The Himalayan Codex

by Bill Schutt

  Textbook example of cryptic coloration, Mac thought, although he reasoned that the first trait he’d noticed might not make it into high school zoology texts.

  As for total body size, in spite of the low oxygen levels, these guys had managed to pack on a great deal of high-metabolism beef. With muscular bodies of between seven and a half and eight feet in length, they made boxer Primo Carnera look like a toddler. Having had time to look them over, Mac now estimated that they’d weigh in at around six hundred pounds—or twice the weight of the six-foot-six-inch former heavyweight champion known to fans and foes alike as the Ambling Alp.

  Of far more immediate concern were the creatures’ oversize canine teeth, which reminded him more of a baboon’s dentition than anything that might be considered human. MacCready also noticed that the tops of their heads came to a low front-to-back ridge. “Sagittal crest,” he mumbled, knowing that the increase in bony surface area meant more room to attach a set of massive temporalis muscles—all of which translated into some serious jaw strength.

  Although the mystery about what, exactly, had gnawed on the mammoth rib had been solved, Mac hoped to leave unresolved any questions about just how painful their bite could be.

  After marching approximately three hours from the crash site, and to the point of exhaustion, MacCready realized that they were approaching what appeared to be a natural wall. It completely dead-ended what had, up till now, been a rugged path. Of course there were no handholds or, for that matter, anything that might give purchase to anyone insane enough to attempt climbing it. Mac guessed that any traveler taking this route would have determined the trail to have become impassable and, unless they possessed either a Buck Rogers rocket pack or sophisticated mountain climbing gear, been forced to turn back.

  The Morlocks, though, continued herding the humans forward, until they came within several arm lengths of the roughly ten-story-tall barrier of rock.

  “Now where, pally?” Mac said under his breath. He looked over at Yanni, who shrugged her shoulders but remained silent.

  “Looks like somebody forgot the map,” Jerry said.

  Mac suddenly felt himself being grabbed around the waist while almost simultaneously being swept off his feet. With an ease that circumvented all thoughts of escape, he found himself literally tucked under a hairy armpit, his body held roughly parallel to the ground. From this strange though not entirely uncomfortable vantage point, Mac glanced around as the giant effortlessly scaled the rock wall, paying no heed to the 180-pound load it was now carrying.

  The creatures carrying Yanni and Jerry in an identical manner followed up the rock face in rapid order until they had deposited their cargo atop the wall, where the path resumed, in a new direction. Glancing back over the edge, Mac could see the fourth climber literally running up the side of the sheer edifice.

  “You see the dogs on these things?” Mac asked Yanni. He’d noted earlier that the Morlocks were equipped with huge, broad-soled feet and strange toes with rounded tips, the largest of which faced inward (“great toe offset from digits II-V and directed medially!”).

  “Like a house gecko,” Yanni said, sounding excited at the sight of the creature, though clearly struggling for air.

  “You got it, Yanni,” Mac added. “I wonder if they’ve got the same type of friction pads on their fingers and toes?”

  “I’ll bet,” she countered. “More gecko mimicry.”

  “And can you imagine the lung capacity—”

  Jerry cleared his throat. “Um, excuse me folks,” he wheezed, pausing until they both turned to him. He caught his breath. “If you could possibly take a break from all this swell science talk, I’ve got about a million fucking questions—most of them dealing with us not getting killed.”

  Mac gave him the calm-down sign. “If they wanted us dead, Jerry, don’t you think we’d be dead by now?”

  Jerry thought about it for about a half second. “Yeah, and some cats will play with a mouse for hours before they finally decide to kill it.”

  “Well, they’re definitely not feline, Jerry, but I do think they’re as curious about us as we are about them.”

  Jerry frowned. “I suppose.”

  “Unless they plan on eating us,” Yanni chimed in, a bit too cheerily.

  Mac shot her a disapproving look. Not quite the support I was looking for, kiddo.

  “Or . . . there’s that,” Mac offered, sheepishly.

