by Pat Kelleher
Poilus started to approach the boy, but Hobson raised his arms and stepped towards the child, snarling in the manner of an ogre. The boy took fright and ran off down the slope. "There, that's got 'im."
"You're losing your touch, Sarn't," said Mercy, nodding his head downhill. The boy had stopped someway down and again stood staring at them resentfully before disappearing round a bluff.
After five minutes, Gazette and Atkins were up on pick-axe duty, taking over from Mercy and Half Pint.
"Just imagine it's Ketch's head," said Mercy.
Atkins was glad of something to do. The nervous expectation of being caught by a swarm of gigantic insects was almost interminable. It was much better to keep yourself occupied. As they continued to swing, the picks bit deeper and deeper into the wall. It was some twenty minutes and four feet before Porgy's pick broke through to the other side. Hobson crouched by the opening and beckoned the men closer.
"Right," he said in a low voice, "just like Trench Clearance. You know the routine."
Except this was worse than trench clearance and Atkins knew it. He still had nightmares about the mines. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard and tried to put it to the back of his mind as, one by one, the Black Hand Gang entered the short tunnel. Blood took the lead as ordered, slithering through the hole and disappearing into the darkness. There was a brief, tense moment of silence before he hissed back the all clear. They passed through the extra rifles and grenades, boxes of ammunition and a couple of Lewis guns, before following.
Atkins looked back at the silent urchin, now watching them again, sitting atop a pile of bones. "See you," he said with a wink and joined his pals in the Chatt-ridden gloom beyond.
High above, in the labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, Jeffries, having successfully passed the ritual, had spent the last few hours recovering from the ordeal. Thankfully, they had hauled the snivelling Padre back off to the gaol chamber. He had no idea what the chaplain had experienced but he did hope it wasn't pleasant. As for himself, he only felt mildly disconcerted by his vision. He had no idea how long he had been under the influence of the oil; it could have been a couple of hours or a couple of days.
The Khungarrii saw the Rite as one of submission, of acceptance to the colony, but, on a more personal level, for him it had been one of control, of discipline. His will against theirs. And he had won.
His Great Working had taken months to prepare and years to perfect. Only a handful of people would have understood the significance of what he had done on the Somme, of what he had achieved or, more gallingly, attempted to achieve. Everything he had read, everything he had learned had led him to believe that the Old One would be summoned within the great pentacle laboriously calculated and etched on the battlefield; that the blood of thousands would have summoned him and confined him in a crucible warded by a circle of geographic proportions. When their transportation to this world had occurred in its stead, he'd felt confused and angry. Loath though he was to admit it, there had been several small flaws in his calculations. There was the fact that vital commentaries to the Ritual had been long since lost, and that the ritual itself was an Enochian translation of manuscripts that Voynich, the old antiquarian book dealer, had discovered and got rid of, not knowing what they were but rather fearing he knew what they were.
Had this whole experience been a salutary case of 'be careful what you wish for'? Had his invocation inverted, torn them from Earth only to deposit them in Croatoan's own domain? A case of 'if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain,' as Everson had so innocently suggested? A lesson in humility? If so, then he was suitably humbled, but not by these insects. These Chatts were a step on the road to his personal mountain, so to speak, and he had no compunction about treading on ants to get there.
Napoo's mention of Croatoan, his recent ritual vision, his Great Working; there had to be a connection. Was he brought here as an unforeseen consequence of his working? Were these insects just a means to an end?
"When you are ready, Sirigar has instructed this One to share knowledge about Khungarr society as you asked," said Chandar, watching intently as Jeffries tore hungrily into the loaf of fungus bread. "Then you will deliver your herd."
Jeffries looked up and regarded the old Chatt. That something had passed between Chandar and Sirigar, Jeffries was now quite sure. Now he knew there was a crack in their relationship, all he had to do was apply pressure.
