The Sea Below
Page 9
"It's a drum. It's a bally drum, and the stick figures aren't a code; they're the markings of a rhythm."
"Very nice," Danny said. "But it doesn't get us out of this hole."
"Maybe it does," Ed said, then went quiet.
Stefan joined Danny in sitting, back against the impenetrable doorway having a smoke. Elsa lay between them, looking as if she did not have a care in the world. Ed, meanwhile, had prised the drum from the dead man's bony hands and was sitting a few feet to their left, the guttering brand propped up at his side. He had his notebook open on top of the drum and was tapping out a series of beats on the instrument's side that echoed around them like rapid footsteps in the dark.
Danny did not see how this would avail them of anything, and was about to say so when Stefan put a hand on his shoulder.
"Let the boy be," he said. "We all deal with this in our own way. This is his."
"Aye, I suppose so," Danny said, and showed Stefan his cigarette, "and this is mine, although I'd give my left bollock for a drink right about now."
"I would give your left bollock for one too," Stefan said, deadpan.
-Ed-
The other men's laughter echoed long and loud around the chamber but Ed scarcely noticed, lost in a search for the rhythm that would unlock the secret of the marching stick figures. He knew it was there, somewhere in the ranks of sketches in his notebook; what he had to do was find a starting point. He figured that a figure with no limbs or head meant a pause, that one with all present meant seven beats, and he thought he could figure out all points in between that easily enough. But getting the beat right continued to elude him.
Then, as he was on the verge of giving up, his fingers and his sight and the figures on the page all seemed to align. He drummed out eight bars...and the chamber responded by echoing them back to him exactly one beat off the tempo. The more he drummed the louder the echo became, the sound taking on resonance and depth as if there were not one but a whole orchestra of drummers beating out the rhythm. The chamber rang, echo building upon echo until Ed felt a vibration reach him even through the stone floor on which he sat.
He looked up to see Stefan and Danny rise from their position, both of them looking around uncertain as to what was happening.
As for Ed he was lost in the rhythm, his palms slapping the drum, the notebook having fallen unheeded to one side. It was now as if he was following the beat rather than leading it, his drum only one among the many, the room itself taking up the primary role in the ever-rising pounding. He felt it permeate him, through his palms, up his arms, into his chest where his heart seemed to beat in time, lost there in the dance.
It was Elsa's barking that brought him somewhere closer to his senses, although even then he did not lose a beat in the drumming. When he looked over he saw that the great stone doorway against which the others had been sitting was sliding to one side in a series of jerks in time with the pounding rhythm that filled the cavern. The cold breeze quickly became a wind, so fierce that it blew out Ed's brand like a puff of breath extinguishing a match. Ed was surprised to note he could still see the others; thin light came through from beyond the still opening doorway.
Danny's shout reached him above the cacophony of the drumming.
"Get your arse over here, lad, before it shuts on us again."
Ed laid down the drum in order to get to his feet; that seemed to signal the end of something, and the beginning of something else. The great stone doorway began to jerk closed in time with the still echoing beat of now distant drumming. Stefan, Danny and Elsa had already moved to go through to the other side.
The door was closing fast.
Ed broke into a run, made it just in time and had to throw himself through a gap that was only just wide enough to fit through.
The stone slammed closed at his back and the distant echo of the drumbeat finally fell silent.
"That was too close for comfort," Ed said, then realized that neither of the others was paying attention to him. He saw why when he turned from the door and saw where they stood.
A cavern, greater in size even than the one they'd left above them, stretched away as far as they could see, lit from a high roof festooned with the now familiar bioluminescent vegetation. A flock of great bats circled high above. The men stood on a shelf atop a sheer cliff some five hundred feet high.
That wasn't the most remarkable thing.
The cavern floor, stretching away for many miles in every direction, consisted of a great city of black stone, with well marked streets and avenues, terraces and archways, buildings as great as any of the ancient cities of antiquity, temples and marketplaces, fortified walls and terraced gardens.
There was no sign of life anywhere.
THE STORY WILL BE CONTINUED IN
THE CITY BELOW
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Prologue
1926, Mato Grosso, Brazil
One Year After Colonel Percy Fawcett’s Disappearance
The man’s agonised wails echoed through the jungle canopy. Birds and monkeys voiced their displeasure, adding to the cacophony. Colonel Hearst could take it no longer.
“Damn and blast!” he exclaimed.