  “This is just great,” Jerry responded, shaking his head and looking even more dejected—if that were possible.

  Mac took the opportunity to shoot Yanni a quick give the guy a break expression, and she returned it with a shrug of her shoulders. He knew she had initially voiced the opinion that Jerry was too young for this mission, but in that regard she wasn’t alone. Back home, Mac had explained that although Jerry always looked a bit wet behind the ears, he had in fact mastered six languages by age twelve and graduated from Columbia at nineteen. But it wasn’t all academics, and baby face or not, Jerry had saved Mac’s life in the Pacific, and could therefore be counted on whenever the chips were down.

  “Look,” Mac said to his young friend, trying to sound confident, “we just play this by ear, right? There’s no other option. I think they built this wall and now we’re going to find out what’s on this side of it.” He looked Jerry in the eye. “You good?”

  Jerry nodded.

  “Well all right. Just don’t look too threatening, huh?” Mac said, nudging his friend with a gentle elbow to the ribs.

  Jerry managed to flash his trademark you-can-depend-on-me smile. “Got it.”

  “They eat the threatening ones,” Yanni added, just before they each received another prod from behind.

  South Tibet

  May, a.d. 67

  All told, Pliny counted just one other, besides himself and Severus, who had survived the massacre—for only a liar would have described it as anything else. The entire encounter could not have lasted more than the count of ten. Early in that count, a young Nubian cavalryman named Proculus had stumbled backward upon his own sword. In retrospect, the accident and an uncharacteristic fault in craftsmanship had saved his life—the sword tip breaking off as it struck his femur, and the blade itself cracking in two. The Cerae evidently considered the weapon to be useless, thus sparing Proculus a speedy trip to Hades.

  “I’ll be a Poseidon-cursed Cretan!” cried the wounded Roman. He was always one of the more profane members of the expedition but now he was lisping through a space where three front teeth were missing. Back home, before he became an adventure seeker, Proculus had been a much-sought-after architect, as stoic in striking deals with government officials as he was at hiding the pain of sucking in cold air over freshly broken teeth.

  The three survivors and their captors were on the move now, setting out on a forced march toward whatever short and sorry future might await them. Trudging single file down a rocky path away from the carnage, each was shadowed by his own grotesque escort.

  Pliny also noted that Proculus made a perfectly admirable display of hiding his limp, though muscle and even bone must have been pierced. The great blood vessels had remained unsevered, since the man had entirely stanched the blood flow by applying pressure to a well-placed rag.

  “Why have they spared us, sir?” the wounded man asked.

  “I think . . . because we lost our weapons,” Pliny answered, between gasps of thin air.

  “Perhaps,” Severus said. “But I think you should both save your energy by not speaking.”

  A sharp prod to the centurion’s back not only ended the conversation but reminded the Romans that there was no way to tell whether the vanquished were being marched toward their own executions.

  Pliny concluded that any questions their captors might have about Roman fighting capabilities had already been settled. Now, it seemed, only pain thresholds were being explored with each successive prod—the latest, a thwack across his centurion’s shoulder blades, had come from the flat side of a
confiscated sword. Ahead, cradled in his well-muscled arms, a short-legged but disconcertingly stocky Ceran carried the remainder of the Roman weapons, and Pliny marveled that the creature exerted little if any extra effort.

  “Who are these animals?” Pliny asked breathlessly. His companions, though, remained silent, as fresh waves of snow streamed in and broke upon them in stinging, blinding gusts.

  After an especially strong blast of wind, Proculus began to stumble, teetering perilously close to the edge of a bone-shattering drop-off. A flash of movement followed but instead of falling, the soldier was dangling by an arm over the precipice, held aloft by his Ceran escort who, seemingly without effort, placed Proculus back on his feet and along the path.

  During the episode, which had taken all of five seconds, the wounded Roman gasped but did not cry out, even though Pliny thought the “rescue” must have nearly disarticulated the man’s arm at the shoulder. Instead Proculus brushed himself off in an exaggerated manner and threw the creature a nod. The only response from the Ceran was a gesture that could be interpreted as nothing other than Keep moving.

