Time Hunters and the Spear of Fate, The (23 page)

‘Well,’ Uncle Percy said with a
smile. ‘As you may have guessed, we have spent the last twenty-four hours in
the company of royalty. Young Layla or Nefertiti, does indeed grow up to be
Queen Nefertiti, perhaps the most beautiful, compassionate and beloved Egyptian
queen to have ever lived.’

‘How do you know?’ Becky asked.

‘Well, first of all let’s think
about it. Our first connection to Ancient Egypt was a certain carved wooden
double-decker bus left in the tomb of Tutankhamen. It just so happens that
Queen Nefertiti was Tutankhamen’s stepmother. Apparently, they had a wonderful
relationship and she loved the future boy Pharaoh very much. It doesn’t take a
great leap of faith to assume she may have had a toy carved for her stepson,
particularly when her father was such a notable carpenter, does it?’

‘Okay,’ Joe agreed. ‘I can see that.
But why do you think that Becks has summat to do with, what was it you said –
changing the face of the Ancient World?’

‘I was aware that The Sphinx as we
know it, the one with human features, was fashioned some time during the reign
of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Now Queen Nefertiti was Akhenaten’s favourite wife, and
by all accounts they had a wonderful marriage. He would have done anything for
her. And you know what? I think he did…’

Uncle Percy continued talking as he
tracked the Sphinx’s torso, Becky, Joe and Will trailing close behind.

‘You see, historians have always
assumed the Sphinx’s face was that of a male Pharaoh, perhaps Khafre or
Djedefre - it certainly had a beard - but many have indeed commented that The
Sphinx’s face had a distinctly feminine quality.’ Reaching the Sphinx’s head,
he pointed up. ‘Judge for yourself…’

Becky’s gaze shifted upwards. Her
first thought was that the newly sculpted head, the human one she’d seen a
thousand times before, was a considerable improvement on the chilling cat-like
original. Painted in vivid, realistic colours, it was striking in its grandeur,
its magnificence. However, upon close inspection she received an even greater
surprise.

‘Bloody hell!’ Joe panted. ‘That’s
you, Becks!’

And Becky knew he was right.
Although there had been some attempt to masculinize it, the overall impression
was that it was a woman’s face; furthermore, she recognised her own features
chiselled into the limestone – her forehead, her lips, her nose, her eyes.

‘Yes, Becky,’ Uncle Percy said
softly, walking over to her. ‘It seems you made quite an impression on the
young Nefertiti. Indeed, I believe you are the basis for one of the great
monuments in world history. Perhaps we have solved the true riddle of the
Sphinx, and that is who was the model for its human face.’ His hand curled
tenderly around Becky’s shoulder.

‘It seems, my dear, it was you …’

Chapter 32

Katanga

Becky’s face was like a photograph,
frozen in time, masking the fact her mind was spiralling in all directions. She
stood looking at herself, immortalized forever in solid rock, not knowing what
to say or how to feel. She only snapped from this trance when she heard Joe’s
excitable voice.

‘I am lovin’ the beard, Becks. You
have to grow one.’

Becky frowned at him, but she
couldn’t hide the smile fixed to her face.

‘Seriously, it’d suit you,’ he
continued. ‘Or maybe a goatee?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Or what about one of those big handlebar
moustaches?’ Joe giggled. ‘You’d look like a Hairy Biker. You could grow it for
Movember.’

‘Why don’t you shut your gob until
you’re old enough to have facial fair.’

‘Now, now, you two, enough of that,’
Uncle Percy said. ‘Personally, I think it’s a splendid testament to a true
friendship. Now would you like to find out where I’ve buried the Spear of
Fate?’

‘Yeah,’ Joe said.

Becky nodded.

Within minutes, they had returned to
the time machine.

To Becky’s surprise, Uncle Percy was
rummaging around in the back of the truck. He heaved a large silver box into
the open. ‘I found this little lot in what I assumed was a quartermaster’s
stores.’ He unclasped two front fasteners and opened the lid. Inside were thick
black coats, trousers, fleeces, woollen socks and heavy boots.

‘We’re not going back to the
Himalayas, are we?’ Joe asked, surprised.

‘Not exactly,’ Uncle Percy replied,
passing out the clothes. ‘Now I’ve packed the smallest clothes I could find,
but as you know, most Associates resemble Lowland Gorillas, so you’ll just have
to tolerate any ill-fitting attire.’

‘Why would they have this gear in
Egypt?’ Joe asked.

‘Who knows?’ Uncle Percy replied.
‘I’m just glad they did. When Edgar and I buried the Spear it was summertime.
This time, we’re going in deepest winter.’

‘Why?’ Becky said, throwing on a
fleece to find it fitted her like a tent.  

‘Why? Because it’s Christmas …’

A short while later, Becky was
sitting in the truck feeling like a trussed turkey in a blisteringly hot oven.
Still, as Uncle Percy typed a new destination into the truck’s time-pad, she
stared at the vista ahead and felt a wave of contentment wash over her.
Egypt’s
awesome,
she thought.

‘So where is it we’re going, Uncle
Percy?’ Joe asked eagerly.

