The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  “I don’t blame you,” he soothed. “This hasn’t been what you’d call a fun vacation.”

  She smiled despite herself, as he continued caressing her cheek. She could feel herself sliding effortlessly to sleep. It was almost . . . a miracle: Indy was saving her. She’d never had such a sense of total well-being, unencumbered tranquility. It was as if she were floating placidly down, on the sound of his voice: like a child, lost in an enchantment. She felt wrapped in the safety of his nearness. She felt blissful. Serene.

  Entranced.

  Indiana stood. He joined Blumburtt and Chattar Lal in the hallway outside Willie’s room. The Prime Minister led the way to the verandah.

  First light was breaking over the mountain peaks. Orange rays highlighted the low-lying clouds; the air was crisp, expectant. In the valley below, they could see the cavalry troops readying their horses and trucks.

  Indy breathed deeply the rare spirit of dawn. “I’ve spent my life crawling around in caves and tunnels.” He shook his head, remonstrating himself. “I shouldn’t have let somebody like Willie go in there with me.”

  Blumburtt nodded, as if he’d suspected this all along. “Miss Scott panicked?”

  Indy shrugged. “When she saw the insects, she passed out cold. I carried her back to her room. She was sound asleep when I reentered the tunnel to look around some more.”

  “And as she slept,” suggested Chattar Lal, “she undoubtedly had nightmares.”

  Indy looked at the Prime Minister and nodded, speaking with complete understanding in his voice. “Nightmares, yes.”

  “The poor child,” commiserated Lal.

  Indy went on nodding. “Then she must have jumped awake, not realized she was dreaming, and run out of her room. And you found her.”

  Blumburtt squinted at the sun rising gently over his little corner of the British Empire. “Did you discover anything in that tunnel, Dr. Jones?”

  Indiana stared into the same sun, but it rose over a different quadrant of the universe for him now. “Nothing,” he replied. “Just a dead end. That tunnel’s been deserted for years.”

  From far below them a sergeant-major shouted up that the troops were ready for departure. Blumburtt waved acknowledgment.

  “Well, Mr. Prime Minister,” the Captain assured, “my report will duly note that we found nothing unusual here in Pankot.”

  Chattar Lal bowed with respect for the Crown’s wise decision. “I’m sure that will please the Maharajah, Captain.”

  Blumburtt turned one last time to Indy. “As I said before, Dr. Jones, we’d be happy to escort you to Delhi.”

  Indiana smiled serenely. “Thanks, but I don’t think Willie is ready to travel yet.”

  Dust swirled in the valley as the British army moved out, across the lowest pass. Foot soldiers, horse cavalry, supply trucks. Captain Blumburtt headed the ranks, seated in an open car. Bringing up the rear was a troop of Highland Pipers beating out a stately tattoo on the pipes and drums.

  In a short time they were winding slowly down the other side of the mountain, leaving Pankot Palace to its own.

  Willie half woke to the dirgelike whine of the fading bagpipes. She wasn’t certain if she was dreaming or not; it was such a muted, eerie sound.

  Through the mosquito netting that hung all around the bed, she saw the door to her room open. It was still dim, with the curtain drawn, but she could make out Indiana’s form softly approach. She smiled. He’d come for her at last.

  She shifted her position slightly as he sat down on the edge of the mattress. He remained that way, his back to her, shoulders slumped. Poor man; he must be exhausted.

  She stared through the gauzy netting at the back of his head, his tousled hair. “Indy? Did you talk to them?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So now they believe me,” she filled in the blank.

  “Yes, they believe you,” he echoed.

  His voice registered in a strange monotone. He must be more ragged out than I thought, she thought. My turn to be gentle with him. “Then they’ll send the soldiers down into the temple,” she said aloud.

  He didn’t say anything. She hoped he hadn’t just fallen asleep right there where he was sitting; though if he had, she’d understand. She’d just pull him right down where he belonged. “I was scared to death last night,” she admitted, “when I thought they were going to kill you.”

  “No, they won’t kill me.”

  She laid her hand on his back. It felt moist, through his shirt, through the netting. She smiled, lovingly reproachful. “You know, you’ve been nothing but trouble since I hooked up with you. But I have to admit, I’d miss you if I lost you.”