  Proculus straightened his spine, obeyed the gesture, and gave an audacious nod that boasted, to his Roman onlookers, Notice the restraint I have shown in not hurling this monkey over the edge. “As you know,” Proculus called back to his commanders, “for all warriors there are but two kinds of prisoners: assets and liabilities.”

  Severus shook his head. Despite the worsening conditions and their recent and unimaginable losses, he seemed truly amused by the man’s audacity. “And which one are you?”

  But the soldier’s answer, if there was one, went unheard as the wind continued to roar and gale-animated blasts of snow whipped around them like maddened wasps.

  July 9, 1946

  The first thing R. J. MacCready noticed about the plants that ringed the walls and ceiling of the cave entrance was that they were stark white. The second was that they possessed teeth.

  The Morlocks had deposited the trio of humans outside the fifteen-foot-wide opening and were currently huddled up nearby, deeply involved in what appeared to be a whistle-driven, hairy-arm-waving conversation.

  “They almost look like snakes,” Jerry said, pointing to the top of the opening.

  “Yeah, but I think they’re vines,” Mac responded, squinting up at the impossibly weird life-forms.

  “I don’t know, Mac,” the younger man went on, clearly unconvinced. “You ever been inside a bat cave?”

  Mac and Yanni exchanged looks.

  “I think I’ve got that one covered,” the zoologist replied.

  “Well, I was outside this cave in Puerto Rico once, and at dusk the boa constrictors would come out and hang down from the cave opening.” He gestured upward. “Kinda like that—to snatch at the bats that flew out.”

  “Do they have bats in Tibet?” Yanni asked.

  “Yeah, but nothing like the diversity you had in Brazil,” Mac said.

  “No vampire bats, though. Right?” Yanni asked.

  “That we know of,” Mac answered.

  At that point the conversation died and the trio stood silently, peering into the cavern—which seemed to drop off a few feet just inside the entrance.

  Moments later the finger prodders were back, and, having assumed their positions, they directed their captives in single file into the mountain itself.

  Mac, who was the first one in line, paused for just a moment to get a closer look at the snake-headed vines—and as he did, something white and sparrow-sized streaked out of the cave, causing one of the plants hanging from the peak of the opening to snap closed.

  “I think the breeze from that bird or whatever it was triggered those jaws,” Mac commented.

  Yanni squinted up at the vines as she passed beneath them. “Like the modified leaves of a Venus flytrap.”

  “Yeah, only this one seems to be lined with silica teeth.”

  “Interesting,” Yanni responded. “Now, what was that you were telling Hendry about there being no perfectly adapted species in nature?”

  Mac pondered the question silently as he entered the cave. “If it was a perfect adaptation, it would have caught that bird, right?”

  “Well anyway,” Yanni added, “do not buy one of those for my apartment.”

  Although a part of Mac’s mind was still considering Yanni’s comments about adaptation, another part concluded that the idea of having a few of these plants delivered to some of the bachelors living near her apartment made for some interesting visuals. Before his daydream could get too interesting, though, Mac received another finger poke in the back.

  Had he and Yanni been allowed to stick around for another thirty seconds, they would have been even more puzzled by some very un-flytrap-like behavior, as the snake vine’s “mouth” snapped back open. Elsewhere in the world, the Venus flytrap reset was a far more gradual process that could take up to two days.

  Once inside the cave, the walls converged rather abruptly and the trio was soon being herded through a narrow passageway, roughly twenty feet high and less than half as wide. The straight sections led to a series of hairpin turns—and so the effect was one of continuous and gradual descent. They really are subterraneans, Mac told himself. Suddenly his funny nickname for them—Morlocks—seemed more apt than he had guessed, and his arms broke out in a chill of gooseflesh. Surprisingly, and to Mac’s relief, instead of a nightmare march through a pitch-black maze, they soon discovered that there would be no need for torches or headlamps. The cave walls themselves were lit by what seemed to be a great multitude of bioluminescent microorganisms.