‘We’re going to the Island of Katanga,
Joe, about two hundred miles off the Philippine coast.’

‘And why did you bury the Spear
there?’

‘Well, first of all it’s uncharted,’
Uncle Percy replied, ‘even in the twenty first century. It’s uninhabited, by
humans anyway, impossible to get to by any conventional form of transport.’ A
twinkle formed in his eye. ‘And there’s another reason, but I think I’ll keep
that to myself for the time being …’

*

Seconds later, the truck
materialised on a mountain ridge, overlooking a desert island, no more than a
mile in diameter. An icy wind howled all around them and an angry sea crashed
violently against high cliffs, which encircled the island like prison walls.

Becky could see at once why Uncle
Percy had insisted on winter clothing.

It was freezing cold.

The salty air filling her nostrils,
Becky glanced up at the milk-white clouds above, before peering down at a dense
forest that extended to a lake in the island’s centre.

‘Why couldn’t we come in the
summer?’ Joe groaned.

‘Because I want you to see something,’
Uncle Percy replied. ‘And it has to be today. As matter of fact, we need
to
be at that lake in precisely eight minutes.
’ He jumped out of the truck.
‘So chop, chop.’

Becky and Joe
exchanged curious looks.

‘Why?’ Joe asked.
‘What’s happening in eight minutes?’

‘All good things
come to those who wait,’ Uncle Percy replied.

Burying herself
in her coat, Becky followed Uncle Percy, Will, and Joe down the mountainside,
careful not to slip on the damp, frosty ground. Soon, tall trees and thick
undergrowth surrounded them. Uncle Percy wore a serene smile on his face, as he
pushed branches aside, singing ‘Deck the hall with boughs of holly’ under his
breath. It wasn’t long before he came to a halt before a gigantic tree, thick
with age, its branches spiralling in all directions like giant snakes. Swinging
right, he pointed down at a large rock, speckled with moss, which sat atop an
oddly shaped mound of earth.

‘Well, that’s
it,’ Uncle Percy said. ‘That’s where Edgar and I buried the Spear of Fate.’

At this point,
Becky was so cold she didn’t care.

Neither, it
seemed, did Joe. ‘Great,’ he said, teeth chattering. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Not just yet,’
Uncle Percy replied cheerily. ‘This isn’t the only reason we’ve come to Katanga
Island.’ He turned to Becky. ‘As a matter of fact, Becky, Spear or no Spear, I
always had every intention of bringing you here, to this very spot, on this
most special of days. This, Becky, is your Christmas present…’

Becky couldn’t
mask the disappointment in her voice. ‘Oh, err, thanks.’

Uncle Percy
didn’t notice. ‘You see, I’m a great believer that a wonderful life should be
about wonderful experiences. And I wanted to give you what I hoped you would
consider a wonderful experience.’

‘It’s very
nice,’ Becky replied, trying not to sound too deflated. ‘Cheers.’

Uncle Percy gave
a hearty laugh. ‘I know you’re just being polite. But something happens any
moment now that’s only occurred once in the recorded history of this island.
And it just so happens that today is December 25
^th
1981. So it’s
actually Christmas Day.’

Becky was
slightly intrigued now. ‘Okay, what is it?’

At that moment,
she felt something cold land softly on her nose.

‘Ah, right on
cue,’ Uncle Percy said, looking up.

Becky tracked
his gaze to see thick flakes of snow, the size of cupcakes, tumbling from the
clouds above, landing delicately on the leaves like puffs of lace, painting the
trees a gleaming white.

Joe looked
unimpressed. ‘So, let me get this straight,’ he said to Uncle Percy. ‘Your
wonderful experience, and the reason you’ve brought us here, is to watch it
snow?’

‘Not exactly,
Joe.’ Uncle Percy’s voice dropped to a whisper.  He approached a line of
tree ferns that blocked the way ahead. ‘This is the reason I’ve brought you
here.’ Without looking back, he pressed on through the leaves, before
disappearing from sight.

‘If this is your
Chrissie pressie,’ Joe whispered to Becky. ‘I’m really hoping I get gift
vouchers.’

Becky trailed
Will and Joe into the undergrowth, emerging on the other side to see the lake,
snow dissolving on its glassy surface like smoke in the wind. Uncle Percy was
standing there, his right index finger pressed against his lips. ‘Now stay very
quiet and very still,’ he said faintly. ‘And watch…’

Puzzled, Becky
gave a silent nod. Almost immediately, she heard the sound of rustling leaves,
quickly followed by the soft, delicate crunch of footsteps. Then, from all
sides, dozens of animals surfaced from the trees – elegant animals of the
purest white, their majestic horns preceding them like lances, their cloven
hooves finding snow for the first time in small, graceful steps.

‘Unicorns!’
Becky gasped, her heart thumping.

Uncle Percy’s
eyes met hers. ‘Last summer I told you there was an island in the South China
Seas where Unicorns still existed. I was talking about Katanga Island. It seems
Adma wasn’t the last unicorn on earth. In fact, I think she found a mate. And I
think you’re looking at the product of that union – I think you’re looking at
her descendants.’ His voice inflated with pride. ‘These Unicorns are alive
because you rescued Adma, Becky. They exist because of you…’

Becky was
overwhelmed.

