John Carter

by Stuart Moore

  “John?”

  Dejah walked up behind him, wrapping her silk-covered arms around him. She felt warm, comforting.

  “Homesick for the Thark nursery?”

  He smiled. “I’m sorry. I just had that feeling you get, suddenly…that you’ve left a light burning. Or a door open, maybe.”

  She cocked her head at him, questioningly.

  “Go back to bed.” He stroked her cheek. “I won’t be long.”

  She took his hand and kissed it. “Don’t be, John Carter of Earth.”

  After she was gone, he left the chamber, strolling up several flights of stairs. Up here, a small terrace overlooked the vast chasm dividing the two halves of Helium. Woola scampered up to join him, yelping, startling the lone guard at his post.

  Carter stared up into the night sky. A blue-green star caught his eye: Earth. He reached into his boot and pulled out the medallion. Six simple words could transport him all the way across that distance…

  “John Carter of Earth,” he whispered.

  With all his strength, he hurled the medallion out over the terrace. Woola barreled to the balcony’s edge to fetch it, then stopped, staring down into the blackness of the chasm. He turned and grunted at Carter.

  “You’re right.” Carter rubbed the animal’s muzzle. “John Carter of Mars sounds much better.”

  When they returned to the bottom of the stairs, the guard bowed low, dropping to one knee.

  “Sire, I must express the deepest of gratitude. You saved all Helium—”

  “Please.” Carter held up a hand. “The honor’s mine.”

  He bent down, helped the guard to rise—and Woola growled.

  “Fair enough, Earthman.”

  The guard gripped Carter’s hand tight. Too late, Carter watched as he morphed into the deadly shape of Matai Shang.

  “My people play this game in moves that last for centuries,” Matai said. “Did you think one setback would drive us from Barsoom forever?”

  Then Carter saw the medallion in Matai’s hand.

  The Thern shot out his other hand, touching Carter’s bare chest. “Och Ohem,” Matai recited. “Och Tay. Wyees Jasoom.”

  The medallion pulsed. Woola yowled. Matai Shang sneered in triumph.

  Carter felt a deep shudder ripple through his body, a wrenching sensation he’d only felt once before.

  No, he tried to say. No, not now! But he was paralyzed, unable to speak. The medallion flared bright, nine legs of light spreading out like hot blue mandibles. And in a burst of light, John Carter vanished.

  In the cave, a lone shaft of moonlight danced across the vein of gold.

  Carter shot upright—and pain lanced through his stiff body. Old, decaying clothes cracked and ripped, shredding to powder. He coughed, shaking dust off his face. Every muscle ached, atrophied after years of stasis.

  Then he saw the skeleton that had been Colonel Powell. A few shreds of Union braid still hung from the rags of his uniform.

  Carter lurched to his feet, fighting the pain. He searched the remains of his pockets, his shirt, and then dropped to his knees and began scrabbling in the dirt. “No,” he whispered. “No. No…”

  Nothing. No medallion.

  He lurched over to the large rock, the one with the nine-legged spider carved across its surface. He slapped a hand against it frantically, desperately.

  “Och Ohem,” he gasped. “Och Tay, Wyees Barsoom. Och Tay! Wyees BARSOOM!”

  Weathered fingers dug into the rock, clutched frantically at the etching. Traced its pattern beneath his hand.

  “Barsoom,” Carter said weakly. But it was no use.

  Captain Carter was back on Earth.

  … FIFTY million miles apart, and no way to bridge the gap. No way to telegraph myself back, to return my body and soul to their true home. Like a fool, I had thrown away my medallion back on Barsoom.

  I stepped outside the cave and stared into the dark Arizona sky, so familiar and yet so cold. So alien, now.

  And then I thought of Matai Shang, of his knowledge of Earth and our history. That meant the Therns were a presence on this world as well as on Mars. This cave in Arizona, its carvings and the Thern I’d killed there, were proof of that.

  There might be other places. Other Thern way stations, hidden somewhere on Earth.

  As soon as I realized that, I knew what my gold must be used for.

