Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon (Burton & Swinburne) (14 page)

“Absolutely not! None of my contemporaries intended the creation of this
Jahannam!”

“As you say. Besides, I disagree with the philosophy of what you might term
sequentialism
. The problem, as I see it, is that we don't truly understand the nature of the past. We mythologise it. We create fictions about actions performed to justify what we undertake in the present. We adjust the cause to better suit the effect. The truth is that the present is, and will always be, utter chaos. There is no story and no plan. We are victims of Zeitgeist. I apologise for using a German word, but it's singularly appropriate. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes. It translates as ‘ghost tide,’ or, perhaps, ‘spirit of the age,’ and refers to the ambience or sociopolitical climate of any given period.”

“Exactly so, and in my view it's a phenomenon entirely independent of history. History doesn't create the zeitgeist, we create the history to try to explain the zeitgeist. We impose a sequential narrative to endow events with something that resembles meaning.”

The ambulance jerked as its wheels bounced through a pothole. Burton's head banged against the vehicle's wooden side.

“Ouch!”

“How's your arm?” Wells asked.

“Aching. How's your leg?”

“Broken. How's your head?”

“Shut up.”

“Have a cigar.”

The war correspondent passed what remained of the “Hoffman” to the explorer, who glanced at its much-reduced length and muttered, “Your lungs are healthy, at least.” He raised it to his lips and drew in the sweet smoke, savouring it while observing the column of men and vehicles that snaked back over the rolling landscape.

The supply wagons and ambulances were mostly towed by steam-horses or oxen. There were a few mangy-looking nonmechanical horses in evidence, too, including mega-drays pulling huge artillery pieces. Harvestmen stalked along beside the troops, and Scorpion Tanks thumped through the dust with their tails curled over their cabins, the guns at their ends slowly swinging back and forth.

“Hey! Private!” Burton called to a nearby Britisher. “Where are we?”

“In it up to our bloody eyeballs, chum!”

“Ha! And geographically?”

“I ain't got a bleedin' clue. Ask Kitchener!”

“We're almost there, sir,” an African voice answered. “Tanga is a mile or so ahead.”

“Much obliged!” Burton said. He turned Wells. “Did you hear that? We must be near your village. Shall we hop out here?”

“Hopping is my only option, unfortunately.”

Burton slid from the tailgate into the ambulance, then moved to its front and banged his fist against the back of the driver's cabin. “Stop a moment, would you?”

He returned to Wells and, as the vehicle halted, helped him down to the ground and handed him his crutches. The two men put on their helmets, moved to the side of the column, and walked slowly along beside it.

“So what's your point, Bertie?”

“My point?”

“About history.”

“Oh. Just that we give too much credence to the idea that we can learn from the past. It's the present that teaches the lesson. The problem is that we're so caught up in doing it that we can never see the wood for the trees. I say! Are you all right?”

Burton had suddenly doubled over and was clutching the sides of his head.

“No!” he gasped. “Yes. I think—” He straightened and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just had a powerful recollection of—of—of a man constructed from brass.”

“A statue?”

“No. A machine. But it was—it was—Herbert.”

“What? Me?”

“No, sorry, not you, Bertie. I mean, its—his—name is—was—is Herbert, too.”

“A mechanical man named Herbert? Are you sure your malaria hasn't flared up again?”

Burton clicked his tongue. “My brain is so scrambled that the line between reality and fiction appears almost nonexistent. I'm not sure what that particular memory signifies, if anything. Perhaps it'll make more sense later. Where's the village?”

Wells pointed to a vaguely defined path that disappeared into a dense jungle of thorny acacias. The trees were growing up a shallow slope, and Burton could just glimpse rooftops through the topmost leaves. “Along there,” Wells said. “Kaltenberg is right on the edge of Tanga—practically an outlying district. It was built by the Germans in the European style, on slightly higher ground. The occupants fled into the town a few days ago. We'll get a good view of the action from up there.”

“I gather the role of war correspondents is to climb hills and gaze down upon destruction?”

“Yes, that's about it.”