"This One has made its work to study wild Urmen," said Chandar, "and you are unlike any others this one has come across. You have a keen intelligence almost matching the One's own. Your garments are complex and of a quality this One has never smelt, yet the scouts report that you live in your filth, among your own dead. It was these odours that the breath of GarSuleth carried to us spinnings ago, alerting the scentirrii and dhuyumirrii to your presence on Khungarr territory. Sirigar and Rhengar are of conflicting opinions, although each has their views rooted in holy scentures. Even now the Khungarrii Shura debate your presence. Some hold that you should be culled without consideration for your initial resistance but it seems to some that your earth workings and burrows imitate, in a primitive fashion of course, the great tunnels and chambers of the Ones' own colonies. It marks your herd as different. This, and your bargain, is what has what saved you," Chandar said.
"And those Urmen you keep here, are they so different from us?"
"They are Khungarrii."
"Not Urmen then?"
"Khungarrii Urmen. They smell Khungarrii, they belong to Khungarr."
"They are kept here by force?"
"They submit to the will of GarSuleth daily in their decision to wear the mark of Khungarr. It is reapplied, willingly, every day. By doing this they show their obedience and gratitude."
"But surely if these Urmen of yours are as much a part of the colony as you say, what culture do they have left for you to study?"
"It is true their culture is now that of Khungarr. They, too, worship GarSuleth but their ancestors and the wild Urmen, the remnants of their culture, fascinate me. I have been studying them for many spinnings."
"And Sirigar allows your studies?" said Jeffries, probing to see where the cracks between them lay.
"That One tolerates them," Chandar replied. "There are those of us among the dhuyumirrii that have long believed Urmen have a place in our Osmology. Other Ones, Sirigar among them, dispute this, believing that Urmen can have no other purpose but to serve the Ones."
A theological schism, thought Jeffries. That would certainly account for the animosity between Sirigar and Chandar and was certainly something he could exploit. "But you believe differently?"
"Come, let me show you something," said Chandar.
Intrigued, Jeffries followed Chandar back to the temple. He noted again the niches all round the walls. Hieroglyphic script of some form covered each niche. Chatts had their faces to the walls of the niches, their feelers moving dextrously over the surfaces.
"Here dhuyumirrii read and study sacred texts and debate on points of interpretation," explained Chandar.
Jeffries could see now that what he took to be contemplation, praying and bowing, was in fact the action of their antennae over the glyphs. Now he understood. Not only was there information contained within the hieroglyphs themselves, but there were other olfactory layers of meaning contained within chemical scents attached to the text. Layers of nuance, subtlety and context lay impregnated within the glyphs. Chandar led him on through the archway through which Jeffries had been taken previously. It led to the chamber of trench equipment. Along the way they passed through the alchemical chambers he had seen only briefly before. Now Jeffries was able to study it in more detail. Its walls were filled with small niches and recesses. Galleries led off the large room, each one containing bays crowded with stone bottles, pots, urns, beakers and amphora; ceramic vessels of all shapes, sizes and ages.
"This is the receptory of Khungarr, the repository of all our knowledge. The sacred odours store
d here are the thoughts of our prophets and gon dhuyumirrii."
"A library," said Jeffries, nodding in appreciation at the vast accumulation of containers and the knowledge they must represent. Each bottle, each jar, contained what must have been an essence of scripture or holy aromas; bouquets of bibles, prophetic perfumes, olfactory encyclopaedias. There was so much he might learn, but it was like giving a blind man the key to a library.
He was not allowed to dwell on it for long as Chandar ushered him into the next series of interconnecting chambers. They passed through what looked like an apothecary's storehouse, hundreds of niches filled with earthenware bottles, jars, tubes filled with oils, essences, liquids, tinctures, extracts, secretions, resins, saps, powders, pastes, samples of plants, leaves, flowers, barks, bones, skins, fur, shells, all arranged, classified and organised. The smell was overpowering and made Jeffries' nostrils sting and his eyes water. Beyond them, blinking though teary eyes, he could see further chambers where more of the Khungarrii priest caste, the dhuyumirrii, were engaged in their great alchemical endeavours.
