The Ruins of the Lost World

by C K Burch

  Dust began to lose his patience. “You know, this is a whole hell of a lot to swallow. I can't get you to so much as hold a gun to save our lives back there in the jungle, but here we are, and not only are you a crack shot, but you look like you're a better fighter than I am. So what gives? Who the hell are you, Lady Blythe-Wight?”

  “Who I am,” Jack snarled as she spun around, “is your employer. Anything beyond that is currently none of your bloody business.” She held out one finger, defying him to retort. “You want some resolution to all of this? So do I. And I want to start by rescuing my friend and putting the barrel of this pistol right up in my brother's wretched, traitorous face.” Her words were hot and scathing, lashing out quicker than Dust's whip could ever hope. And while they did little to bruise Dust's ego – or lessen his frustration – they cut deeply in reverse. Jack's chest hitched slightly with each intake of breath, a remarkable lesson in control, as her eyes threatened to spill over with unrealized emotion. They stood there for some time, staring each other down, as Dust awaited anything further from his employer, and when it became apparent that there was little more to speak of on the subject, her posture relaxed as she composed herself.

  Dust gestured beyond them. “You know the way, boss.”

  Jack nodded. Without responding, she spun on her heel lifelessly and strode forward.

  Dust clicked his tongue. This was not quite how he'd hoped her rebellion would ignite.

  ***

  Progressing through the city, the canals began to interlock with each other, and they found themselves taking turns and corners in Z-shaped patterns in order to remain on track. There were, however, platforms for them to use as a means to continue rather than to swim some more, for which Dust was grateful. He'd had quite enough of being in the water for one day, and his clothes had only just begun to dry. In the distance, the sky was changing shades from bright cerulean to burnt orange. Soon he imagined it should fade into a bruised purple, and then into the dark of night. Absent-mindedly, he wondered about how they would find refuge beneath the stars, or what should light their way. A problem to be solved when it came to be.

  As they maneuvered, a revelation began to take shape down the way: a large wall, winking sometimes in the light of the waning day with gold. Beyond this was what Dust surmised to be the inner sanctum of the city. Rising some thirty feet in the air, the wall stretched out and around, for how far he could not tell due to the tall buildings around them, and appeared to have figures and faces constructed into its design. Coming closer they could make out the figures of Rama, of Shiva, and of monkeys decorating the wall. The street converged onto a single entry point, or at least, the only one they could see from here, which was that of a large face – possibly Shiva – its mouth open wide to accept those who enter into the inner city. It was wide enough for the caravan to pass through, and Dust made note of this. They still were traveling faster and could possibly even have made a discovery and had made escape. But the canals did not go beyond the wall, which was curious, unless they somehow traveled below it.

  Jack paused momentarily, shielding her eyes against the sun as she looked up at a figure above the face. “There,” she noted, “Rama delivering the keystone to Hanuman.”

  Dust followed her gaze, and there it was, the event as depicted in the parchment she'd shown him back in Cairo. Not quite as detailed due to the limitations of the stonework, but unmistakably the same characters and event. No doubt important to the founding of the city. But if the Amrita had existed here before the role of caretaker had been passed on to Hanuman, who, then, had erected this wall and crafted these figures to tell it? Had some native Shambhalans remained in the city with the intent of living here? Or, perhaps, had Hanuman and his descents become even more deft than Dust could imagine, and they had been the ones to construct the stonework? Imagining a group of oversized monkeys laying brick and filling the seals with liquid gold was a bit much for his imagination to overcome, but having seen stranger things, he allowed that to meander into the back of his mind for the time being.

  As they approached the mouth, the scent of deep, earthy moss swept into their nostrils and filled them with the sensations of the jungle. Where the outer city had been carefully maintained and cleaned, here, apparently, the inner city would be quite the opposite. More peculiarities. Above, in the distance, a lone spire was twisted with vines and greenery – further evidence to support this.

  Jack took a deep breath. She hesitated.

  Dust reached out and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “You alright?”

