by Pat Kelleher
“Rhengar, you forget yourself,” said Sirigar. “This Urman can not harm us. Is it not still under my benediction?”
Rhengar backed off.
“I do see your dilemma,” said Jeffries tactfully. “Believe me, I do.”
“Your dilemma too, Urman,” reminded Rhengar.
“You do not worship GarSuleth,” said Sirigar. It was a statement rather than a question.
“No,” said Jeffries, turning from Rhengar. “I worship... another.” He wanted to pursue the subject but Napoo had told him Croatoan was heresy here and now probably wasn’t the right moment. He would have to bide his time. He just hoped he had enough. At best, he had a day to get the information he required. Bloody Everson would see to that. The man was transparent. He’d come charging to the rescue like he was the BEF.
“Take your despicable claws off that, heathen!” said the padre drunkenly. Chandar had attempted to take the Bible from the padre’s hands.
“Chandar!” Sirigar scolded. “You are not here to indulge your inconsequential and heretical studies. You are only here under sufferance, do not test this One.”
Jeffries’ ears pricked up at the word ‘heretical.’ This Chandar, despite its broken appearance, might be more interesting than it at first appeared.
Chandar responded to Sirigar in a rapid rattle of mandibles. Sirigar retorted. They sounded like a pair of angry crows. There was obviously a great difference of opinion being expressed and it was being expressed physically, in a series of stylised movements. Actions seemed to define and punctuate argument and proposition, counter-argument and denial. Like dancing bees, thought Jeffries.
The attention of the other Chatts was momentarily drawn to the sparring pair and, seeing his chance, Jeffries deftly palmed the pistol he had been eyeing on the nearby pile of equipment, thrusting it under his jacket and down the waistband of his trousers.
Chandar sank lower and backed away, obviously losing the exchange to Sirigar, who hissed triumphantly, its mandibles and arms splayed.
Jeffries, however, had come to a decision. There must have been a reason the rest of the battalion had been spared the blood sacrifice that brought him here. Until now, he hadn’t been able to see it. He turned smartly and addressed his captors. “Gentlemen!” he said brightly, with a clap, as if about to suggest a bracing snifter down the club. “You say we have a choice between annihilation and subjugation?”
Rhengar and Sirigar exchanged glances, their antennae twitching.
“It’ll be difficult, but, yes, I believe I can deliver my people,” said Jeffries. “For a price.”
INTERLUDE FOUR
Letter from Private Thomas Atkins
to Flora Mullins
16th November 1916
Dear Flora,
I am well and have acquired a pet now. Gordon is a blessed nuisance, but he ain’t half good at chatting shirts. I thought once the Lt. found out about him I’d have to get rid, but he says Gordon’s fancy for the verminous louse has sent cases of trench fever down, so I guess I’m stuck with him.
Thanks to a local native we met, called Napoo, our diet has improved. After days of bully beef and hard tack we now have fresh fruit, although my hands are raw and my back is aching from picking the stuff. I don’t think I’m cut out for country life. Living in holes and grubbing a living from the land isn’t easy. We need more than this if we are to survive. An estaminet wouldn’t go amiss, for a start, although after an unfortunate incident I’ve sworn off drink for the duration.
We were out picking more fruit when there was a raid on our trenches by some bug-eyed Bosche and some of our chaps were snatched. Lt. Everson gave a speech and whipped the lads’ dander up good and proper. We’re setting out to get them back. The Lt. says they’ve enslaved the local natives, too. It’s disheartening to find that there are tyrants everywhere, but I suppose this is why I volunteered.
These Chatts, as the lads call them, make you feel squeamish just looking at ’em and, after what we had to put up with on the Somme, that’s saying something. Anyway, the Lt says these things may know how we can get home too. That is my dearest wish, next to William returning safe and sound.