He drew his Webley and walked over to where Doctor English was tending to the man. The blast of the revolver cut the man’s screaming short, splattering blood, brain matter, and skull fragments all over the tree he had been sitting against. English recoiled from the shot, clutching at his ears.
“Dammit Hearst!”
“He was going to bring the savages down on us! Pack up, quickly. We need to move before the tribe finds us.”
Their search party of twenty had been cut down to three in the past two days. They had been searching for signs of Colonel Fawcett, his young son Jack, and Raleigh Rimmel, but instead had stumbled upon a hostile Amazonian tribe. Although Hearst’s men had fought bravely, the unfamiliar terrain and sheer viciousness of the tribespeople had overwhelmed them.
Hearst, English, and one other soldier had escaped, but the man had been hit by a poison arrow. His hallucinations had started hours afterwards. Hearst considered what he had just done a kindness.
“Where shall we go?” English asked as he hurriedly packed his instruments into his backpack.
The colonel looked around at the thick jungle that surrounded them. “Away from here.”
“Blast it, Hearst, if we keep stumbling around blindly, we are sure to perish in this godforsaken place!”
“If we don’t, then those savages will skin us alive. Take your pick, doctor. I know which I prefer.”
Hearst holstered his revolver and picked up his rifle. He rattled his canteen, distressed at how little water was left in it. Their supplies had all been lost in the attack. He knew that they either had to find a friendly tribe soon or they would succumb to the fate English had mentioned.
Not for the first time, Hearst cursed the day he had decided to take up the search for Fawcett and that blasted Z of his. He had been expecting a knighthood on his return to England, but that seemed highly unlikely. Why would he be knighted for losing an entire contingency of men?
“Shall we bury him?” English asked.
“And be caught trying to dig a hole? No. Say a prayer if you must, but make it quick. We need to move.”
With that, he set off into the jungle, hacking away at the thicket with his machete. English said a quick prayer over the dead man before hurrying after the officer, wishing he was back in England with his wife and daughter.
The two men made their way through the jungle for a solid hour, their progress agonisingly slow. Sweat soaked their clothes and poured off their foreheads. Insects stung and bit at their exposed skin. Vines and branches cut into their flesh. The “Green Hell” was slowly taking its pound of flesh from their bodies.
“Wait, I can go no further,” English said, collapsing onto a huge tree root. “We have seen no
sign of the tribesmen. Perhaps they have given up?”
Hearst started back the way they had come. English had a point. They had not seen or heard any sign of the natives for a while. He had expected one or two of their scouts to have caught up to them by now at least.
“Maybe…”
Hearst shushed him with a wave of his hand. Something was wrong. He unslung his rifle, using it to scan their surroundings. Nothing moved. He squinted up into the canopy and listened. What had once been a jungle full of life now seemed empty.
The air seemed still and stale, so much so that there didn’t even seem to be any insects. Up above, not a leaf stirred, and no monkeys swung. He crouched, examining the ground.
“Doctor, do you feel it?”
“What?”
“The emptiness. Look, there are not even any insects on the ground. No life in the trees. The jungle seems empty, lifeless.”
“Your nerves are getting the better of you, Hearst.”
“Listen!”
English stopped talking and looked around. A deafening silence reigned. The humid, soupy atmosphere that had once been so prevalent now seemed gone, replaced by something heavier and more oppressive.
“What is that?” English said, pointing.
Hearst turned, his eyes searching for what English was talking about. Finally, he saw it. The part of the jungle in front of him seemed somehow wrong, the vines growing over something that wasn’t the right colour. He walked towards it.
“It’s stone!” he exclaimed, using his machete to scrape away the top layer of vines. “Hewn stone!”
He circled the object, eventually finding what looked like a doorway. He hacked at the vines covering it to discover that it was indeed an opening.
“I think this is a dwelling,” Hearst said in awe, peering into the gloomy interior.
“Could it be… Z?”
“I don’t know.”
In the gloomy interior of the stone building, something moved. Hearst first thought it was a trick of the light, but then it happened again. What looked like a shadow was moving within the darkness of the hut. He raised his rifle.
“Who goes there?”
English watched as something grabbed Hearst around the waist and yanked him into the stone structure. The man screamed, letting off one shot before dropping his weapon. His screams continued until a wet tearing sound emanated from within, followed by a series of revolting squelching sounds.
The doctor found himself paralysed with fear as something emerged from the stone hut and turned its gaze towards him. His mind rebelled at the impossible sight before him, even as it lunged forward and ripped his guts out.