  She nodded, and stepped forward through the entrance.

  Heat and humidity assaulted them from every side in stark contrast to the cool openness of the outer city. Dust immediately felt his shirt line with damp, and the sensation of being contained within a pressured dome was not lost on him. He looked up, and understood that while the wall only rose so far, and there was no ceiling to contain the plant life, the jungle here had nearly created its own enclosure. Giant leaves branched outwards from the ground, connected to thick stalks and bark, gently swaying in the mild breeze. Vines reached across buildings over the lane, thick with moss and dripping. Crawling up the walls and buildings like fingers reaching for heaven, more vines curled and coiled in maze-like patterns, presenting the notion that the city itself was alive and breathing, beating like a heart, and here, exposed, were the organs. Dotting the lines of green were a variety of beautiful, tropic flowers of all shapes and color: pitcher-plants in rose, lilies in mauve, dandelions in cerulean. Berries and fruit sprung in impossible manners everywhere, along the vines, bursting from the flowers, a parade of wild plantlife. It was as if a flower shop had been left untamed and to its own devices. Scents of sweetness drifted between the moss now that they were closer, and Dust couldn't help but grin. And then, just as quickly, he frowned; where, he wondered, had been this kind of plant life when they had traversed the jungle? Certainly there had been no time to truly pause or reflect on their surroundings, but this type of horticulture had been strangely absent. And if there had been flowers and vines of this effect, they had been quite different from the display before them. What purpose did this serve?

  From what could be assessed, this was the same architecture as the rest of the city, as the same curious streetpoles were perched in patterns along the street. Stepping carefully so as not to slip or trip over the numerous roots jutting forth from between the gold-inlaid cobblestones, Dust put his mind back on the immediate, and searched the ground also for any evidence of tire marks. None presented themselves. Curious. Perhaps Ryder had yet to come this way into the city; or, more probable, the caravan had gone around the long way, through a different entrance, and were approaching the holy tower by another route. Returning his gaze upwards, Dust felt himself more exposed than they had been outside the wall, and he was aware of his left hand tightly clutching the grip of his bullwhip.

  Jack, it seemed, felt the same way: she held the pistol before her, barrel tilted slightly towards the ground, but her stance was ready, her pose prepared.

  Harsh quiet met them.

  “I don't like this,” Dust whispered. Even that felt too loud to speak.

  Jack nodded in response, choosing to remain as silent as the world around them.

  In the distance, Dust thought he heard the rapid pop-pop-pop of Tommy gun fire. Something under his boot also popped, and he looked down to see some viscous, red bulbs attached to a vine, like cherries. Also could have been that. A veil of tension had descended upon them, and all movements felt like passing through a thick pool of mud, drawing attention no matter how subtle. And if that were truly the case, imagine the impact of Ryder's caravan, crashing, vigorous, a symphony of disruption. If only they could tell where the caravan was, then they could move throughout the remainder of the city however they wished while Ryder drew all of the attention.

  To the left, inside one of the buildings, a deep whirring sound caught Dust's attention. It echoed within the chambe
r, invisible, yet familiar. Curious, Dust turned and peeked inside.

  Wide beds of flowers had sprung up here, in the shade and the darkness, almost as if they preferred to be away from the offensive sunlight. Odd. And yet, not as odd – or as striking – as the size of the honeybee that rested atop the pile of stems and buds in the center of the foyer. As wide and thick as a small dog, the bee shook delicately, limbs moving in a rapid pace to gather pollen and store it, wings a flutter of nearly invisible motion. Dust felt simultaneously too close for the sake of comfort, and yet, not close enough for the sake of investigation. He could see the texture of the hairs on its jet-black abdomen, the fractured compound eyes reflecting a prism, furry antennae, and – oh, of course, but the stinger on the rear seemed to catch what little illumination came through the broken ceiling, winking as if to say, Be careful, explorer, or this will find you with woeful precision. Against his better judgment, Dust found himself frozen. He could not move, nor could he find rational thought. Up until this moment in time, he couldn't recall much interaction with bees of any sort, only in other flying insects, and here, now, he came to the conclusion that he was very much irrationally afraid of bees, especially prehistoric ones.