Ever yours,
Thomas
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“There’s a Long, Long Trail…”
THE RESCUE PARTY set off several hours after the attack, the patriotic cheers of those left guarding the entrenchment ringing in their ears, the pride singing in their blood as the tank led the column off. Everson had made his point and without having to order them, in all, sixty men had volunteered for the dangerous raid, including 1 Section. Porgy said it was the biggest Black Hand Gang he’d ever seen. Poilus reluctantly agreed to accompany them, despite his fear of the tank, which he believed to be some sort of demon. Even Hepton volunteered, the chance of obtaining more heroic and fantastical footage proving too great to resist. Among those who stayed behind was Tulliver. Until he could repair his machine, he was grounded.
Morale had been high as they set off. Everson knew there was a long hard march ahead of them and estimated the action, with the return trip, might take three days to four days to accomplish. He charged Lieutenant Palmer with fortifying the entrenchments against the possibility of a repeat raid or retaliation.
The Chatts’ trail wasn’t hard to follow. Their passage had crushed and flattened a wide path of tube grass, fronds ripped and chewed in places as if by some great beast. And, despite a constant vigilance against hell hounds or anything else that might skulk out here, the march out of the valley and across the veldt, although steady and relentless, was relatively uneventful, thanks in part to the measured mechanical pace of the ironclad, whose dark, menacing shape and perpetual growl seemed to ward most things away.
Everson remembered the long marches along the Front whenever the battalion moved sectors. Forty miles in a day sometimes wasn’t uncommon with your boots rubbing your feet raw. Now, with the heat and the load they were carrying many of the men were already becoming weary, even as NCOs worried at their heels like agitated terriers chasing motor cars. Everson was aware of it, which was why he had to push them now, so that they could camp for the night and be fresh for the assault the next day.
THAT AFTERNOON, EVERSON stood on the roof of the tank and, through his binoculars, surveyed the dark line of forest ahead. Under him the tank growled impatiently, snorting smoke, as if the trees were a personal challenge and it was preparing to rip them up by the roots, each running up of the engine like the pawing of a bull’s hoof. Everson called down into the square hatch in front of him.
“It looks as though they’ve gone into the forest,” he bellowed above the din of the engine. There was no answer. He stamped loudly on the armoured plating. A sweaty, oily face peered up from below. Everson could only tell who it was by the fact that he was wearing an officer’s cap. A hot damp waft of muggy air, sweat, oil and engine fumes hit him as he squatted down to yell into the vehicle. “All right, Mathers. Take us in.”
The Tank Commander nodded and disappeared again. Everson walked back along the line of the tank and jumped down the back of the ironclad landship. The tank moved off with a jerk, rumbling and clanking, belching out black plumes of smoke from its rooftop exhaust as it followed the trail into the treeline.
THE PLATOON FOLLOWED behind the tank as it grumbled its way through the forest, following the clear trail, every now and again making minor course corrections so that it appeared to be sniffing out a scent, like a bloodhound. The canopy above was so thick that the exhaust fumes billowed back down towards them, creating a gritty grey smog that had the men coughing in fits.
They passed through a grove of pallid trees, whose gnarled and twisted trunks were interspersed with boles and fistulas and down which dripped thick, viscous slime that had the sweet sickly smell of gangrene about it. Small creatures drawn to its scent found themselves trapped in the substance. The whole effect of the grove conspired to produce an atmosphere that sought to absorb sound so that it
fell dead almost the moment it was created.
Gordon started whimpering from inside Atkins’ gas mask bag. Damn thing. He didn’t even know why Lieutenant Everson told him to bring it. “Shut up,” he grumbled at the bag. Gordon didn’t. If anything the intensity of the mewling increased.
4 Section were bringing up the rear. They’d been singing half heartedly to keep their spirits up, however, travelling though the grove the singing grew harder to hear. “Sing up, Carter, I can barely hear you,” called Atkins, the sound of his own voice sounding leaden and curiously clipped. Hearing no answer, he glanced round. 4 Section had vanished.
“Carter?”