  For ten bitter years, dear nephew, I searched. I followed every possible trail of rumor and legend, from darkest Africa to the Arctic wastelands. At times I despaired of ever locating the Therns again.

  And then, in the Orkney Islands of Scotland, I found them.

  I shall spare you the tedious details, but suffice it to say: I managed to obtain a medallion. But before I could return to Barsoom, there were many plans I had to make in secret. And the Earthbound Therns were now following my movements closely, plotting to reclaim the property I had taken from them.

  I can trust no one. Except you.

  No doubt much of this is puzzling to you. But I promise that soon you will understand the cause of my sudden death, my bizarre funeral instructions, and the reason the mausoleum door can only be opened from the inside. One thing I have learned from the Therns: if my body dies on Earth, then its “copy” shall also perish on Mars.

  Know this: you are the key, Edgar. This is the task I entrust to you, along with all my worldly fortune. Protect my body, for the Therns will attempt to destroy it. Indeed, in the time it has taken you to read these pages, they may already have done so.

  I slammed my uncle’s journal shut and leaped up, the implications of his words ringing in my mind. I rushed out of the study and outside, dashing through the night air across the pathways and hedgerows.

  In the dark, I almost slammed up against the mausoleum. I ran my hands all along its surface, searching frantically. Nothing. No indentation, no keyhole, no depression of any kind.

  You are the key, Uncle Jack had written. The key. But where was the lock?

  Then I noticed the epitaph written above the door: INTER MUNDOS. My eyes darted to the letter E, then to D. E-D. Edgar. I pressed the two letters in succession. Nothing. I stood frustrated for a long moment. Then I remembered the telegram, the strange missive that had brought me here in the first place. I fished it out of my vest pocket and smoothed its crumpled surface.

  DEAR NED

  SEE ME AT ONCE

  “Ned,” I said aloud. And I remembered one of Uncle Jack’s quirks: he never called me Edgar.

  I reached back up to the inscription on the tomb and pressed the letters N-E-D in succession.

  The door rolled open on well-oiled gears.

  I stepped forward, peering into the dark. And stopped short at the sight that greeted me.

  An empty casket. In an empty tomb.

  A sudden movement caught my attention, and I whirled around just in time to avoid a plunging dagger. A wiry man in black suit and bowler hat reared back and raised the dagger again, aiming straight for my chest. I cringed, knowing this was my doom. I have never been a fighter.

  Then a gunshot rang out, and the man fell to the ground.

  Behind him stood my uncle, Captain John Carter. His revolver still smoking.

  “Good lord,” I said, stunned. “It’s you.”

  Carter smiled. “Hello, Ned.”

  He pulled a small vial from his pocket, tossed it to me.

  “Toxin derived from the puffer fish,” he said. “Simulates death.”

  He knelt down and began to examine the assassin’s body.

  I stared at the vial, beginning to understand. “You never found a medallion. In the Orkneys or anywhere else.”

  “No. But I was right about the Therns.” He ripped open the bowler-hat man’s shirt to reveal a Thern medallion, adorned with the nine-legged spider design. “That’s why I’m so grateful to you for bringing me one.”

  “I was just…bait?”

  “No, no.” He stood, moved tenderly toward me. “You’re far mor
e than that. I really do need a protector…that is, if you’re willing.”

  Suddenly I was overwhelmed by emotion. I clasped my uncle in a fierce bear hug, almost knocking him over. He returned the embrace, then patted me firmly on the back and handed me his pistol.

  Then, as I watched, he stepped into the mausoleum. The medallion seemed to glow slightly in his hand.

  “Good-bye, Ned,” he said. “Oh, and Ned? You should take up a cause. Fall in love. Write a book, maybe.”

  “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” I asked.

  He shook his head, straining at the heavy door from inside. “It’s time I went home.”

  The door slammed shut.

  Write a book, he’d said. And so I have.

  There’s one more thing. As I stood outside the tomb, pistol heavy in my hand, I could just make out my uncle’s muffled voice from within. “Och Ohem. Och Tay…Wyees…”

  And then—for just a second—I thought I heard a woman’s voice entwine with his. A rich, deep voice, born of a world where savage women fought alongside men for a cause greater than themselves. The voice of a true princess of Mars, welcoming her warrior husband home.

