed it in a casket made to hold it. That casket was actually made by Tenoch, who had been a carpenter before he had been abducted into this accursed city. He had met Citlali here, so he did not complain. For the occasion, I was carried to the King's quarters in a chair carried by six warriors. Yaotl walked before us, scattering to the sides anyone fool enough to stand in our way. We walked up to the King's chambers, and my chair was set down. All the priests were gathered round to witness the King receiving his weapon from the Gods. Yaotl stood before the king, carrying the casket in his arms. I stood next to him. I took a deep breath, and started my speech.
"Great Ilhicamina, Descendant of Moctezuma Ilhuicamina, who pierces the Sky with arrows, by the will of the Winged Serpent Quetzalcoatl, of Anctapolepl King. Receive now the weapon, forged from the steel of the Earth, imbued with the spirit of the Great Warrior Huitzilopochtli, the Axe of Ilhicamina! May it serve you as a faithful tool in destroying the enemies of Anctapolepl, and scattering their limbs to the four winds, as foretold in the Ancestral lore."
I opened the casket, and torch light glinted beautifully on the gilt surface of the axe. For a fleeting moment, even I myself was taken by the moment. The King rose, resplendent in his royal garb, and took the axe from its casket. He raised it high above his head.
"Behold! Behold the power and glory of the Gods! Death to the enemies of Anctapolepl."
Holding the weapon reverendly in one hand, he nodded at me.
"Have thanks, Alchemist of the King. I shall put this weapon to the use for which it was forged. By the light of the Sun, and by the grace of the Gods, I swear it! Now leave us, Alchemist. I have a sacrifice to perform that only the Men of the Gods may look upon."
I bowed low, and accompanied by the warriors, with Yaotl next to me, I walked out of the King's chambers. I had no desire to stay. Itzel had once explained to me that the sacrifice the King was referring to was an offering of his very own blood. This blood was obtained from his genitals. At that point, I had told Itzel that I did not wish to be King, and she had quite understood. With a little smile at the memory, I turned to Yaotl.
"My friend, I have need of your strength once more. There is one final urn of gunpowder that we must place in the royal vault."
"Yes, Alchemist."
I had one urn left, only half full, so I hadn't put it in the vault. Yaotl and I went to my chambers, and Yaotl picked up the urn as though it was a pint of ale. Together, we walked to the vault, lit a single lantern, dismissed the guards, and placed the barrel next to the rest. I looked up at Yaotl.
"Now that I am here, I might as well count the urns, to see if any are missing. I don't expect so, but one can never be too sure."
"Yes, Alchemist," said Yaotl. He turned round and left to rejoin the guard at the door to the King's chambers. I turned round and faced the stacks of gunpowder and gold. Part of me wanted simply to drop the candle in the nearest barrel and be done with it, but in a fit of vindictive passion I decided against it. I wanted to see this cesspit of a city blow up, even if shortly afterwards, I would end up under the rubble. From the pile of artefacts, I selected a golden bowl as the urns were too heavy for me to lift. Using the bowl, I carefully laid out a track of gunpowder, snaking back and forth through the room to give me enough time to reach a safe distance. Hopping around on one leg near a large stack of gunpowder, a lit lantern in one hand, and an exposed bowl of the stuff in the other is not an undertaking free of risk. But to quote another man who went into the cellar of the Seat of Power with honest intent, a desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy. When I reached the door, I stood still a moment, on the balance between 'do' and 'don't'. I could simply go back in, sweep up the gunpowder, and continue life in Anctapolepl as it had been for ages now. But I would not be able to survive here indefinitely. I was riding on the crest of a wave now, but it wouldn't last. Then, I thought of the endless rows of people, slaughtered without reason, discarded like human refuse. All the men who had this on their conscience were sitting on top of this very pile of gunpowder. I took the candle out of the lantern, held it in front of me, looking at the flame, quiet in the still air.
"To blow you Scotch beggars back to your native mountains," I whispered.
I put the candle flame in the very end of my trail of gunpowder, and saw it begin to sputter, hiss, whisper in a dead tongue promises of death and destruction. I left the room, nodded at the luckless guards outside, and on my crutch hopped outside, and as far away from the Royal Chambers as I could.
I had worried a great deal about whether my supply of gunpowder would be enough, whether the containment of the vault would be enough to cause the kind of explosion I wanted. I worried that there might be a gap somewhere that would keep the charges from exploding. I needn't have worried. With a noise as from the very bowels of Hell, all of my gunpowder exploded at once, taking the top off the entire building and raining gold fragments on the accursed city of Anctapolepl. The wall above it collapsed, and buried King Ilhicamina and his depraved idolators forever. In one instant, I had destroyed the ruling class, and the downtrodden people of this city were now free to govern their affairs as they themselves saw fit. Not that that was at the forefront of my thoughts, with a maddened smile, I whispered only one word, one name: Itzel.
Then, incredibly, part of the rubble moved. With a bellow as from a primeval creature, the rocks rolled away and the massive form of Yaotl freed itself. He was bleeding from several wounds, and there were many burns on him, but he at once saw me, and moved forward, axe in hand, with the slow steps of one who knows he will not have to run to catch his prey. His hand pointed at me, and his teeth bared in a growl.
"Philip Tennant!"
I thought of running, but then realised the futility. He would catch me with but a few steps of his long legs. I looked up at him helplessly as he grabbed me by my shirt, pulled me up, and shook me.
"This is your doing! You have killed our King! Nochtli was right! Matlal was innocent! It is you who have brought this on us. Now, my fists will punish you!"
He dropped his axe to the floor, drew back his hand, then punched me in the face with such force that he might have snapped my neck. I could hear the crack of bones in my head.
"I will kill you slowly, Philip Tennant! You have betrayed us, and you have betrayed her! No quick death for you! You will feel the pain of all the sacrifices, and yet all the gods will see you and spit on you for the piece of dung that you are!"
He lifted me bodily and threw me down at the foot of the stairs.
"Up! Climb the stairs, as all those you betrayed have done, all those who gave their lives to the Great Warrior so that you could bring them back to glory! As she did!"
I rolled onto my back. "No!"
"Climb, Philip Tennant! Or I will break your leg and then make you climb."
Yaotl picked up his axe, and swung it at my foot with frightening force. I could just about pull it away in time, I do not doubt that he could have cut off my foot as I lay there.