Atkins heard something above him. He looked up. A thick, gelatinous string was dropping towards him. Before he could move or scream the warm, wet mucus landed heavily on him and it slithered down over his head and torso, enveloping him. The world about him vanished behind a grey-green film. It was thick and heavy and his struggling bore no fruit. He tried to breathe but the slime was smothering him. He began to panic as he felt the ground disappear from beneath him. Something began drawing him up into the canopy. He thrashed about and kicked his legs but the thick glutinous mass held him firm. His struggle only succeeding in using up what oxygen he had left and his lungs started to burn. He began to lose consciousness. His last thought was of Flora kissing him on the cheek—
Blushing, Flora pushed away from him and, smiling fondly, busied herself brushing lint from his lapels before holding him at arm’s length for inspection. She nodded approvingly. “Come on, walk me back. Mam will be wondering where I’ve got to.” As he walked her home from the Picture House, her arm through his, he felt as if his very heart would burst. He blushed furiously, feeling as if every step he took would thrust him skywards. She didn’t look at him; she kept her eyes straight ahead and kept the small talk polite and parochial. If only she were his. He envied his brother’s good fortune. William. His momentarily buoyant heart sank, weighed down by thoughts of his brother. His cheeks still burned, but with shame at the conflicting feelings that now tugged at his heart—
He felt another tug. Something began pulling at his feet, against the suction of the mucus shroud. Another tug threatened to pull his head off as he was drawn down, inch by inch. The mucus wall in front of him thinned and began to tear. More light. A face drifted into focus against the grey green wall of snot. He felt the suction against him weaken. Muffled voices began to reach his ears. He felt as though he was being ripped in two, the webbing and pack resisting the downward pull. He felt strong arms grab his thighs and hold him tight. The mucus began to slide up over his face until he fell heavily, landing on top of Pot Shot and Gutsy and heaving down great lungfuls of air. He looked up to see the long stringy mucus tendril begin to recede back up into the canopy.
“Oh no you bloody don’t!” He leapt up and grabbed it, wrapping his left arm around it.
“Jesus, Only what the hell are you doing? That streak of snot just tried to kill you,” said Gutsy.
Atkins’ right hand fumbled around in the pouch on his chest as he drew out a Mills bomb. Pulling the pin out with his teeth he thrust his arm shoulder-deep up into the ball of mucus.
“Oh God, you’re not!”
“He bloody is. Run.”
“You’re a bloody lunatic, Only!”
With a satisfied smile he opened his fist, releasing the trigger, pulled his arm out with a schlorp and rolled behind a tree trunk. A snort from somewhere in the canopy above drew the mucus back up into whatever orifice it had oozed from. There was a brief pause followed by an explosion as the hand grenade detonated. A huge shapeless, invertebrate carcass fell down through the branches. It crashed to the floor of the grove with a large, sodden thump, followed by an accompanying rain of wet spatters.
Sergeant Hobson and Lieutenant Everson came running down the line as the platoon took up defensive positions.
“Just what the bloody hell is going on?” demanded Hobson as he found 1 Section crawling from out of their places of shelter, laughing with exhilaration.
“There was something up in the trees, Sarn’t,” said Porgy. “Some kind of snot monster. It had Only, I mean Atkins, sir.”
Everson gently poked the steaming remains of the huge, many tentacled slug-like creature with his foot.
“From above, you said?”
“That’s right sir. Seems to drop a huge string of snot on something then suck it back up, sir,” said Gutsy. “Looks like it got 4 Section an’ all.”
“Hobson, better take a roll call. See who’s missing,” said Everson. He turned to Atkins, seated on the ground as the slime began to dry out and crust his uniform. “You all right, Atkins?”
Atkins cleared his throat and looked up. “Sir.”
“Right, get cleaned up. Hobson, I guess you’d better tell the men to keep their eyes peeled for… what was it?”
“Snot, sir. Great thick sticky strings of snot,” said Gutsy.
“Yes. Well,” he said, as he walked back up the line. “Handkerchiefs at the ready then.”
JEFFRIES WAITED. tHE three Chatts jabbered amongst themselves, their antenna waving and their arms gesticulating. Jeffries found it incredibly frustrating being unable to read their faces. It made them so hard to play.