  Slowly, Indiana started to turn. “You won’t lose me, Willie.”

  She pulled her hand back; her fingers were viscid with blood.

  His face came around until it was staring straight at her. The netting hung between them, a diaphanous veil, but even so, she could see the change in his eyes.

  His eyes, normally so deep, so clear, flecked with coppery gold, crystal-pure—his eyes had undergone some indescribable transformation. Something about them was opaque now. Tarnished. It made her cold. Viscerally ill. She shuddered.

  She had lost him.

  Morning services began in the temple of death. A sea of lurid faces swayed to the droning of the winds in the subterranean cathedral. The sacrificial chant grew slowly, organically, feeding on its own rumble and wail.

  Among the worshippers the young Maharajah sat on a low, raised platform at the edge of the crevasse, staring across the fuming chasm toward the altar of Kali Ma.

  “Jai ma Kali, jai ma Kali . . .”

  Once again, the three Sankara Stones glowed magically at the feet of the demon goddess. Mola Ram materialized out of the swirling smokes that shrouded the altar; he, too, was chanting.

  “Jai ma Kali, jai ma Kali . . .”

  Female acolytes appeared from side chambers, swathed in red tunics. They passed along the row of somber priests, and painted lines on their foreheads, as Mola Ram began addressing the audience in Sanskirt.

  Chattar Lal, dressed in robes, stood beside Indiana, to the left of the altar. An acolyte drew the devotional markings on Lal’s forehead. Indiana stared vacantly into the liquid flames at the bottom of the pit. He was living the Nightmare now.

  Liquid flames at the bottom of the pit scudded across the surface, leapt up twisting, turned into dark birds that fluttered insanely, looking for somewhere to roost. Higher, they flew, flapping against each other and the stone walls, screeching out of the pit . . . and into his head.

  No brainstuff in there now, only a vast, umbrageous cavern: murky, with these large birds flapping. They didn’t seem to be able to land, they just kept beating their wings against the inside of his skull.

  Shadows whispered in this lingering midnight.

  Somewhere, a nocturne dawdled over the lower registers, nearly off-key.

  Somewhere, a candle guttered.

  He moved, without moving: back, in time, in space, an hour, a dungeon, a blood thirst, a blacksong, turning through pitchy tunnels brilliant with death, painlit and tomb-ridden, emerging into Willie’s chamber, spilling from the stony wound. What’s this, hide and seek?

  Willie was there, the sorceress, entwining her tendrils around his back; her fingers were flaming talons gouging his flesh. Oh Indy you got away, she said, tell them what happened they won’t believe me. Her hair was afire, her mouth a treacherous cavity without bottom, her tongue a salamander, her eyes icy mirrors reflecting the face of his own dusky soul.

  He walked her to the bed, her flaming hair spattered his cheek. The birds in his head fluttered wildly, scraping the inner table of skull with their craggy beaks.

  It’s okay you’re all right now.

  They think I’m insane tell them I’m not Indy please help me.

  Her salamander tongue lashed out as she leaned her head down against his body. Her sobs covered the sound of its gnawing: the lizard wa
s taking great bites from his flesh, chewing open his chest.

  He laid her down on the covers, hey I thought you were supposed to be a real trouper Willie, tears streamed down her cheeks, tears of blood, he touched them and they turned to lava, burning through his fingers to the bone, white bone gaping in the somber wind.

  What? she whispered.

  You’ve got to go to sleep now.

  The serpent in her mouth had chewed down to his ribs now, crunching on his breastbone. I want to go home, the serpent was saying.

  Its home was in his chest.

  I don’t blame you this hasn’t been what you’d call a fun vacation. The snake slithered into his chest, curled up, slept there.

  The sorceress slept.

  The birds fluttered.

  He joined Blumburtt and Chattar Lal on the verandah. Blumburtt had no face. The sun broke over the peaks in a bloody mist. Lal spoke, but the words came out of Indy’s mouth, like a gaseous exhalation.

  I’ve spent my life crawling around in caves and tunnels I shouldn’t have let somebody like Willie go in there with me.