"Climb, you son of a hairless dog!"
With the strength of desperation, I started to crawl up the stairs, kicked and beaten by Yaotl. As long as I was climbing, he would not kill me, I thought. About two thirds of the way up I felt his massive hand on my neck, and he pulled me up.
"Now I take your name away, Philip Tennant! You are now Coyotl, and I will beat you like a dog for what you have done." He threw me down on the stone steps again. "Now climb, Coyotl! Or your master will whip you!"
I tried crawling up the stairs, but I felt the hard stroke of Yaotl's axe handle across my back, and almost passed out from the pain. I collapsed. Yaotl kicked me again.
"Climb, Dog!"
Almost blinded, I started up the stairs again, up to the top of the temple, the altar, where no doubt my ordeal would end. As I climbed, Yaotl walked round me, kicking, beating, screaming at me. Still, I went on, till I reached the top of the stairs, the place where I had first entered this city. Yaotl gripped my ankle in an iron grip, and dragged me inside. He threw me onto the altar.
"This is where they left their bodies, Dog! This... this is where she left her body!"
I turned onto my back, and at that moment, the mid-day sun shone through the top of the volcano, down on the altar, down on... I closed my eyes, looked again. Standing by the altar was Itzel, dressed in purest white, her face turned up to the Sun, to the path that she must tread. Her arms were raised to the heavens, holding the cruel knife that had cut her. But none of that had happened yet. She was still pure and beautiful beyond enduring.
"Please," I whispered. "Spare her. Take me instead."
At that moment, a shadow fell over her, and over me, and she disappeared. Yaotl grabbed my throat in both his hands.
"This is not where you die, Dog! This is a place where people of honour leave to meet the Gods! Your diseased blood will not defile this place."
Yaotl pulled me from the altar, and walked outside holding me up in his hands. Then, with a great heave, he threw me down the giant's steps of the pyramid of Anctapolepl. Tumbling, tumbling down I went, until I landed on the apetlatl, the place of disposal of the bodies. Miraculously, I was not dead, nor even unconscious. I found I could open only one eye, but what I saw made me gasp. Forgotten for all this time, hidden under a rock so that only the dead could have seen it, lay my revolver. I turned onto my stomach, and like a beaten dog, I crawled towards it. I heard Yaotl's shouts as he came down the stairs. I put my hand on my revolver as Yaotl stepped from the stairs. I turned to face him. Yaotl's axe came round, and I could only throw up my arm to deflect it. The sharp blade cut into my forearm. I rolled over once, twice, then aimed my revolver at Yaotl's head. I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Now I take your flesh, Dog, and I will feed it to the vultures! You will see them feed on your..."
I pulled the trigger again. The gun went off with a sharp rapport, and a tiny trickle of blood ran down Yaotl's forehead, cutting him off in mid-sentence. His knees gave, and he fell forward, almost on top of me. I looked into his dead eyes.
"Forgive me," I whispered. I closed my eyes, and lay down to die.
As the more astute reader will already have guessed, I did not die there. Instead, I woke up in my chambers in bed. There was a bandage round my head and over my right eye. I found I couldn't use my left hand, and that there was another bandage round my left arm. I smelled of the ointment put on the bruises left by Yaotl's admonitions. The beaded curtain rustled, and Tenoch walked in.
"You are awake, good. Citlali said you would be dead, but I know that when you get hurt, you always take a nice sleep on the apetlatl, so I went there and there you were. So was Yaotl, but he didn't have the back of his head anymore and you did. So I brought you here and Citlali patched you up. Pardon the piss-poor bandages but you blew the Healer to tiny little bits so that's your own damn fault."
For a moment, I could only stare, partly because the taciturn Tenoch had just said more to me than he had in all the months before. I sank back into the pillow, making an inventory of the places where I hurt. I found it more practical to say that my absent right foot did not hurt at all, and leave it at that.
"Is..." I tried to speak, but my jaw wouldn't move properly. I tried again. "Is Citlali alright?"
"Yes, yes. She did what she could, but it looks like we'll have to find someone to take a better look at you. You're a sad heap of bones."
"How is the City?"
"Still going. Grain still grows, water still flows, sun still rises, though we need more sacrifices so the Gods won't stop doing that. New priests are choosing people."
My jaw dropped. "Sacrifices?! With all the priests gone, you still sacrifice each other? Are you mad?"
Tenoch shrugged. "King is dead. All the priests are dead. Temple is still standing. Gods are still alive. They need their servants just like last week."
"Damn it, Tenoch. Please, please tell me that you or Citlali are not among the honoured?"
Tenoch looked disgusted. "Would in other places. Sitting by the Gods is a good thing. But not for this city. This city is a shithole. Always has been, always will be. All the good people are leaving, so it'll be more of a shithole. Now that the door is open, we're leaving. Better places to find. Oh. Everybody thinks you are dead. They won't like you when they see you. Better come with us. We can take you to where the white men are."
"Yes please, but first I have some things to pack."
I had entered through the secret entrance to the north. I left by night through the main gate to the south. Citlali had commandeered one of the King's llamas. It was strong enough to carry some essential supplies. At the bottom of its bags were about sixty pounds of gold left over from our weapon producton project. As luck would have it, I had lost my right leg, and now the Gods had blessed me by maiming my left arm, so I could still use a crutch. Tenoch seemed to know where he was going, and Citlali, who had been born in the City, was happy to follow. I am sure I was holding them back, and without me, they would have covered twice the distance each day. Neither seemed to care much. They were free, they were outside, and they had each other. On this trip, I learnt that Citlali had a lovely singing voice, and that Tenoch could spot edible fruit a mile away. At night, they showed a magnificent disregard for the fact that I was trying to sleep not three yards away from them.
I would have enjoyed this journey tremendously, if it hadn't been for my injuries. Especially my eye became inflamed, and hurt a great deal. All I could do was put a few drops of Laudanum in my water, and endure. As the days went on, the drops I needed became more and more, until the world took on the same dream-like quality it had when first I entered the City.
