The Basingstoke Chronicles (9 page)

The interior of Pacal Votan's home was a veritable cornucopia of scientific intrigue. I
was stunned as I surveyed desks and shelves overflowing with metallic devices and instruments,
the intricacies of which I could scarcely dream. Many of them seemed to be astronomical in
nature. Indeed, there was a celestial map laid flat on one of the tables. It had been fashioned from
a beige-colored material, its markings inked with a black dye. Not being much of a stargazer, all I
was qualified to be was impressed.

"All right, Rodrigo. Now we're alone, be kind enough to tell me what the hell's going
on."

He sat on a bench opposite me, fiddling with a complex contraption.

"I've a feeling we don't know the half of it."

"You're remarkably sanguine about all this."

"Sorry, Baz, but I suppose we have to accept... The bottom line is, we'll not be leaving
anytime soon. To tell the truth, this trip has turned out better than I ever expected. Think about it.
What's the real reason we journeyed in the time machine in the first place? Scientific research?
To solve some half-assed mystery about a dead body? Those ships sailed before they even lifted
anchor. We're in this for the adventure, my friend--pure and simple.

"Back home, we might be richer than Croesus, but--and stop me here anytime you
disagree, Baz--that damned lifestyle gets so tired, so fast. I mean I can wake up sometimes and
not even know it, you know? Like when the things you dream about are actually a comedown
from what's available to you, every day, at the click of a finger. Where there's no necessity,
there's no point, as my uncle used to say. There's really not much to tie us to 1979 at all, if you
ask me."

I didn't stop him.

"I've been trying to figure out where we are," he continued, "and I have to say, without
knowing anything about shifting plate tectonics and all that, I really don't think we're in South
America."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, apart from the language, which is a very simplified, almost skeletal form of
Quechua, there's no consistency in the culture whatsoever, at least as far as what's known in our
time about those indigenous peoples. The clothes appear more Greek than anything; the
architecture looks to have Mediterranean influences; and when was the last time you saw a South
American native with copper-colored hair."

Rodrigo had thought this through more thoroughly than I gave him credit for. The
inconsistencies were glaring and inexplicable.

"And then there's Pacal Votan," I added. "How many astronomers can you recall before
the classical empires of Europe?"

"Man's been mapping the stars forever, Baz, but you're right--I think even the knees of
nineteenth century science would buckle in this room."

An hour or so passed while we waited, discussing the whys and the wherefores of our
pickle; at least, a pickle was how I chose to describe it. Rodrigo appeared to have found an
instant affinity with the place, while I regarded everything and everyone with suspicion. We
certainly didn't know enough about these people to turn our backs on them.

The room ought to have been stifling. The sun's heat intensified outside, yet indoors was
quite cool. Rodrigo soon dispelled my notion of an ancient air-conditioning system when he
spied a stone casket in the corner, its lid partially open. Inside, he found a sizeable stash of raw
vegetables and hunks of a delicious-looking meat. He pointed out that the interior of the casket
was lined with that clear, frosty substance we had found on the river bed, and that it, too, was
freezing cold.

"A freezer without electricity," said Rodrigo; "I've gat to git me wan a' these."

I smiled for a moment and then began to extrapolate. "I'm wondering if this permafrost is
some kind of residue left by the watercourses. Perhaps a substance that's carried from the
mountains, by the rivers, and reacts potently with the air once the water has dried up. The end
result being this indefinite chill."

As I have said before, I do have a fairly logical mind at my disposal, which, on occasion,
serves me better than I deserve.

"Not bad, Englishman. What was it you studied at college again?"

"History."

"No electives in chemistry? Biology?"

"One in science-fiction science," I answered with some pride.

"Well, you've done your Trekkie lecturer proud there, Baz."

As I was about to answer with a pithy remark, a low, gravelly growl dissuaded me. It
came from the veranda. Darkly rose as his mouth opened in a snarl. He stalked forward. Figuring
there was someone approaching, I peered out to see, and as I did the wooden door wrenched shut,
damn near smashing me in the face.