  The faceless captain nodded.

  When she saw the insects she passed out cold I carried her back to her room she was sound asleep when I re-entered the tunnel to look around some more.

  The serpent shifted positions in his chest, recurled, settled back into uneasy slumber.

  And as she slept she undoubtedly had nightmares.

  Nightmares. Yes.

  The poor child.

  Two of the lightless birds tangled, brawled, tumbled to the base of his skull, lay there flapping on their backs, wounded, terrified.

  Did you discover anything in that tunnel Dr. Jones?

  Nothing.

  Just a dead end.

  Deserted.

  The deserted hollows in his skull echoed; the echoes of broken feathers, scratching the stone. Empty, obscure. The birds had left.

  But I don’t think Willie is ready to travel yet.

  He returned to her room. She still slept there, the sorceress, curled in her bed.

  In his chest, the serpent stirred.

  The sorceress awoke. He sat beside her. He faced away, that she could not see the shredded tissue of his breast, the ragged hole through which the reptile had crawled to nestle by his heart.

  Indy?

  Yes.

  So now they believe me.

  Yes they believe you. You leave us no doubt. Sorceress with flaming hair you will die before I let you rouse the beast within my chest.

  I thought they were going to kill you.

  No they won’t kill me.

  She drew her talons down his back, tearing skin, calling forth blood.

  You won’t lose me.

  He turned, stared into her mirror eyes, saw himself: man of smoke, laced with horror, oozing blood, trying to still the serpent, listening for echoes in the dusk, waiting for the shattering scream.

  The serpent twisted.

  From the distance came a flapping.

  Indiana continued to stare into the liquid flames at the bottom of the pit as Mola Ram spoke. Chattar Lal translated the High Priest’s speech to Indiana. “Mola Ram is telling the faithful of our victory. He says the British have left the palace, which proves Kali Ma’s new power.”

  Indy nodded hypnotically. “Yes, I understand.” He understood well.

  Mola Ram finished orating. The intonations resumed. The wind howled, the sulfuric fumes billowed and thinned.

  Indiana rocked on his heels, staring up at the divinely inspired idol beside him.

  Beneath the temple, in the dark of the mine, children dug at the earth with bleeding fingers. Fat guards flogged malingerers, or those too sickly to go on, with leather straps. The earth crumbled sometimes; children were buried alive or crushed in the rubble or maimed or suffocated.

  Short Round worked here now. He sweated next to the others, the lost children, clawing at the rocks, seeking the last two Sankara Stones. Chained at the ankles, they toiled, praying to die; doomed.

  Short Round and five others were starting a new tunnel when the finality of the situation began to sink in. The weight of this knowledge—the agony of the remainder of the short life of Short Round—hit him squarely, sat him down in the dirt. What could it all mean? Had he offended some god or ancestor? What would Indy do now? But he couldn’t count on Indy anymore. Indy had drunk the evil potion that had turned him from Dr. Jones to Mr. Hyde. Indy was lost.

  Shorty appealed to the Celestial Ministry of Time, to contract the length of his stay here. He sat on the ground, near tears; picked up a handful of dirt, let it sift through his fingers. “Grounded out,” he whispered.

  He didn’t sit for long. A leather thong flayed his back; only the hot shock of it prevented him from screaming in pain. The guard moved on; Shorty got back to work.

  He and two others strained at a large rock wedged in the wall, blocking the way the tunnel was to go. They pulled, they levered it; finally it gave. It came loose, rolled down a short incline—and Short Round gave an involuntary shout.

  They’d exposed a vein of molten lava. Thick with itself, barely moving, it hissed like a wary cobra.

  The children shouted, pointing until the guard came; then he whipped them brutally for being so stupid and noisy. His eyes reflected the glowing venom of the nearby vein.

  Suddenly the small fissure spurted out a tiny bubble of steam, spewing a fine spray of lava over the guard’s legs.

  He shrieked, fell to the ground, tried to rub the melting ore off his skin. The odor of burning flesh filled the tunnel.

  As the children watched him, a strange thing happened. His face actually relaxed, shed its hardened edges. His eyes, which had so easily reflected the blood-tones in the lava just a moment before, now dimmed with human frailty, and seemed to come alive. To remember.