At last, we came to a river. Tenoch said that we would have to swim it. I shook my head, sending stabs of pain through my eye. In my broken and Laudanum-addled state, I would simply sink to the bottom and live there, among the fish. To postpone the inevitable, we travelled upstream. The sunlight on the water was too bright, and divided itself in many different colours, like rainbows but more bitter-sharp like xocolatl. I drank, but it tasted of nothing. Out of the heavens, a bellowing beast came gliding down, settled on the river. Tenoch waved at it, and I could see his arms opening and closing like a fan. Upon the beast's back were its minders, like remora following a shark. They came to the land, and suddenly Citlali was close to me, and I wanted to embrace her, but I had only one arm that worked, and no right leg at all. How could that be? One would think one would notice if one's legs went missing. Tenoch and the remoras lifted me up, and fed me to the beast. Its belly was dark and smelled of a fire, but not of wood fire. I felt happy. So very happy. Then came soft warm darkness.
I assure you that this account is punctiliously accurate in all respects. I came to my senses once more, and was greeted by an English doctor named Livesey. He had changed the bandages on my eye and on my arm while I was unconscious. He puffed at his pipe.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, old chap. How are you feeling?"
I considered. "Broken in too many places," I said, finally.
"As good a way of putting it as any, I suppose," said Doctor Livesey. "You're lucky I'm on board this bucket. Anyone else wouldn't have known where to start with you. I've managed to save your left arm, or what's left of it. Can't work miracles. I'm afraid the eye is lost, sorry about that. Massive infection. Would have done you in if I'd have left it. The leg you already knew about, I suppose."
"Sadly, yes. How about my companions? Tenoch and Citlali? Are they on board?"
Doctor Livesey shook his head. "We set them down on the far bank, and they went their merry way. They wanted us to bury you in our own Heathen ways. But it seems you'll be able to arrange that for yourself. You aren't in danger of kicking the bucket just now, and you're very welcome. Oh." The doctor pointed at the two bags that had been on the llama's back. "I believe these are yours. They are rather heavy. What's in them?"
The steamer that had kindly taken my half-missing, half-dead body on board, belonged to a missionary organisation dedicated to spreading the Good Word in these inhospitable places. Being devout Christians, they had kept their fingers away from my bags, and had refrained from simply throwing me overboard and making off with a fortune in gold. In Macapá, I sold one of my ingots of gold, and so was able to book passage on an ocean liner to England. We steamed up the river Avon to Bristol Harbour. Some inquiry revealed that my daughter Alexandra was currently at an obscure little University in Ipswich named after Charles Algernon Parsons, just a half-day's train trip away from Bristol. I arrived there in the late afternoon, and disappointingly found out that only Alexandra had been there recently. She had attached herself to an expedition led by the esteemed Prof. Alan Wadcroft, and set off for darkest Africa to look for my son Carl, who had gone missing. Why can't today's youth sit still for more than five minutes at a time?
With nothing else to do, I committed myself to the care of the local physician, a Dr. Bernhardt. I owe the good doctor an enormous debt of gratitude for my current physical condition, and if ever he wants to travel anywhere in Europe, he has but to name the place and Lady I will be at his service.
Three weeks and several operations on my left arm later, Wadcroft's expedition came back, and I could finally embrace my daughter for the first time in several years. The story of her expedition into Sudan has been told elsewhere, so I need not say much about it here. It would have been nice to say that all was well, especially with the return of my son Carl, a native young lady, and their child. But unfortunately, trouble is brewing. Never a dull moment for the Tennant family.
As I write these words, Lady I is sailing back to Ipswich, where we will regroup, plan our future, and see what we can do to thwart the plans of the rather shadowy organisation named Prometheus. One thing is clear to me. I have named my airship after kind Lady Itzel, or Lady Iris, or both. I still do not know whether I want to choose. For our own safety, she will have to grow sharp teeth. The empty gun decks will once more have weapons of destruction in them. And then, I will come down from the heavens, and peck at Prometheus' liver myself.
Alexandra Tennant: One big happy family
Arrival at Ipswich - Who will think of the children? - Appropriate attire for a lady - The Rifle Club Reborn - Mother, what big teeth you have - Two ladies - An old acquaintance - Return to the scene of the crime
From Alexandra L. Tennant, on board airship Lady I, Moored at Kodok, Date ______
To whom it may concern
The airship Lady I is about to set out for a location in the Sudanese desert, coordinates attached. On board: Philip Tennant (captain), Alexandra Tennant, Carl Tennant, Fatin Tennant, Raage Tennant, James T. Riley, One guide, unnamed by request.
One month ago, an organisation named, as far as we know, Prometheus, led by a Mr. Nicholas Slate (believed to be an alias), kidnapped, or convinced to join him, a number of scientists from the Jules Verne restaurant. Information has reached us that these scientists are being held at the abandoned camp site of the Hammond expedition of one year ago. They are being forced to lend their aid to experiments of a disturbing nature, that could potentially affect the lives of all of Humanity.
Prometheus is a dangerous organisation. They will stop at nothing to keep their operations secret. Their influence on local government cannot be determined, which prevents us from contacting the authorities. We have no other choice but to investigate the situation ourselves.
If the Airship Lady I does not return to Ipswich in three months' time, or no message is heard of her or her crew, you must assume the worst, and proceed with all possible caution to the site indicated on the map.
-- Alexandra Tennant, Last message from Airship Lady I.
I was sitting at my table on board Lady I, writing my journal, when Margaret stirred in bed and woke up. I put down my pencil.
"Morning Margaret. Sleep well? You were out like a light when we came back from the Eiffel Tower. Must be the healthy air in the upper atmosphere. You were moving about quite a bit. Bad dreams perhaps?"
Margaret gave me a long look, then chuckled.
"Do you think I was born yesterday, young Miss Tennant?" Margaret stuck her feet out of bed. "Sweet of you to try, though. Bah! I wish I could just keep quiet about what happened. They're most likely going to try marrying me off to Dr. Schmidt again. Deep joy."
"Again?"
Margaret got out of bed and started rummaging in her suitcase for a dress. "When Gerald died, they sent me to him to make sure I wasn't going to take an axe to my Biology class or something. Spent more Fridays talking about my father than any sane person should."
"That sounds like tremendous fun."
"Mm. To give him credit, it probably did do me good. I just hate to sound like a massive bucket of whinge."
"Given what happened, I'd say you should be allowed to whinge a bit. That bastard Riley could have got you killed."
Margaret stood still, looking in the mirror, a pair of stockings in her hand. "Möller. I just don't get it. He was with us on the Sudan expedition. He doesn't take sugar in his tea. Right grumpy sod in the mornings. I talked to him about Bremen. And then the bastard sticks a gun in my neck and threatens to kill me."