Uncle Percy
smiled contentedly. ‘I hope you like your present.’

Becky could
hardly speak. ‘I do…‘ she replied quietly. ‘It’s the best present anyone could
ask for.’

‘I am glad,’
Uncle Percy replied with a smile. ‘And I know it’s a few days early in our
time, but Merry Christmas, Becky.’

Becky smiled
back at him. ‘Merry Christmas, Uncle Percy.’

‘Now perhaps we should
return to Bowen Hall?’ Uncle Percy said. ‘Personally, I would like nothing
better than a foaming bath, a slice of Maria’s Christollen and a goblet of
mulled wine.’

One after
another, Uncle Percy, Will, and finally Joe slowly entered the trees, until
only Becky remained. Taking a last, lingering look at the unicorns playing
joyfully in the deepening snow, she turned and tracked the others. As she made
her way back to the time machine, she mulled over Uncle Percy’s words and
knew at once he was right: a
wonderful life was about wonderful experiences. And she had every intention of
filling hers with the most wonderful experiences she could. But before that,
she knew her first experience on getting home had to be a somewhat ordinary
one: she had to get Uncle Percy some more Christmas presents. After all, he’d
taken her to a remote desert island in the South China Seas, to witness
unicorns enjoying their first snowfall, and all she’d got him was some
aftershave, a toolbox and a pair of glow-in-the-dark socks.

Epilogue

The Time Hunter

In another time, another place, as
far away from happiness as it was possible to be, a man sat shivering against a
damp, stone wall, surveying his tiny cell. There was no bed, no sink, just a
bucket for a toilet, and a small food bowl, empty now of its foul, putrid
contents. There was no light, bar the sliver of sunlight that seeped in
reluctantly through the small, high window above, as if fully aware this was no
place for light to exist. He could hear the moans and cries of fellow inmates
voicing their despair somewhere close by, but he hadn’t seen them.

And, more importantly to his
captors, they hadn’t seen him.

The man inhaled deeply; the foul,
rotten air stung his lungs. Still, he barely noticed it anymore. There was only
so much the human body could take before its senses grew numb, and his body had
been subjected to more than most.

How many cells like this had he
seen: a hundred? A thousand? He’d lost count. After a while, they were all the
same - the sights, the sounds, the smells - they all reeked of the same thing:
Death.

But John Mellor had no intention of
dying, far from it. Although his body had been battered, ravaged, assaulted in
every way known to man, his spirit was strong.

Emerson Drake would not break him.

His eyes met a cockroach crawling
across the floor. In an instant, he had snatched it up and tossed it into his
mouth, swallowing it whole. It didn’t even seem disgusting anymore. On so many
occasions, insects had been his only source of protein. He had to eat them. It
was the cost of survival. And it was a cost he was willing to pay.

He had to survive.

And, on the rare occasion, when
hopelessness consumed him, when he felt like giving up, conceding defeat,
closing his eyes and praying never to breathe again, that’s when the images
would float into his head - wonderful, glorious, life-affirming images of his
daughter, Becky, Joe, his wife, Catherine. Their faces gave him hope in his
darkest moments, they filled his weary lungs with air.

At that moment, the cell door banged
open. A thunderous voice shook the room. ‘To your feet, prisoner!’

Mellor knew the gaoler wasn’t
speaking English, but the transvocalisors he had been forced to wear since his
capture, the one vestige of his former life as a time traveller, translated the
words perfectly.

The gaoler, a short, stocky man with
sunken cheekbones, and black, almond-shaped eyes, shuffled in, quickly followed
by two Associates, one slightly taller than the other, each carrying pistols
which were raised before them.

‘Get up,’ the taller Associate said
coldly. ‘Mister Drake wishes to see you.’

Refusing to display any emotion,
John Mellor climbed slowly to his feet, his long, matted brown beard tumbling
down his emaciated, filth-stained chest.

The gaoler approached him. As he
did, he raised the heavy, silvery grey metal casing, like a severed head, into
the half-light, casting an eerie shadow on the opposite wall.

Mellor’s stomach sank:
The Mask -
his one companion on countless trips in time, from cell to cell, dungeon to
dungeon, hiding his face from the world, ensuring his complete anonymity
wherever and whenever he went.

With a twisted grin, the gaoler
opened the mask’s clasps. He separated its plates, its hinges squeaking faintly
in
the gloom, and encased it around Mellor’s face,
locking it into place; it fit perfectly, like a glove, as it had done so many
times before.

Breathing through a thin rectangular
slit, Mellor straightened his back, refusing to show any hint of frailty to his
captors.

‘You should be grateful, Mellor,’
the taller Associate mocked. ‘Mister Drake has made you famous. You’re a
celebrity…’

And John Mellor couldn’t disagree.
He was famous. Emerson Drake had ensured he would forever have a place in the
history books. He’d become an enigma, a mystery never to be solved. And his
sobriquet had been become legendary, a name that would forever ignite the
imaginations of authors, historians and schoolchildren everywhere.

John Mellor was the Man in the Iron
Mask.