Darkly let out an awful roar. Through an uncovered window, I watched three male
figures, naked but for cloths covering their decency and string-net masks to hide their faces,
attack Darkly with deadly, eight-foot long spears. They forced him out into the ellipse and
quickly surrounded him. The bear was in trouble. I feared the worst.

While I admit to being hot-headed from time to time, I am no fighter. I have never been
trained in any technique of combat or self-defense. Yet, upon seeing that cowardly attack on such
a proud animal, my blood turned molten. I grabbed the nearest sharp object, a metal cutting edge
attached to a thin coil of wire, and bolted for the door. It burst open, however, and I was knocked
from my feet by two massive attackers.

They lunged at me with their spears. One barely missed my ribs as the other scuffed a
table above my head.

Rodrigo immediately pounced into action with a hail of profanities and sharp
instruments. He hurled a wooden table clear across the room. It smashed into pieces against the
far wall.

The tip of a spear nearly lacerated my midriff, but I twisted my body from the strike. As
the huge brute was almost upon me, I kicked out, and my footballer's legs almost folded him
backwards at the knees.

He shrieked and fell in a heap. His limbs poured with sweat.

I scrambled on top of him. With little back swing, I planted my knife in his jugular.
Blood spurted sideways onto the floor. I pressed harder still until he stopped struggling.

The second assailant was locked in a desperate struggle with Rodrigo. But as soon as I
got to my feet, he ripped himself free from that engagement and leapt upon me instead. His death
grip around my neck was titanic. I felt as though my lungs would implode. I had all the chance of
a wish-bone in a vice. If he had chosen to twist then and there, I am quite sure I would have
simply snapped in two.

I gasped, shuddered. The room blurred. I tasted bitter sweat. On the verge of blacking
out, I winced through a powerful jolt from behind. The giant's grip suddenly loosened. I
succeeded in wriggling free.

I suddenly heard a deep cry from outside, and remembered the cruel baiting of Darkly.
Yelling something which made no sense, I raced to his aid, snatching the spear from Rodrigo as I
passed.

A voice followed. "Baz! Wait! Baz!"

Darkly was fending off two attackers. A third lay dead on the floor. The bear's claws had
ripped deeply into the man's chest. Darkly roared and then lunged to bite one of his enemies in
the face. He missed. The man's spear swung dangerously close to the bear's throat. I dove straight
for the second attacker. My spear pierced his side and I managed to drive it upward through his
ribs. In doing so, I tripped and fell sideways. My head whacked against the stone pavement. The
last things I heard were a bear's roar followed by a man's piercing scream.

The buzz of hushed voices woke me from a pleasant sleep. The room was new to me.
Tiny in comparison to Pacal Votan's workshop, it was a great deal more cozy, except for the
rather disagreeable smell of fish. My bed was incredibly soft; it had a similar feel to an expensive
eiderdown ensemble my parents bought when I was little, shortly before they died. The stone
walls were lime green and bare, except for two portraits affixed side by side above a tall wooden
box. The pictures showed a man and a woman. Both were young.

The windows were draped with a maroon fabric, which filled the room with an elegant,
otherworldly hue. Streams of light got by, however, and the brightness told me I would likely
suffer another intense summer day. As I sat up, my head throbbed on one side; the woolen
bandage, though, felt kind, as if maternal hands had applied it.

The most wonderful surprise greeted me as I rose. There, at the foot of the bed, asleep
and snoring quietly, was my faithful champion, Darkly. He appeared none the worse for wear.
The way his nose twitched made me smile, for three feet in front of him was a metal dish half
filled with his favorite meal. No doubt he ate that second course of raw fish over and over again
in his dreams, and rightly so. He deserved it.

By the time Rodrigo arrived with Pacal and Puma, I had more or less recovered from my
dizziness. Puma spoke tersely, and he dispensed with waiting for Rodrigo's translation.
Motioning for me to follow him, he rested his fists on his hips until I obeyed. Pacal and Rodrigo
said nothing. I shared their intimidation, for Puma appeared to have shed all but his most ruthless
characteristics.