"Nichts persönliches," I said. "We are professionals."
Margaret held up two pairs of shoes, her walking boots, and her presentable school shoes. She dropped the presentable shoes back in her suitcase and started to lace up the comfortable and well-worn boots.
"How long until we get to Ipswich?"
"About an hour and a half. Are you hungry?"
"I could eat a small metaphorical horse."
"How does bacon and eggs and toast sound?"
"Divine."
As soon as we touched down in one of the fields of Algernon University, Margaret, Wadcroft, Mr. Pike, Riley, and I disembarked. I found myself walking with Mr. Godfrey Pike. We were walking past the shooting range. Nobody was practicing. I sighed. The girls and boys had enjoyed shooting. There is something about handling a deadly weapon that gives you a sense of realness. I still had no idea who to ask to supervise the club. Then, the answer was dropped into my lap. Pike pointed.
"I remember that place. It's where I first learnt to shoot with a pistol. A very useful skill, I'm sure you'll agree. Is it still in use?"
"Until recently, yes. I taught a few willing boys and girls what to do with a Smelly. But I'll be leaving again shortly. I don't know what will become of them. They're smart enough to govern themselves, but they need an adult to supervise them."
"What were you teaching them?"
"Mostly safety procedures, how the sights work, basic stuff. And breathing technique. Meditative techniques."
"Not much time for meditating in my line of work." Pike laughed quietly to himself. "My old line of work. If you want, I can supervise them. Probably teach them a thing or two about rifles, too."
"That would be splendid, but won't that interfere with your, um, other duties?"
"Malcolm, Chancellor Munroe that is, promised me an honorary doctorate if I'd take the job. Doctor Pike. It does have a ring to it, don't you think? But that will hardly take up all of my time. I'll also be reading History as a cover. It'll help me keep my weapons skills up."
"In that case, see me tonight, I'll introduce you to the Club."
I looked at the bank notes in my hand, then held it out again. "It was more expensive than that, dear brother of mine. In fact..." I snatched his wallet from his hand. "The clothes your poor wife is wearing are a disgrace to womankind. You can hardly see she has a figure. I'm taking her clothes shopping."
"What? You'll bankrupt me!"
"You should have thought of that before you used my favorite blouse as a signalling torch. Why didn't you use your own jacket?"
"Um..."
"Precisely. I'll tell you when I run out of money."
Ipswich isn't London, but still you can find a few reasonably well-stocked clothing stores. I'd asked Margaret, and she'd immediately offered to come along. We left Raage in Carl's care and took a cab to the town centre. Margaret, having lived here for years, drew up an itinerary that would allow me to pick up the most gorgeous blouse, and get Fatin some decent dresses. Given that we would be going into danger, a few outfits more suited to adventuring in bad places wouldn't hurt either.
The first stop was a rather large clothes store, where we we picked up a few practical dresses for everyday use. We took her to the fitting rooms. It turned out to be fairly easy as Fatin looked good in almost all of them. One of them was a bit too tight round the hips, one of them was almost the same colour as her skin, making her look like she was walking around naked, which after a little thought we decided against.
"These dresses are good," said Fatin, handing me a few, "And these are the ones we don't want."
"Um." I said.
Fatin had come out wearing almost nothing more than on the day she was born. I positioned myself between her and the eye of the world and gently nudged her back into the fitting room, while Margaret gave the evil eye to a gentleman in another fitting room who had suddenly got more of a view than he'd bargained for.
Fatin looked at me quizzically for a moment, then remembered. She smiled at the gentleman. "Sorry," she said, and went back inside to put on her ugly beige homespun dress.
"Why are the English so afraid of my skin? Is it because it is brown?"
"Oh no," said Margaret. "It's just that we're used to covering up here. The only time you take your clothes of in front of someone else is either when you're with a group of women and you're changing for swimming or something, or when you're alone with your man."
Fatin raised her eyebrows at Margaret. "So that man thought I wanted to make babies with him?"
"No he didn't," said Margaret. "You're not his woman. We've got very strong rules against doing the blanket hornpipe with a woman who's not your woman. But for us, showing more skin shows you want to..." Margaret looked away a moment, no doubt going through a long list of euphemisms we civilised people use for copulation, none of which would mean anything to Fatin. "Let's say mate."
Fatin thought about this. "There were women in the Tower who were showing their arms, shoulders, part of their breasts. They wanted to mate?"
Margaret laughed. "And that's where it gets complicated. They weren't really saying that they wanted to mate. They were saying that they were the kind of woman men would want to mate with."
"You know how male kudu will stand up, make a lot of noise, show how strong they are." Margaret puffed herself up. "Do you want to fight?"
"They don't really want to fight, just show that they can if they want to."
"Yes. So when women here dress like they want to mate, it's a display. For the men. For the other women. Look at me, I can have any man I want."
Fatin gave a little nod. "Sometimes, kudu do fight."
Margaret smiled. "Sometimes, people do mate."
We walked to the till, Fatin with an armfull of dresses, me with Carl's wallet. Fatin was looking miles away, snickering to herself.
"What?" I said.
"Back by the White Nile, all the women were only wearing their girdles. All the white old men with Carl were looking the other way. They thought..." She put her dresses on the counter. "We all wanted to..." Fatin broke out in giggles.
"Well, they were not entirely wrong."
Fatin looked at me over her shoulder in a way that suddenly made it perfectly clear to me what Carl saw in her. "Kal only looked at me, nobody else. So I walked up to him, and looked into his eyes, and took his hand, and took him away into the woods. You English make things too hard."
Next up was Mrs. Peabody's shop. I must, regrettably, admit to a certain amount of sadistic glee in taking Carl's wallet into such a place. Mrs. Peabody's face shone and she air-kissed me.
"Miss Alexandra Tennant! What a pleasure to see you again! Is the all-environment suit to your liking?"
"Splendid, Ma'am," I said. "Which is why I'm coming here for another adventuring outfit. Mrs. Peabody? Please meet my sister-in-law Fatin. Fatin? This is Mrs. Peabody."
Miss Peabody looked Fatin up and down, and I could almost see the outfit for her taking shape in her mind. She warmly shook Fatin's hand.
"Delighted, Mrs. Tennant. What are you looking for?"