“What do you mean you can deliver them, man?” asked the padre. “Exactly what I said,” replied Jeffries, not taking his eyes from the trio. “You don’t mean sell them into slavery?”
“You’re not going to get all Moses on me, are you, Padre?” Chandar came over to them. “Do you mean what you say?”
“I always do,” said Jeffries.
“We do not know the meaning of ‘price.’”
Backward savages. No concept of a monetary economy. Jeffries thought for a moment. “I want something in exchange.”
“What?”
“Knowledge. I want Chandar to teach me the Khungarrii ways.” Chandar relayed the request to the others. There was a brief agitated discussion before Chandar returned. “Those Ones do not trust you. Those Ones want a portent, a sign.”
This was becoming too much. He didn’t have the time to play games here, but he could see no way forward other than to acquiesce.
“What kind of sign?”
“An ordeal.”
“Ordeal?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” muttered the padre.
“Those Ones require a ritual of purification,” said Chandar. “It is a spiritual cleansing expected of Urmen when they reach adulthood. A symbolic pupation, a casting off of the old ways, the old life. We need this from you to show that you accept the Khungarrii and the will of GarSuleth.”
“Is that all?”
The padre, on the other hand, seemed to be having some problems with the idea.
“No!” he said, rousing himself from his induced ennui. “I will not renounce my faith. I will not renounce my humanity and bow down before false idols!”
“Excuse me,” said Jeffries, smiling briefly and nodding politely to Chandar before wheeling round on the padre, grabbing his elbow and steering him away from the Khungarrii. “Padre, I won’t tell you again. Negotiations are at a very delicate stage here. This Chatt has… intelligence I need and I’m willing to play along and do whatever they want if it means I get what I want, do you understand?”
“I don’t know what your game is, Lieutenant.”
“And I can’t tell you, Padre. Need to know. Hush-hush and all that.” Jeffries tapped the side of his nose.
“Ah,” said the padre. “I had heard rumours. Military Intelligence, eh?”
“So let’s go along with it, hmm? Think of it as a—a test of faith.”
“Well—”
“Look at me, Padre,” said Jeffries. The padre cast his eyes down. “Rand, look at me. Do you mean to tell me that anything these heathen, soulless creatures could do would shake your faith?”
“Well—”
“Good man,” said Jeffries, before turning back to Chandar. “Very well. We shal
l undertake your ritual. Lay on, McDuff.”
“Chandar will explain to you the ritual,” said Sirigar, before sweeping from the chamber. Turning to chatter something at Chandar, Rhengar left too.
Chandar and the ever-present scentirrii guards escorted them to another part of the temple area. The chamber in which they now found themselves was smaller than any they had so far seen and could have accommodated perhaps only six or seven people. It was bare apart from some sort of small brazier in the centre, like a large clay oil burner, fashioned from the same cinnamon-coloured earth as the rest of the edifice, almost as if it had been moulded from the floor. From above hung a shallow dish that contained the same luminous lichen that provided the light to the rest of the interior. It reminded Jeffries of a Red Indian sweat lodge.
“Sit,” said Chandar.
Jeffries eased himself to the floor, his back against the wall, and made himself as comfortable as he could. The padre sat down across from him, looking apprehensive.
“So what happens now?” Jeffries asked.
“You will begin the Kirijjandat, the cleansing,” explained Chandar. “The ordeal will divest you of the past, help you relinquish old ways and atone for them so you may embrace the will of GarSuleth.” An acolyte, wearing a thin calico-coloured, tassel-less garment draped over its shoulder and wrapped around its segmented abdomen, entered carrying an earthen jar. Chandar scuttled backward as the acolyte proceeded to pour a thick, oily liquid from the jar into the bowl. Jeffries caught a whiff of a heady musk mixed with a light, almost fruity, scent. The acolyte then introduced a lit taper to the oil and it began to burn. It pulled on a cord and the shallow dish, holding the lichen light, was drawn up against the curve of the roof above until it clamped tight to the top of the chamber, extinguishing all light, apart from the burning oil.