"For many generations the dhuyumirrii have been attempting, amongst other things, to distill the true quintessence of our creators' odour of sanctity, the scent of GarSuleth. Some believe certain notes of the Urmen musk may yet be relevant to our studies, but teasing out the lone indivisible base notes is a long and arduous task."
"Why?" asked Jeffries. "Why Urmen? They're not Chatts, I mean; they are not of the Ones. Why should they be relevant?"
"GarSuleth dwells in the Sky World, his web spanning the firmament above us. Ancient incenses tell us in his wisdom he once descended from his web to spin this world, this orb, where his eggs were laid and his children, the Ones, hatched. The Ones, the children of GarSuleth, then spread out across the world and begat the colonies," Chandar picked one of the knotted tassels on the cloth draped over its shoulder and lifted it up, almost nostalgically, its antennae stumps waving feebly. "Although this one can no longer read this odour, this one has committed its scents to memory. It tells how, many generations ago, a sickness infected the line of Queens who now ruled each colony. Eggs laid to be djamirrii -workers- hatched malformed and continue to do so to this spinning. Djamirrii populations were decimated and the Ones struggled to survive. The Ones knew of the Urmen's existence, but treated them as competition for scarce and hard won resources, until some came to believe they were created by GarSuleth for the Ones' own use."
"You used them to replace your own shortage of workers."
"Not without price. There came a dark time. The Urmen then worshipped a different god, the forbidden one."
Jeffries saw his opportunity. "This is all very interesting, but what I require is specific knowledge. Tell me about Croatoan."
Chandar rounded on Jeffries, its mandibles chattering, the vestigial limbs at its abdomen fidgeting.
"That's right," Jeffries said, deliberately relishing the opportunity to say the name again and forming each syllable clearly: "Croatoan."
Chandar glanced around at the alchemist dhuyumirrii. None of them seemed to have heard. "That name is forbidden!"
"Nevertheless, that is my price. You want my cooperation then tell me what you know," said Jeffries firmly. "Or should I shout the name out loud, here, now?"
"No! You must not," said Chandar, rising up on its legs in the threatening manner Jeffries had seen Sirigar use before.
"But your own studies? If you could tell me about your... forbidden one, how much might I be able reciprocate, to advance your own Urman studies with information I have? What is it that Sirigar and its acolytes don't want you to know? You have hinted yourself that passages in your scriptures concerning Urmen are ambiguous at best, maybe excised at worst. What if my information could shed light on them?"
Jeffries held the Chatt's gaze, looking deep into its dark orbs. He had the old fool's measure now. Give this old louse enough rope and it'll hang itself. It was like leaving a trail of sugar for an ant.
"Very well," said Chandar. It shrugged its shoulders and waved its antennae stubs in a way that seemed to indicate agitation. "But not here, I have somewhere we can talk. Come with me."
Chandar led him out through the chamber where they had stored their collection of items pilfered from the entrenchment. The jumble of trench stores and arms were still there, no doubt waiting to have their odours investigated, distilled and broken down. From there the passage became narrower and showed signs of disrepair. It seemed to be a little used part of the colony.
"Where are we?" asked Jeffries, a hint of suspicion in his voice, the reassuring pressure of the pistol barrel pressing against his abdomen.
"Somewhere we will not be overheard," said Chandar as they stopped before a chamber sealed by a fibrous membrane.
"Here are stored many Urman artefacts that I have found, lost in undergrowth or left in caves over many spinnings," said Chandar. "Indications of how Urmen lived before the Ones subsumed them. Maybe in return you can enlighten me as to the nature of some of them."