  Jack was beside him. How long she had been there, he could not tell, nor did he care much to continue standing where he was. He reached out blindly and gripped her arm.

  If she noticed his fear, she did not let on. Her gaze was on the bee and nothing else.

  “I was right,” she whispered. Her free hand went to her mouth in a combination of awe and relief. “I was right. No one would believe me, and yet here it is. God, it's so beautiful. It's beautiful, isn't it?”

  “Mhmm.” Dust was having a very difficult time maintaining his position. “Maybe we should back out and go away.”

  “That's why this part of the city is the way it is,” she continued, lost in discovery. “The, the bees, they gather the pollen, they make honey with it, and gather it at the center of the city. If the outer city is clean, the bees won't go too far outside the bounds of the hive, and even if they do, the inner city is – ”

  The bee's wings fluttered rapidly and it began to hover. The rumbling buzz of the flight sent a sick wave of shivers up and down Dust's body, and he could no longer stand it. He quickly backed away from the entrance and held himself against the closest wall, fighting the urge to run like hell.

  “Are you alright?” Jack looked him up and down, concern over her features.

  He shook his head. Sweat lined his entire body, his back became a steel rod. Chills swam over him except for his face, which was warm with blush. An attempt to speak resulted in a brief click; his mouth was too dry.

  Jack caught on. “Are you afraid of...bees?”

  No response felt good enough. He couldn't even nod his head in agreement. All he could do was stare, eyesight locked on the monster before him, its quivering wings and spindly legs. Any moment now and it would take flight, and possibly come for him. He became aware of his fingernails digging into his palms.

  “We may – ” She cut herself off. A thought swept over her and disappeared, replaced by something possibly more diplomatic. Her hand went to his face and pressed gently on his cheek, soothing and cool. “You're alright. You've seen us through thus far. You even kept a tyrannosaurus at bay. You're going to be alright.”

  As she said this, the honeybee quickly zoomed past them on its way back from whence it had come, and Dust's entire body jerked in a fight-or-flight response. The yellow blur disappeared quickly, and he cursed himself in embarrassment. It was just an insect. A giant, terrifying, possibly murderous insect, but one more interested in honey and pollen and providing immortality than it was in eating or attacking his very delicious body. Cold waves of adrenaline and relief washed over him as he began to calm down, now more aware of his own predicament than any fear he might have.

  “Sweet mother.” He sighed, blushing again. “That was...I'm sorry, that was embarrassing.”

  “You don't have to be sorry,” she replied calmly, gently massaging his arms.

  “I'm sorry, really, I've never had that happen before, I usually – ”

  “Stop.” Both hands grasped his shoulders gently. “You're fine. It's gone. That's all that matters.”

  He nodded, and took a few deep breaths. Okay. Time would pass, the feeling would pass, and they would find more bees before the day was done, no doubt. He could deal with that then. He could be prepared for that then. One more deep breath filled his chest and he let it out slowly, chuckling on the exhale, suddenly very aware of the humor of the situation: the great treasure hunter and pilot, frightened to death of a bee. At least Jack was joining in the laughter, and soon the two of them were almost cackling from the sweet relief of it all.

  Above him, motion caught his attention.

  A flash of fur and bright colors moved in a blur and disappeared into a window of the second floor of his building. Another blur, this one slow enough for him to make out a large frame of muscles, clambered into the building across the way, also onto the second floor.

  Dust froze. A more familiar type of cold filled his body.

  Jack saw his face. “What is it?”

  He put a finger to his lips, indicating caution. Then, slowly, he stepped out into the street, his eyes flicking back and forth between the windows of the building that the strangers had entered. Somewhere, they had to be watching, waiting, perhaps investigating these two intruders that had dared to enter the inner city. Dust bit his lip slightly, waiting for more movement. He was still too shaky, too fluttery after his experience, and he knew he needed to steel his nerves, but everything seemed to be leaping out at him. Every tiniest detail of movement caught his peripheral vision: shaking fronds, shimmering vines, everything demanding the attention of his frightened mind, but he forced his focus to ignore it. Somewhere there was something real and present, and he needed to –

  On his left, he heard a brief slap of skin upon stone, followed by heavy breathing.