  Bacteria and algae mostly, Mac guessed, each giving off its own spectrum of light. Remarkably, some of the colonies appeared to be blinking at different frequencies, while others were simply “on.” He made a mental note that while blues and greens were predominant, there was definitely some red light as well. Mac knew that many nocturnal and cave species, including a certain population of vampire bats formerly thought to be extinct, had been blind to the red light emitted by specially designed lanterns. But here at least some of the subterraneans seem to have evolved beyond that red insensitivity. Mac waited for Yanni’s comment on the phenomenon but for now, at least, she was silent.

  A stone arch under which they passed drove home the message that the world into which they were descending could be as strangely beautiful as it was dangerous. Along the arch’s horizontal underside, hundreds of thumb-sized “glowworms” had draped an array of sticky silk feeding lines—each one baited with luminous beads that glistened like wet pearls on a string. The pearls were actually a gluey secretion and one of the lines was already being reeled in, having ensnared a chillingly vocal species of cave moth.

  Another new species, Mac thought. Triphosa thorni—Bob would appreciate that one.

  As if to emphasize the diversity of the cave environment, almost directly underfoot another previously unknown animal let out a squeak. MacCready, who reacted with a start, knew that this species was decidedly mammalian. About the size of a large white rat, it had nearly run across his boots before disappearing into the shadows. As their downward trek continued, Mac saw more vague shapes, scurrying in and out of the bioluminescence—but these, too, vanished into hiding places just before he could attempt to identify them.

  I’d pay a million bucks to be able to stick around and study this ecology, Mac thought, before flashing back to his last caving experience—an outing that included voluntarily burying himself in a three-foot layer of living bat guano.

  Well, maybe half a million.

  But while R. J. MacCready focused on what was clearly a remarkable and unique troglodytic ecosystem, Yanni, as expected, was far more fascinated by the complex pattern of whistles and grunts that the Morlocks were exchanging with each other. More than once Mac looked back in response to a strange warble of notes only to find that it was Yanni who had made it.

  None of the giants seemed to pay much attention to her linguistic exercises but at
a brief rest stop beside a pool of what turned out to be deliciously cold water, one of the creatures did something remarkable.

  After allowing the three captives to drink their fill, the alpha Morlock (a designation stemming from the fact that it did more whistling and no pulling of guard duty) ambled over and squatted down at the water’s edge. Mac noted that its fur looked very different than when they were outside the cave—having darkened now to match the stony background. He currently suspected that, like polar bears, their hairs weren’t really white. Instead they were likely pigment-free—transparent and probably hollow, thus providing them with the ability to scatter and reflect visible light. It would also explain, to one degree or another, how the Morlocks had taken camouflage to new levels of complexity and effectiveness.

  This particular individual, who like the others gave off a strong musky body odor, was not looking for a drink. Instead it dipped its hand into the shallow water and appeared to fish around for a few seconds, as if gathering something. Once the lead Morlock withdrew his arm, Mac could see that its forefinger was now covered in a dense mat of cottony material.

  Was it algae? MacCready wondered. Probably, but it certainly isn’t getting its energy from sunlight.

  Unconcerned about such questions, “Alpha” glanced over at Yanni before slurping the mess off its finger. Then it directed a short series of whistled notes at her.

  Yanni hesitated for a moment, apparently not wanting to interrupt the big guy’s meal. Then she shook her head and emitted a single, whistled note of her own. The creature responded with something that was clearly an expression of exasperation—which Mac thought was actually a distinct improvement over the aggressive, bared-canines look they’d generally been sporting up till now. The giant followed up by thrusting its hand back into the water and withdrawing a baseball-sized handful of the white glop. This time, though, instead of eating it, the big guy flipped the material through the air, the flight path ending with a splatter against Jerry’s chest. The man’s fear of the creatures had abated not at all since their initial encounter, but now he forced a phony-looking smile. The others, Morlock and non-Morlock, watched as the sticky mass plopped down onto his lap.