  He stopped moaning; his eyes came to focus on Short Round. The man looked almost thankful; he seemed on the verge of tears, as if realizing he’d only been having a nightmare and now he was awake.

  He pleaded forgiveness to Short Round—in Hindi, then in English.

  Other guards appeared suddenly They grabbed this fallen comrade, dragged him out of the tunnel. He struggled against them, though, trying to break away. Trying to stay awake.

  He didn’t want to return to the nightmare of Kali.

  Short Round watched with dawning comprehension as the wretched guard was pulled out of sight by his brethren mindslaves. “The fire,” Short Round whispered to himself. “The fire makes him wake up! I can make Dr. Jones—”

  Before he finished articulating his discovery, he lifted a heavy rock. The other children observed him fearfully as he hefted it with defiance, afraid he was going to lob it at the last retreating guard, thereby earning them all more lashes. He didn’t heave it at the guard, though; rather, he smashed the rock down on the leg-chains that bound him to the other kids.

  The ankle-iron was rusty, he figured; it couldn’t withstand all that much battering. None of the guards really expected any of the children to actually try to escape—after all, where could they go? Short Round smiled grimly with his newfound knowledge. Knowledge was power, Dr. Jones had always told him.

  With this power, he would free Dr. Jones.

  Repeatedly he brought the rock down on his rusting shackles as the other children stared nervously.

  Short Round was determined to escape. And unbeknownst to the guards, he had somewhere to go.

  The wind thrummed over the cavernous ceiling, joining the atonal incantations of the multitude gathered in the temple. Mola Ram warbled in counterpoint to the tumultuous chanting. The Maharajah sat upon his dais, weaving, transfixed in the smoke and favor.

  Chattar Lal still stood beside Indiana. “Do you understand what he tells us?” he prodded the neophyte.

  Indiana nodded dully. “Kali Ma protects us. we are her children. We pledge devotion by worshipping her with offerings of flesh and blood.”

  Chattar Lal seemed pl
eased. His student was coming along so quickly.

  A scream prevented his response though—heartrending, terrified, rising out of the fume-clogged shadows.

  Indiana watched emotionlessly as Willie was brought out. She was dressed now in the skirt and halter top of a Rajput maiden, draped with jewels and flowers; held fast by two priests, she wailed, struggling to break free, sweating, crying, swearing, spitting: she knew the fate that awaited.

  Chattar Lal motioned toward her to Indy. “Your friend has seen, and she had heard. Now she will not talk.”

  As she was dragged before the statue of Kali, she saw Indiana. “Indy! Help me! For God’s sake what’s the matter with you!”

  Indy stared at her impassively while her wrists were manacled to the square iron frame that hung from the tireless arms of the fearsome stone goddess.

  The sorceress hissed at him Indy help me for god’s sake what’s the matter with you, but he could only smile at her treachery. Everything was red now, but in negative, so what was dark was light and what was light was dark; but all red. Except the sorceress: she was black.

  Black and buzzing, as if ten thousand hornets comprised her substance. Zzzzzzzzhhhh, she screamed at him,.

  Ssshhh, he thought, you’ll wake the serpent. But Kali was here, now. Kali’s inspiration alone would quiet the buzzing, still the serpent in his chest. Only through pain and torture and sacrifice to Kali Ma would the buzzing cease, would the serpent sleep.

  Indy looked down at his feet. A live boa constrictor slithered over the stone floor, heading for someplace dark. Indy stooped, picked it up, caressed its head: they were spiritbrothers, now. He held the snake to his chest, near its cousin who slept there—held it so Willie could see him with his new family.

  She couldn’t believe what was happening. “Indy,” she begged. “Don’t let them do this to me. Don’t do this.” But he didn’t move a muscle to help her. He just kept petting the damn snake.

  She was going to die.

  She was going to die horribly. Painfully. Alone.

  They had taken hold of him somehow; she could see that clearly enough. But how? He’d always been too arrogant for his own good, but she’d actually found that kind of cute—sometimes, at least. Could arrogance account for this . . . possession? Possessed, that’s how he looked.