"Yes, yes," muttered Jeffries dismissively. He had no interest in the old Chatt's collection of archaeology, almost certainly a fusty amateur assortment of broken pottery, arrowheads, flints and bone jewellery with no context and less meaning. No, Croatoan was his only concern now. The need overwhelmed him. He fought the desire to take the Chatt by the shoulders and shake the information out of it there and then, and watched impatiently as it exhaled a mist from its mouthparts, in response to which, the door shrivelled open. Chandar stepped through and beckoned Jeffries to do likewise. Preoccupied, Jeffries stepped into the chamber totally unprepared for what lay inside.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"The Last High Place"
Atkins knelt in the short stretch of tunnel. Before him the stack of equipment he was passing through to the others barred his way. Eager to be inside himself, he gave the last of it, Mercy's mysterious tarpaulin covered thing, a last shove with his heel, and it fell down into the passage with a dull metallic clang.
"For Christ's sake, Only, watch it!" hissed Mercy as Atkins dropped down into the passage after it.
The passage itself was about six feet high, four feet wide and rounded, almost as if it had been burrowed rather than built. A faint draft of air was blowing towards them down its length.
Everson nodded and Sergeant Hobson walked cautiously into the breeze until he disappeared around a gentle curve ahead.
Along the length of the curving passage small recesses were stuffed with some sort of glowing lichen that imparted a dull but diffuse blue-white light.
Mercy crouched down to inspect the damage to his bundle.
"How are we doing, Evans?" asked Everson.
Mercy glanced up at Everson and nodded.
"So what the hell is this mysterious thing we've lugged all the way, sir?" asked Porgy.
With a broad grin and the flair of a showman, Mercy flung back the tarpaulin.
"The Lieutenant thought we'd need a bit of an edge. An' I found one, didn't I, in the remains of that Jerry sap. Isn't it a beauty? Am I good or am I good?"
"Bugger me!" said Gutsy. "It's a flammin' Hun Flammenwerfer."
Mercy grinned and nodded slowly. "Oh yes. After what I saw them Chatts do when they raided our trenches I think a little payback is due, don't you?"
"What is it?" asked Poilus.
"A liquid fire thrower," said Atkins, in awe.
"Bloody hell," said Gazette, in a low voice.
"Them Chatts'll get what's coming to 'em now," Mercy said with a sneer.
"If it works," said Half Pint.
"Tell you what," hissed Mercy, "you look down the barrel and tell me if you see a spark."
"I was just sayin'," said Half Pint.
"Yeah, well don't come looking to me next time you want a light for your Woodie, is all I'm sayin'."
"Quiet!" hissed Everson as Sergeant Hobson returned.
"Tunnel leads to a broader one up ahead. I can hear voices beyond," he reported.
"Right," said Everson. "Poilus, you're sure this scent trick will work?"
"For a while," said the Urman.
"Let's hope so." He nodded to Hobson. "Carry on, Sergeant."
"We're not anticipating trouble going in, so long as this insect stink continues to do its work. Chances are we're going to have to fight our way out though, so save your puff and your ammo. Atkins, you're bayonet man with me. Hopkiss and Blood, bombs. Evans and Nicholls, you take the damned flammenwerfer."
"But Sarn't," Half Pint began.
"It takes two to operate," explained Mercy. "I can't reach the fire lever. You have to do it for me."
"Ketch and Jellicoe, you're on mop-up. Poilus, you stick with them," said Hobson. "Otterthwaite, you take the rear with the Lieutenant. Move out."
As they set off, all encumbered not only by their own equipment but also by the sacks of rifles, grenades, Lewis MGs and ammunition they were carrying for the others, Atkins began to feel the old familiar dread he'd felt in the mines as a guard.
The miners dug tunnels deep underground, far out under the German positions in order to plant high explosives. It was hot, cramped and dirty work, even more so if you didn't like confined spaces with little air. And God forbid you should think of the thousands of tons of earth above, constantly being shelled. Then there were the Germans who would be doing the same. It was a game of cat and mouse hundreds of feet below the peppered surface of No Man's Land. Sat breathless in a listening alcove trying to determine where the Hun was. Too close and you could hear them digging and they could hear you. Occasionally you'd accidentally break through into a German shaft and then, oh God then, the close fighting, the fear of grenades and being buried or cut off from escape by a tunnel collapse.
"You all right, Atkins?"
"What?"
"I said you all right?" asked Hobson as they advanced.