They left the convoy and followed the dirt track. The boles of the trees crowded around them, blocking the convoy from sight. The sky flickered and flashed through the foliage just above their heads. Mosquitoes whined past their ears.

“Who's Kitchener?” Burton asked.

“One of the military bigwigs. Or was. No one knows whether he's dead or alive. Damn this leg! And damn this heat. In fact, damn Africa and all that goes with it! I'm sorry, we'll have to slow down a little.” Wells stopped, and, balancing himself on his crutches, struck a match and lit a cigarette. He took a pull at it then held it out to Burton.

“Thanks, Bertie, but I'll pass. My fondness for cheap cigars doesn't plummet to such depths. Besides, it would ruin the taste of my toffee.”

“You have toffee?”

“I scrounged it from the ambulance driver. Four pieces. I'd offer you two but I fear they'd be wasted after that tobacco stick.”

“You swine!”

Burton grinned.

“And don't do that with your ugly mug,” Wells advised. “It makes you look monstrously Mephistophelian.”

“You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“I don't recall.”

They set off again, the war correspondent swinging himself along on his crutches.

Burton said, “Remind me again why we're attacking Tanga.”

“Firstly,” Wells replied, “because we're trying to regain all the ports; secondly, because we want to raid German supplies; and thirdly, and most importantly, because it's believed the commander of the
Schutztruppe
, Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, is holed up there, and we would dearly love to deprive him of his existence. The man is a veritable demon. He has a military mind to rival that of Napoleon Bonaparte!”

By the time they reached the first of the Kaltenberg cottages, both men were sweating profusely. “Do you remember snow?” Wells muttered as they moved out from beneath the acacias and into the village. “What I wouldn't give for a toboggan ride down a hill with a tumble at the bottom.” He stopped and said quietly, “Richard.”

Burton followed his companion's gaze and saw, in a passageway between two cottages, the body of an Askari in British uniform. They approached and examined the corpse. A laceration curved diagonally across the African's face, the skin to either side of it swollen and puckered.

“That's a lurcher sting,” Wells observed. “He's recently dead, I'd say.”

“This was a bad idea, Bertie. We should have stayed with the column.”

Wells shook his head. “It's the job of a war correspondent to watch and report, Richard. When we reach the other end of the village, you'll find that it offers an unparalleled view across Tanga. We'll see far more from here than we would if we were in the thick of it. Not to mention the fact that we'll stand a better chance of staying alive.”

The silence was suddenly broken by a rasping susurration, similar to the sound of a locust, but shockingly loud and menacing.

“Hum. I might be wrong,” Wells added, his eyes widening. “Where did that noise come from?”

“I don't know.”

They stepped out of the passage and immediately saw a lurcher flopping out of one of the cottages they'd just passed. It was a hideous thing—a tangle of thorny tentacles and thrashing tendrils. From its middle, a red, fleshy, and pulsating bloom curled outward. Extending from within this, two very long spine-covered stalks rose into the air. They were rubbing together—a horribly frantic motion—producing the high-pitched ratcheting sound. The wriggling plant rolled forward on a knot of squirming white roots—and it moved fast.

“We've got to get out of here!” Burton cried out. “Drop your crutches, Bertie! I'm going to carry you!”

“But—”

Wells got no further. Burton kicked the crutches away, bent, and hoisted the shorter man up onto his shoulder. He started to run, heavy-footed.

“Bloody hell!” he gasped. “This is a lot easier with Algy!”

“Who?”

“Um. Algy. Bismillah! That's who you put me in mind of! How in blazes could I have forgotten him?”

“I don't know and right now I don't care. Run!”

Burton pumped his legs, felt his thigh muscles burning, and heard the lurcher rapidly drawing closer behind him.

“It's on us!” Wells yelled.

The famous explorer glimpsed a house door standing ajar. He veered toward it and bowled through, dropping Wells and banging the portal shut behind him. The lurcher slammed into it with terrific force, causing the frame to splinter around the lock. Burton quickly slid the bolts at the top and bottom into place. Thorns ripped at the wood outside.

“This door won't keep it out for long. Are you all right?”

“I landed on my leg,” Wells groaned.