I thought for a moment. "We'll be mostly travelling by airship, so a comfortable indoors outfit, trousers, shirts, one or two warm jumpers for going outside, do you still have those Deluge raincoats? One or two nice sturdy pairs of boots. The rest I leave up to your superior experience."
Mrs. Peabody always looks very happy with an assignment like that, partly because she genuinely loves making people look their very best, partly because she is about to take every last penny in your pocket.
"Come with me, darling. I'll have the girls measure you up. And do take off that horrible dress and burn it. I'll throw in a better one."
We spent about an hour sitting in comfortable chairs sipping jasmine tea, while Fatin stood in the middle of the room in only her underwear, with a rather dazed expression on her face, while a flock of Mrs. Peabody's girls fluttered round her with measuring tapes, fabric samples, and other instruments. Pieces of clothing were applied to her, considered, taken away again. What makes it worthwhile to go to an establishment like Mrs. Peabody's is that she has the ability to see the person underneath the clothes, and bring that character out in the clothes she puts you in. It would have been so easy to turn Fatin into a European lady who just happened to have a brown face. But Mrs. Peabody somehow contrived, through choice of colours, materials, and shapes, to keep Fatin's African origins alive, even bring them to the fore. She ended up in brown leather trousers, an off-white shirt, and a soft leather waistcoat with brightly coloured embroidery.
"And how is this, my darling?"
Fatin looked at herself in the mirror, turned this way and that. Her expression as she put her hand on her hip said it all.
"This is beautiful, Mrs. Peabody, thank you."
Mrs. Peabody gave her a final once-over, then nodded. "Yes, I think we've got it. Well, take it off my dear. Careful with the stitching. I'll get one of the girls on it and you can pick it up at five."
After that, there was only one place left to go: Pickwick's tearoom. We sat down to cups of coffee and tea, with chocolate cake of course. I paid for this myself, because there is such a thing as unusual cruelty, and Carl's wallet was nearly empty anyway. Fatin was wearing a new dress and looked lovely in it. We had a few hours to spend, so we sat and chatted and watched the people. An interesting competition emerged between Margaret and Fatin. Fatin might not know the intricacies of English society, but she was an excellent judge of body language.
"I say that's his sister," said Margaret.
"Men do not look at their sisters like that."
"They do if they are talking about their lady friends."
The man leaned over and kissed his 'sister'.
"Ah," said Margaret. "You may be right."
I saw Fatin look over my shoulder, turn back to her empty plate, and then her eyes turned to me.
"There is a man in the corner, about Carl's age, wearing clothes the colour of sand. He is looking at you. Then he looks away."
"Hmmm." I started looking this way and that, looking for the ladies. "Fatin, I'm going to the restroom. Want to come with?"
We got up and headed towards the ladies. A few moments later, the man in the sand-coloured suit came walking into the corridor. He found Fatin waiting for him in front of the door. I quietly stepped up behind him, wrapped my arm round his throat and put a textbook perfect wrist lock on him.
"Hello," I said. "Why are you following us?"
"Following you?" He tried to pull himself free, but the nice thing about these wristlocks is that they hurt more, the more you struggle. I had practiced them extensively with Carl and was rather good at them.
"Yes. You were watching me. Then we went away, and here you are. Hence following."
"I'm not following you, you bitch, I need to take a piss."
I put a bit more pressure on.
"Why were you watching me back at my table?"
"Why not? You've got a nice arse. Aaah!"
"How is Mr. Slate these days? Did he manage to put out his dirigible?"
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"
"Prometheus," I whispered.
"Damn it, let me go!"
I looked at Fatin, who was watching me with mild concern. She shrugged. I released the man. He turned round and stared daggers at me, bending his wrist back into shape.
"Jesus Christ woman, what got into you? I should call the sodding police on you."
I looked at Fatin. "He came right at me, don't you agree? I was only defending myself. I'm a weak and feeble woman. I can get away with murder."
"Sod you," said the man.
"Get lost."
He gave a kind of grunt and disappeared into the gents. Fatin and I rejoined Margaret.
"False alarm," I said. "Let's get out of here before he charges me with assault."
We left the tearoom.
"Are we getting paranoid?" said Margaret. "We're seeing Prometheus agents behind every tree."
"Are we paranoid enough?"
We went back to Mrs. Peabody's. Fatin put on her new adventuring outfit. Then, we took the cab back to the University. I stepped on board, and found Father and Carl in the mess hall playing cards with Navigator Nerandzic. I struck a pose and turned round.
"How d'you like my new blouse?"
"It looks... expensive," said Carl.
"Oh it is." I said. "We also picked up a few little things for Fatin. By the way, Mrs. Peabody sends her greetings."
"Mrs. Peabody? Oh dear Lord... Is there anything left in my wallet?"
I pulled it out and gently dropped it into his hand. "It put up a brave fight, but alas, it's fully spent."
Carl started to open it to look inside, then thought better of it and resignedly put it back in his pocket.
"I think it's money well spent, though." I called over my shoulder. "Margaret? Let her in."
Fatin came in, and Carl's eyes glued onto her. The silly smile on his face was a sight to behold.
"Hello, my love," said Fatin. She put her arms round Carl's neck. "Thank you for my clothes." She kissed Carl, and kept on kissing him for a long time.
"Well," Margaret said, "I wanted to see Carl's face when he saw Fatin, and now I have. I'm off. Bye!"
Fatin waved at her without breaking the kiss and Margaret disappeared. I picked up Carl's poker hand and sat down. Might as well start earning him back some of his money.
"Call."
I knocked on the door of the freshly-minted Doctor Pike, lecturer of Recent History. He was in the same corridor as I had been, with the other blow-ins and interlopers. Riley had left without a word. Pike opened the door, nodded at me and walked with me in the direction of Room 2B. I'd stuck my head round the corner of the girls' dorm and uttered a brief rallying cry. Jocelyn had run over to the boys' dorm and rounded up the boys.
"I hope I'll live up to their expectations," said Pike.
"You're Secret Service," I said. "How can you not?"
"Ah. I haven't mentioned that to anyone but you and your friends. I'd appreciate it if that knowledge travelled no further. To the Porters I am simply a consultant, in charge of Security. Oh by the way, Mr. Wainwright said to give you his regards."
"Wainwright?"
"The gentleman you accosted at Pickwick's this afternoon. He's a former protegé of mine and I asked him to keep an eye on you ladies just in case."
"You sent him?" I gave Pike an incredulous look. "Then why didn't he just say so?"