  Slowly, so as not to incite an attack, Dust turned around and caught his breath.

  Primates were the wrong word for these demons, although Dust understood why Ryder's men had thought them such. Slender tails emerged from their posteriors, wild fur in varied shades of orange covered most of their bodies, large ears stuck out from the sides of their skulls, but this ended the comparison to monkeys. Crazed, manic eyes the size of apples stared at him, red-rimmed and yellow, too large for comfort. Below the eyes was a small nose and a large, wide jaw, stern and discomforting. Heavy teeth emerged from a massive mouth, two canines in particular curving up from the lower rows. In this, Dust was reminded of the illustration Jack had shown him in Cairo, of Hanuman, and so many connections fell into place. The demons were shaped like inverted triangles, with wide shoulders angling towards a slim waistline and sinewy legs. Hairless chests revealed their powerful strength, but the guardians wore clothes over their bodies, quite similar to ancient Hindu traditions. Pancha leggings were tied off at their hips – two of them wore bright blue, while the one in front was dressed in red. Sashes were tied across their chests, and beaded necklaces draped from their necks. Amber-colored bracelets and anklets were clasped tight in the appropriate places. Over their foreheads were golden headbands, not simply for decoration. Dust could see that there was clearly wear on the bands, and had probably been used for headbutting. Each of the guardians held a mace in their hands – large, intimidating, golden maces, with serrated edges around the club. One of them stepped forward, walking on hind legs, posture straight, bizarrely and intimidatingly upright. Dust fought an instinct to draw his whip in defense; three to one odds were that he would not get far with that tactic.

  “Dust,” Jack spoke quietly.

  Dust held out his hand for her to remain still. Any motion at this point would possibly bring an attack right down upon them.

  One of the two lesser demons snarled and attempted to charge at Dust, but the leader quickly made a fist and held it
up in the universal command to stop.

  “Ma cha-tu,” the leader said definitively.

  Dust's jaw dropped. Language. That was no animal sound, but syllabic language.

  Confirming this, the lesser demon growled in defiance: “Karaacha! Kis pas no iffer!”

  The second lesser demon held out its hand to reprimand its peer. “Ma cha-TU, es Karaang.”

  The leader whirled around and pointed. “Fa! Quiren es sa pla?”

  Hesitantly, possibly even ashamedly, the first lesser bowed its head and stepped backwards. A note of contrition filled its voice: “Sefer, Karaang.”

  “Karaang,” Dust muttered, feeling the way the hidden language felt on his tongue. Karaang. The name of the leader?

  Hearing this, the lead demon spun around and stared at Dust in astonishment. It stepped forward, and impossibly raised itself even higher as it stood at its full height. Eight, possibly nine feet tall. Impossible. Dust held his position, refusing to give the demon any indication that he was, in fact, very intimidated. The beast snarled, and continued forward with elongated, measured steps. Yes, quite possibly the name of the leader, or a title, one probably meant to be used by subordinates in reverence and respect. Dust wondered if he'd just stepped in it by saying this aloud.

  He carefully looked around. Above them, he managed to count at least a half-dozen of the guardians leaning from various windows, taking in the sight and forming an audience. Surrounded, Dust chewed his lower lip in thought. If there were this many here – not a lot by half, but enough to be worried over – then there was quite obviously more out there somewhere else, perhaps tailing the caravan, keeping a good distance away from their Tommy guns. But here were two stragglers who appeared unarmed and weak, and so could be toyed with. Dust hated being toyed with.

  Only the lead guardian – Karaang – approached him. The other two behind stayed behind, in the shadows.

  “Hanuman's descendants,” Jack whispered. “If we can communicate with them, I believe – ”