1
1947
Swift Manor House, The English Countryside
The sheer beauty of the Swift Manor House, perched atop its grassy incline, never failed to take one’s breath away with its sheer Edwardian splendour. While so many other aristocratic families had fallen on hard times recently, several careful investments had made the Swifts a notable exception, even after the death of Lord Swift in the war.
Stately and grand, the house was the perfect example of the English manor house, and Postman Addison always found himself pausing just as it came into view. It helped that the Swifts had always been the good sort of toffs, in his opinion, as they had looked after their tenants and the surrounding village more than adequately for as long as Addison could remember.
So good were they treated, in fact, that many in the village were able to overlook the gossip surrounding the stolen treasures from India that had supposedly added to the family’s wealth over the years. Not that that sort of gossip was tolerated since the death of Lord Swift had left his wife Amelia a widow. The poor woman had enough to deal with already.
Addison continued to peddle his bicycle up the path towards the house, grateful that it wasn’t raining. In the distance he could hear the sound of a motorcycle revving along and once again cursed those contraptions under his breath.
“Bad enough that the boy wants one and I have to hear about them at home,” he muttered, getting off his bicycle and leaning it against the stone wall of the house. “Now I have to hear them on my rounds.”
He noticed that it was getting closer and looked around, trying to see it. It seemed to be coming from the woods to his left and as he watched, a motorcycle burst out of the trees onto the grass, headed straight for the house.
Addison watched with distaste as the rider, clad all in black, with a helmet and goggles covering their face, hollered at him on their approach. The vehicle covered the distance in no time, the rider bringing it to a stop right next to the grey-haired old postman.
“Ah Addison, what do you have for me today?”
The postman watched in sheer disbelief as the rider removed their goggles and helmet. The old man had been expecting a no-good young boy from the village to be under the headdress, but instead found himself gazing into the lively amber eyes of Lady Amelia Swift herself.
“Addison?” Amelia asked in concern when he did not reply.
“Begging your pardon, milady,” Addison said, snapping to his senses, “but I did not expect you to be on one of those contraptions.”
Amelia laughed. “My dear Addison, you have known me since I was a little girl! There is no need to call me by anything but my name.”
“If we don’t have manners, we don’t have nothing,” Addison said with a smile before rummaging around in his bag. “This came for you.”
Amelia took the parcel and let out a cry of joy upon reading the label. “Oh, thank you! This is exactly what I have been waiting for.”
She embraced the startled postman in a hug before hurrying off into the house with her prize. He watched her go, his cheeks blazing, and shook his head. Some people really did deal with grief differently than others.
Amelia ran straight to her library and ripped the brown wrapping off the parcel to reveal a wooden box. She set it down on the big mahogany table and carefully lifted the lid. Inside were several neatly folded letters. A grin spread across her face.
This was exactly what she had been waiting for. She had spent months sending letters and telegrams to everyone who had known Colonel Percy Fawcett, asking if they would be willing to share his letters with her.
His surviving son had been particularly helpful, offering to send her copies of some of the last communications that the party had been able to send from the jungle. Although he had cautioned her against going looking for his father.
Many have made the same journey and returned wounded and defeated, if at all, was what his last letter had said.
Amelia wasn’t worried. She knew she was onto something. Fawcett had been a hero of hers since she was a child. She had spent many years of her life reading about the man and his exploits. As one of the last great English explorers, his disappearance had signalled the end of an era. It was a mystery that had fascinated her since her father had told her the tales of the man’s adventures at bedtimes.
And now, after years of careful research, Amelia knew she had found the clues she needed to lead her to The Lost City of Z and whatever remained of Colonel Fawcett and his two companions.
She unfolded the letters and skimmed through them, finally coming across the one she was looking for in the third letter – the coordinates of the man’s last reported location. A camp called Dead Horse Camp, located in the Matto Grasso region of Brazil.
Amelia pulled a map out from one of the drawers in the desk, unfolding it on the table. Through a process of elimination, she had pinpointed the regions that exploratory parties hadn’t been able to search, according to reports.
The areas where searchers had reported finding nothing were greyed out in pencil. Amelia found Dead Horse Camp on the map, happy to discover that it wasn’t in any of the pencilled areas.
There was an annotation on the map that read Col. Hearst Party Last Known Location, indicating where Amelia had tracked a rescue expedition to. It too was close to the camp.
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