"Orders from me. I firmly believe in letting people live their lives even when they are being guarded." A little smirk passed over Pike's face. "He told me that he said you had a nice bottom, and you let him go. Silver-tongued devil. He went so far as to volunteer for future surveillance duty. You must have made quite an impression."
"Huh," I said, never short an answer.
"One thing though." Pike looked at me earnestly. "Please refrain from dropping the name of Mr. Slate or the Prometheus organisation. Loose lips sink ships. I'll tell Professors Enderby and Wadcroft. If you would, please pass it on to your family."
I pushed open the door to room 2B. The Algernon Rifle Club were there already, even Andrew Parsons. I was actually cheered, and I confess I had a lump in my throat.
"Good news everybody! I've found you a responsible adult so you can keep up your rifle practice. This is Dr. Pike, reader in History and head of Security. So if you point your weapon where you shouldn't, he can throw you into the dungeons. Take it away, Dr. Pike!"
I sat down next to Andrew and Pike sat down on the teacher's desk. "This is absolutely true. Good evening ladies, gentlemen. I have just been given the key to the gun locker by Miss Alexandra. Together, we will overthrow the Scottish dictator who now holds sway over our beloved University. In the Pleistocene Era, I was a student here, as was Mr. Munroe. So I know all his weaknesses."
There were giggles all round, except from Andrew, who looked puzzled. He started to raise a hand, but I took his arm.
"Dr. Pike is joking," I whispered.
Andrew stared, then lowered his arm.
"I used to be a Lieutenant in the Army," said Pike, "So I know all about rifles of all kinds, even the ones you have here."
I could sense Rina two tables behind me starting to take notes for the Clarion article. I looked round the classroom as Pike started to lay out the schedules for range sessions, filled out with some army stories that might or might not be complete fabrications. They seemed to like him. Good. That meant I could go on my adventures without leaving my friends to their fate. Still at the front of the class, laughing at Pike's stories, was Florence, the girl who started this all. She noticed me looking at her and smiled. I smiled back.
It would be allright.
Andrew Parsons barely fitted in the aft gun deck. I was assisting him with a lantern as he mounted a repeater gun of his own invention in the space reserved for it. I was in two minds about the whole armament situation. On the one hand, I associated our airship with my mother. She had been the kindest woman I had ever known, and to see her now carrying weapons that could kill many people at great distance, disturbed me a bit. On the other hand, I hadn't forgotten how Prometheus' airship had tried to shoot us down while we were only protected by our camouflage. We were lucky to be alive, and the knowledge that we could bite back if the need arose gave me some kind of comfort. Andrew had modified his original design so that the gun could now fire almost continuously without overheating, which had not been in the original design. We would be test-firing the guns over the North Sea that afternoon.
Navigator Taras Nerandzic would be leaving us in a few weeks time. Carl and I had put in a lot of practice at the wheel. Either of us could now perform all the maneuvers and signalling needed to dock at all the airports in the world, great and small. We were due to sit the theoretical exam for our navigator's papers next week. Fatin had earned a place in Nerandzic's heart by flying Lady I with more precision and subtlety than either of us. Where we Westerners thought of Lady I as a collection of technology, Fatin saw her almost as a living creature, with her own wiles, needs, hungers, and moods. She still took off her boots at the helm, to feel through the deck the humming of the engines and the subtle changes in attitude. The only reason she was not joining us is that she didn't have the English yet to complete the exams. Given how fast she was learning at class, that would not be long.
That afternoon, Fatin flew us out over the sea. After making certain that we wouldn't be shooting innocent ships with our experiments, we dropped down till we almost touched the sea, and dropped two dozen barrels over the side, painted in bright colours, to use as targets. I manned the front guns, Carl aft, and Fatin steered us over the long line of buoys. I aimed the gun using two handles that were twice as large as they needed to be because Andrew had dimensioned them for his own hands. The gun made a frightful noise. Cartridges were fed to it on a long belt. One round in every five fired would be a tracer round so that I could adjust my fire as bullets turned the sea to froth. It went against everything I had been taught. I was a precision instrument, not a 'spray-and-pray' gunner. Suddenly an image came to me of Jocelyn, eyes aglow, firing rounds as fast as she could. She would love this. I channeled my inner crazy girl and turned the barrels into splinters.
We emerged from behind our guns, ears ringing, out of barrels, and almost out of ammunition. I made a mental note to get some ear plugs. Fatin steered us back to Ipswich as we all stuffed our faces with cheese sandwiches.
We moored in our usual field. As Lady I lowered herself onto her roost, we could see the small figure of Dr. Pike standing there to meet us. He walked up the gangplank almost as soon as we extended it. He was waving a piece of paper.
"Just had word from Mr. Riley. From Kodok. How he got there, I don't know, but he has information regarding our Titanic friends that he won't send me even by cipher. I'm offended. My ciphers are nigh-unbreakable. He did say that he needed to be flown into the Sudanese desert."
"And left there?" I said. Margaret was still seeing Dr. Schmidt, and I was not in any mood to be sympathetic. "Does Mr. Riley have a good reason why we should serve as his personal flying service?"
We walked into the corridor to the bridge.
"He says he has a way to get Prometheus off all of our backs," said Pike. "That might be worthwhile."
"Hmm. Prometheus just made off with a dozen scientists. Wouldn't the authorities take an interest in that? I still don't see why we have to get involved. We do have people to take care of this. Her Majesty's Secret Service springs to mind."
I opened the door to the bridge. Father wasn't there, leaving the somewhat married couple alone, with predictable results. Fully clothed results I hasten to add, but results nonetheless.
"Where's Father Captain?"
"In the study," said Carl, in a tone of voice one might use if there were no woman sitting on one's lap.
"Thank you," I said, in much the same tone. "We've had word from Riley, and he wants us to come to Sudan. When you have a moment, please join us."
We were heading for Sudan, by way of Cologne, where Taras Nerandzic's next assignment would be waiting for him. He spent most of his time at the helm, giving us time to ourselves. I took the opportunity to catch up on my reading. Fatin was in the kitchen cooking dinner. We all took turns cooking, except for Father, who had managed to turn fried eggs into charcoal and was banned until he could demonstrate requisite skills. Carl was in the cargo hold with a punch bag practicing his punches and high kicks. Father had taken his typewriter into the mess hall so he could spread out his notes all over the dining table. He was making the final changes to the account of his Meso-American adventures. Upon our return, Prof. Wadcroft would include it in the whole report with everyone else's accounts.