Darkly stretched and rose to his feet. He seemed rather unimpressed by the whole affair,
though, and proceeded to put away the remainder of his fish before sauntering outside for a stroll.
Though Puma met him with a fierce glare, the bear simply yawned before scratching behind his
ear.

The heat smothered me as I ventured onto the veranda. The village market was in full
orchestration as we followed Puma, Pacal and four other native men past the statue.

"Royal guards of some kind," Rodrigo whispered. "I'm not supposed to speak until we
reach our destination. It has something to do with a religious oath. But I think I'd better warn you;
we're headed for the Palace of the Kamachej, the King of Apterona himself."

"Thanks for the heads up, then," I replied irritably.

In truth, I was in no mood for kowtowing to any native king. This Kamachej seemed to
have godlike sovereignty over the people of Apterona. Not being a religious man, I have no
patience with those who would foist their religious beliefs on others. I prefer to find my own
answers rather than settling for the dictates of dogma. Yet I must confess, I am in the minority,
even in my own time.

We walked over five miles that first day, out through the northern entrance of the village,
following the easterly course of the dry river, which wound across an expanse of grassland so
unblemished I thought I might have to one day retire to this extinct age.

The isle was far from empty, however. Time and again we passed herds of beasts the
number and like of which it would be difficult for anyone from the late twentieth century to
imagine. Zebras, antelopes, giant alpacas and graceful white deer roamed, grazed upon the hills.
The latter stampeded from our approach with awe-inspiring agility and speed. I wished to observe
the more distant species, but Puma's quick pace never faltered. By the time the tip of the bronze
building I had earlier spied came into view, I felt satisfied that nothing would eclipse the
magnificence of those beasts.

The chill from the dry river bed bit as we crossed. It was then, as we breached the cleft
of two high, breast-like hills, that I beheld the largest manmade structure on Apterona, the Palace
of the Kamachej.

It was a sight to behold. Even Darkly halted in his tracks. Staggering in its dimensions
and ostentation, it engulfed half of my entire vision before I could draw breath. There had been
no hint, no gradual reveal of its size during our approach. Indeed, if I had been out walking my
dog in England's Lake District and had suddenly bumped into the great wall of Troy, the surprise
would not have been greater.

Tiered from foundation to roof in sculpted bronze, gold, and blue stone, its overall shape
resembled that of a Babylonian ziggurat, the only difference being the layers of this were not
uniformly sequential. The lower ones were rounded and ornate. The higher pyramidal segment
was more angular, beginning at about fifty feet above the ground. Openings at various points on
the many tiers suggested a complex system of access inside the structure. The only visible steps
belonged to the main staircase leading from the ground directly into the second, tallest tier,
through a marvelous golden arch. This was the only means of ingress I saw. The palace was an
incredible engineering feat by any comparison.

Puma shouted for Rodrigo and me to hurry along. A concerned look from Pacal,
however, stopped me in my tracks. He pointed behind me. When I glanced round, Darkly had
vanished. With the bear having rarely been more than a few feet from my side for the past two
days, I was unnerved to find him gone!

Vulnerable.

I searched for a dark shape in the distance, fearful that he might have collapsed along the
way. Pacal this time pointed me toward a cluster of trees far to the east. My heart swelled and
then sank as I watched Darkly, my protector, run for the faraway mountains. To this day, I can
but speculate as to why he left. But as Rodrigo said to me later, "The bear, after all, only vanished
as mysteriously as he arrived."

OK, Henry, take a deep breath!

I followed Puma and Pacal anxiously up the blue steps leading to the Palace of the
Kamachej. Not especially steep, they nonetheless rose to a height of thirty or forty feet without a
hand rail.

As we reached the golden archway, the entrance to the second tier, I looked down. Two
pairs of guards stood either side of the flight. I recalled what Rodrigo had said about our enforced
silence ending when we reached our destination, and turned to speak with him. Puma stuck his
spear between us and cupped his hand over his mouth, another rude gesture to quiet us.

Damned arrogant copperhead,
I thought.