Burton helped the war correspondent to his feet. “Let's get upstairs. God, my head! I was just knocked sideways by memories!”

He gave support to his friend and they made their way up and through to the front bedroom. The other upper chamber was given over to storage.

The din of hammering tentacles continued below. Burton was breathing heavily. He lowered Wells onto a bed, then staggered back and leaned against a wall, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Algernon,” he whispered, and when he looked up, there were tears on his cheeks.

“What is it?” the shorter man asked.

Burton didn't answer. He was looking beyond his companion, at a dressing table mirror, and the face that stared back from it was that of a total stranger. It was all he could see. He fell into its black, despair-filled eyes and was overwhelmed by such a powerful sense of loss that his mind began to fracture.

“Richard!” Wells snapped. “Hey!”

The room sucked back into focus.

“Where am I?” Burton gasped. He felt hollow and disassociated.

Wordlessly, Wells pointed at the window.

After drawing a shuddering breath, Burton crossed to it, but he quickly stepped back when he saw thorny vines crawling over the glass.

“Manipulated and accelerated evolution,” the war correspondent observed. “Another of the Eugenicists' ill-conceived monstrosities. That thing was once a man in a vehicle. Look at the damned thing now! So who's this Algy person?”

“Algernon Swinburne.”

“The poet? Yes, of course, you knew him, didn't you?”

“He is—was—my assistant.”

“Really? In what?”

“I have no idea. But I recall fleeing from a fire with him slung over my shoulder.”

“Fire is what we need now. It's the only way we'll destroy the lurcher. Step a little farther back from the window, Richard. The stalks are strong enough to break through the glass.”

Burton hastily retreated. He looked around the room at the furniture, the pictures, and the ornaments. Everything was crawling with ants and cockroaches. Even this fact stirred buried recollections. The name “Rigby” rose into his awareness then sank away again.

Wells said, “My leg is hurting like hell.”

“Stay here while I have a poke about in the other room,” Burton responded. He went out onto the landing and into the chamber beyond. Wells sat and massaged his right thigh.

A loud crack sounded from below as the front door split under the lurcher's continued assault.

Burton came back in.

“Any luck?” Wells asked.

“A whole bottle of it.” Burton held up a wide-necked container. “Turpentine.”

Wells pulled something from his jacket pocket. “And a box of four whole matches. Yours for the price of two pieces of toffee.”

“Deal.”

Burton crossed to the window and, after putting the bottle on the floor, used both hands to slide the sash up. It squealed loudly and jammed, with less than a foot of it open.

“Look out!” Wells shouted.

The explorer staggered back as two flailing stalks came smashing through the glass and wood, showering splinters over both men. The spiny appendages coiled and slashed around the room, gouging the furniture and ripping long gashes across the walls.

Wells, acting without thinking, threw himself back onto the bed, clutched the thin mattress, and rolled, wrapping it around himself. He lunged upright and dived at the window, letting out an agonised scream as pain knifed through his wounded leg. He landed across the stalks, pinning them to the floor. They bucked under him and curled back, slapping against the bedding, shredding it.

“Quick, man! I can't hold it!”

Burton sprang at the bottle, which was rolling over the floorboards, scooped it up, and untwisted the cap. Unable to get past Wells to stand directly in front of the window, he stuck his arm through it from the side and poured the turpentine, praying to Allah that it would land on the target.

“The lucifers, Bertie!”

“I dropped the bloody things!”

A ragged length of the mattress's cotton cover was ripped away exposing the horsehair stuffing beneath. The material flew into the air as one of the stalks whipped up and back down, thumping across the correspondent's body.

Burton, having spotted the matchbox lying on the floor, scrambled across the room. He crawled and rolled on broken glass.

“Have you got them?” Wells yelled.

“Yes!”

Snatching up the length of torn material, Burton reeled back to the front wall, thudded against it, and slid into a crouch beside the window.

Wells was suddenly sent spinning into the air as the long stalks jerked violently and slid from the room.

The battering noises ceased.

Burton, with a puzzled expression, stood and cautiously peered out of the window. The stalks were nowhere in sight. Carefully, he leaned out and looked down.