Carl came walking up, hair still wet from the bath after his practice. He walked into the kitchen to see and taste what Fatin was doing, and maybe to distract her from the more important business of feeding us. There were some firm words spoken in Fatin's language, and Carl came walking out with a large pot of soup, followed by Fatin with a tray of flat bread and bowls. As Father quickly gathered his notes to keep some semblance of order in them, the picture of the heathen priestess fell out. Carl picked it up and looked at it.
"Is this your work Father?"
Father held out his hand and took it back from Carl.
"It is," he said. "I drew that in Anctapolepl. It got stuck in with the expedition reports."
"Who is it? She looks very pretty. Interesting hair."
"One of the priestesses," said Father, putting down the picture. "What's that soup?"
"Priestess," said Carl, looking at the picture over Father's shoulder. "Aren't they the ones that rip people's hearts out?"
I could see Father's expression darkening. "Most certainly not. She is the one who took care of me after they amputated my leg. It is due to her good care that I can walk at all."
"What's her name?"
"Who wants soup?" Fatin held up a bowl. "It's chicken soup with tomatoes."
I passed my bowl to Fatin, who filled it. I grabbed a spoon and shot Carl the look that since our early childhood had meant 'Shut up, dear brother of mine'. He missed it completely.
"Come on, Father. A gorgeous creature like that, and you don't know her name?"
"Itzel," said Father, through clenched teeth. "Her name is Itzel. She was the most beautiful and intelligent woman in that whole blighted city, until they sacrificed her. They did cut open her stomach, and then they pulled her beating heart out of her body."
"Itzel," said Carl. "Lady Itzel."
"Yes."
"Lady I," said Carl. "We are not sailing in Lady Iris. We are sailing in Lady Itzel."
Father thumped the table with his fist. "We are sailing in both! This ship is named after both!"
"After Mother, and her... her replacement!"
"My love," said Fatin, with more than a little sharp edge to her voice. "Would you like some soup?"
"I'm not hungry anymore," said Carl. He stomped off into his cabin and closed the door behind him. Fatin looked at Father, then at me, then followed Carl, a grim expression on her face.
Father sat with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched, looking at the picture of the Lady Itzel. He reached out to grab and crumple the picture up and throw it away. I caught his wrist. He glared at me at first, then his expression softened into a deep sadness.
"I'm sorry Alexandra, I..." He looked back at the picture. "She was..."
I sat down next to Father, put my arm round his shoulders.
"I taught her the words of Jabberwocky. Those words saved my life. I owe this woman my life. If it wasn't for her, there would be no airship. There would be no... I'd be dead."
"You loved her," I said, quietly.
He said nothing for a few moments, then nodded only once.
I picked up the picture. "She is very beautiful."
Father made no comment. I pulled him a bit closer to me.
"Father. 'As long as you both shall live.' You loved Mother until the very last moments of her life, and beyond. I know that you still love her, but she was gone. You fell in love with Itzel, because she was beautiful and kind, and she loved you."
Father's eye turned to me. "How would you know?"
"Instinct," I said.
The cargo bay door opened and Taras Nerandzic came walking in.
"This is smelling good! Miss Fatin is a treasure! Can I have some?"
I pointed. "Go ahead. I should have brought you some already."
Nerandzic looked at me, at Father. Then, he quickly filled a bowl, grabbed some bread and walked off.
Father looked at the door to Fatin and Carl's cabin.
"I have made him very angry, and he is right to be."
"He'll simmer down," I said. "If I know Fatin, she's telling him not to be an arse as we speak."
I took the picture for safe keeping. Later, I had it framed, and put it in Father's cabin, next to Mother's portrait. And there they are now, two women who never met, and still are connected across two worlds.
We reached Cologne in good time, and Nerandzic steered us to within an inch of the mooring pole. The propellers slowed down, and stopped. We were all standing round him.
"Well done, Navigator Nerandzic," said Father.
Nerandzic ran his hand over the controls, as though he was saying goodbye to a good friend. He turned to Father.
"Now I am leaving," said Nerandzic. "Take good care of this Lady. She is a good ship. Do not let any of these mu'dak shoot at her again."
Father handed Nerandzic a brown bag with a very good bottle of Wodka. "We will make it out first business, Mr. Nerandzic. Those who mean us harm will find that we have sharp teeth, and those who mean us well, like yourself, will always find a warm welcome on board Lady I."
"Spasibo," said Nerandzic. "If ever you need someone to steer this vessel, I am always willing."
He picked up his duffel bag, touched his cap and walked down the gangplank in the direction of the port authorities.
"Let's go," said Father. "Next stop, Cairo."
It was my turn at the helm. I pumped more hydrogen into the envelope. We rose slowly. I pushed forward on the port collective control and Lady I turned in a slow curve towards the South-east. At standard cruising speed, we would reach Cairo in about two days. About half a day to take on coal, then another twenty-four hour flight to Kodok. From there, we would fly to some place in the Sudanese desert known only to our good American friend Mr. Riley.
We arrived at Cairo without incident. Cairo was an unrelenting torrent of airships coming and going, a test for any navigator, let alone a couple of wet behind the ears beginners like us. Fatin was at the helm, Carl and I were on lookout. We turned on the Aldiss light and signalled the port authorities. We were directed to a mooring post near the main fuel station, where we topped up our condensers with water and our bunkers with excellent high-energy coal. We also took the chance to buy some of the local provisions. It was late in the evening when we set off again. Father himself was at the helm this time, with Carl to relieve him in four hours' time. Four hours after that, I would take over from Carl and finally, Fatin would navigate until the morning. I went straight to my cabin for perhaps a little reading then sleep. As I reached for the door handle, there was a male voice, almost making me jump out of my skin.
"Good evening, Miss Tennant."
I turned round in a vaguely martial crouch. By the door to the study I saw the dark form of a man. He was wearing a dark business suit, and a dark blue turban. His long thick beard was black with flecks of grey. His arms were crossed in front of him. He bowed to me.
"It pleases Nazeem to see you again, Miss Tennant, and to see that you are well with my Earthly eyes."
"Nazeem. What brings you here? You left rather... abruptly the last time. In fact, we thought you'd fallen overboard."
Nazeem's laugh was quiet and deep. "That was unfortunately rude, but Fate compelled Nazeem to move quickly, so as to prevent events that would have been ruinous to the Order of Cross and Moon."
"Well done, Nazeem. Why are you here? Mr. Riley said not to trust you."
"Riley is a man to whom trust does not come easily. It was given Nazeem to know that you will be meeting Riley. Nazeem must speak with him also, to guide his footsteps. A great evil is afoot. The organisation named Prometheus has gathered unto itself a score of learned men and women. It is the fear of the Order that these will unleash the lightning that dwells in the cursed stones, to the ruin of all that draws breath. That purpose must not prevail."
I took a deep breath. "Well, Master Nazeem, you'd better explain that to the Captain."
It was morning, and we were all sitting round the breakfast table, staring at Nazeem. He would not partake of the flesh of pigs, nor the eggs of chickens, so he was helping himself to a bowl of porridge.
"This afternoon, we will arrive at Kodok." Father put another piece of toast on his plate, added scrambled egg and bacon and a scoop of baked beans. "We don't actually know where to find Mr. Riley, but he said in his letter that he would find us."
"Nazeem will seek him out. It is well that Nazeem knows the colour of Riley's soul."
"Pink with spangles," I said. Nazeem looked at me darkly, as he always did when his supernatural powers were made fun of.
"Or just maybe he knows what Lady I looks like," said Carl. "Having been on board and all. And the name painted on the sides."
"As you say," said Nazeem, putting his spoon in his empty bowl. "Nazeem humbly begs your permission to move to a quiet place, that he may meditate."
"Cargo bay is lovely and quiet," said Carl. "Just don't sit on the bomb bay doors."
Nazeem got up, bowed, and strode out of the door with slow regal steps. Carl watched him disappear down the cargo bay stairs, then turned to me.
"You've known him longer than I have. Is he genuine?"
I shrugged. "I saw him snatch a bullet out of the air, but that could have been a trick. And he set his hands on fire. That was definitely a trick."
"Witch doctor," said Fatin, her mouth full of bacon and eggs. She swallowed, had some milk. "They make you stop thinking, and then they have you. We had one once, and he took all the men into a tent, and made fire in it. Geedi saw him throw mushrooms in the fire, and then the witch doctor flew up like a cloud. All the men said they saw it with their own eyes, but Geedi knew what mushrooms they were so he knew not to believe it. Everybody's head hurt the next morning so they didn't do that again." She pointed at the plate of bacon and Carl handed it to her. "Anyone else for more bacon?"
We all shook our heads. Fatin dropped the rest of the bacon on her plate. The Ajuru had never had pigs, and Fatin had completely succumbed to the temptation of Sus scrofa domesticus.
"He was fun to watch," said Fatin, spearing a rasher with her fork. "But his advice was very bad, so elder Hanad lost him to another tribe at the Great Gathering."
When everybody had stopped eating, Carl picked up the plates to wash up and Father disappeared in the direction of the bridge. They still weren't talking to each other. I felt the ship move as Father put in a course correction and set Lady Iris, or Lady Itzel, in motion again.
Due to a headwind, we arrived at Kodok only in the late afternoon. We had made Lady I ship-shape. The engines were running slow, and we almost stalked the small port to the south of town. Fatin sat curled up in one of the observation chairs, feeding Raage. She was looking south with a sad expression on her face. I put a cup of tea where she could reach it and looked forward. Our mooring cables came down and two of the port assistants hooked them onto the poles. We slowly reeled them in, putting Lady I down on the ground so we could extend the gangplank. We almost expected Riley to be waiting for us, but were sadly disappointed. I looked at Master Nazeem, but he said nothing.
The next morning, Riley still hadn't shown up. Nazeem went to the place in the cargo hold where he had put down his mat and his incense, and meditated. Whether he was trying to deceive us, or whether he deceived himself as well as us, I couldn't say. He had sat without moving for exactly two hours, when he opened his eyes and got to his feet.
"Nazeem has seen. He will lead you to Mr. Riley. Bring weapons."
Carl and I looked at each other, shrugged, got a pair of revolvers out of the gun cupboard on the in-envelope deck, and followed Nazeem into one of the suburbs of Kodok. With me and Carl on his heels, he walked straight to one of the sand-stone brick houses and knocked on the door. He called out with his dark voice.
"Riley!"
There was no answer. Nazeem knocked again.
"Open the door. Nazeem is come to lead you to safety, as have Carl and Alexandra Tennant."
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. Then, nothing. Nazeem pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"See, Friend. It is truly Nazeem who has come to your place of hiding, and not an imposter. Show yourself, that we may take you to safety."
Out of the dark came Riley's voice. "Get inside, and close the door."
We all stepped inside. The stench was incredible. The smell of death came from every corner of the house. How anyone could endure it was beyond me. Nazeem lit a candle, and we saw Riley sitting at a table. He had a heavy pistol in his hand. He waved it in the direction of a man who was lying on the floor, flies swarming over him.
"Pardon the smell," said Riley. "Skippy there can't help it, being dead."
"Good Lord, Riley," said Carl. "What are you doing in this hole?"
"Breathing. And let me tell you, that ain't no picnic, but still better than the alternative. Where you moored?"
"The south port," I said, trying to breathe through my mouth only.
"Good. We wait till dark, then we make a run for it."
We endured four more hours in that little piece of Hell on Earth. Riley explained that the dead person was a Prometheus agent who had pursued him until it had come to a head in this very room. Riley had shot him, but could not risk going out on his own with nowhere to go to. I shuddered at the thought that he had been in this place for over three days. I might not like him, but nobody deserves that. Finally, Carl looked through the cracks in the wooden shutters and announced that the sun had set.
"Nazeem will entreat the Spirits to put us beyond the perception of our foes."
"You do that," said Riley, too tired even to argue.
Led by Nazeem, and half carrying Riley, we made our way back to Lady I. We immediately sent him to the bathroom. He stayed there for nearly two hours. Before he immersed himself, though, he had given us a set of coordinates in the south Sudanese desert. I wrote a quick message for Algernon University, encrypted it using Mr. Pike's Vigenère cypher, and posted it in the South Port post office. We cast off the lines, filled the envelope with hydrogen, and sailed off towards an uncertain future.
Lady I, Captain Philip Tennant, Alexandra, Carl, and Fatin
will return in the next expedition: The Fire of the Gods.