  “… Barsoom,” she said.

  “Barsoom,” he echoed.

  Within the tomb, there was a brief flash of light. And for the last time, John Carter was gone.

  END

  I AM A VERY OLD MAN; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality.

  And because of this conviction I have determined to write down the story of the interesting periods of my life and of my death. I cannot explain the phenomena; I can only set down here in the words of an ordinary soldier of fortune a chronicle of the strange events that befell me during the ten years that my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave.

  I have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see this manuscript until after I have passed over for eternity. I know that the average human mind will not believe what it cannot grasp, and so I do not purpose being pilloried by the public, the pulpit, and the press, and held up as a colossal liar when I am but telling the simple truths which some day science will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions which I gained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set down in this chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of the mysteries of our sister planet; mysteries to you, but no longer mysteries to me.

  My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War I found myself possessed of several hundred thousand dollars (Confederate) and a captain’s commission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the servant of a state which had vanished with the hopes of the South. Masterless, penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting, gone, I determined to work my way to the southwest and attempt to retrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold.

  I spent nearly a year prospecting in company with another Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. We were extremely fortunate, for late in the winter of 1865, after many hardships and privations, we located the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that our wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell, who was a mining engineer by education, stated that we had uncovered over a million dollars worth of ore in a trifle over three months.

  As our equipment was crude in the extreme we decided that one of us must return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and return with a sufficient force of men properly to work the mine.

  As Powell was familiar with the country, as well as with the mechanical requirements of mining we determined that it would be best for him to make the trip. It was agreed that I was to hold down our claim against the remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering prospector.

  On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros, and bidding me good-bye he mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley, across which led the first stage of his journey.

  The morning of Powell’s departure was, like nearly all Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful; I could see him and his little pack animals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley, and all during the morning I would catch occasional glimpses of them as they topped a hog back or came out upon a level plateau. My last sight of Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley.

  Some half hour later I happened to glance casually across the valley and was much surprised to note three little dots in about the same place I had last seen my friend and his two pack animals. I am not given to needless worrying, but the more I tried to convince myself that all was well with Powell, and that the dots I had seen on his trail were antelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure myself.

  Since we had entered the territory we had not seen a hostile Indian, and we had, therefore, become careless in the extreme, and were wont to ridicule the stories we had heard of the great numbers of these vicious marauders that were supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in lives and torture of every white party which fell into their merciless clutches.

  Powell, I knew, was well armed and, further, an experienced Indian fighter; but I too had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew that his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no longer, and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine, I strapped two belts of cartridges about me and catching my saddle horse, started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning.

  As soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urged my mount into a canter and continued this, where the going permitted, until, close upon dusk, I discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell. They were the tracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies had been galloping.

  I followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I was forced to await the rising of the moon, and given an opportunity to speculate on the question of the wisdom of my chase. Possibly I had conjured up impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife, and when I should catch up with Powell would get a good laugh for my pains. However, I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been a kind of fetich with me throughout my life; which may account for the honors bestowed upon me by three republics and the decorations and friendships of an old and powerful emperor and several lesser kings, in whose service my sword has been red many a time.

  About nine o’clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to proceed on my way and I had no difficulty in following the trail at a fast walk, and in some places at a brisk trot until, about midnight, I reached the water hole where Powell had expected to camp. I came upon the spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of having been recently occupied as a camp.

  I was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for such I was now convinced they must be, continued after Powell with only a brief stop at the hole for water; and always at the same rate of speed as his.

  I was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasure of the torture, so I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace, hoping against hope that I would catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him.

  Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the faint report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now if ever, and I instantly urged my horse to his to
pmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail.

  I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay.

  The little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly riveted to this point of interest that they did not notice me, and I easily could have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that this thought did not occur to me until the following day removes any possible right to a claim to heroism to which the narration of this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me.

  I do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instances that my voluntary acts have placed me face to face with death, I cannot recall a single one where any alternative step to that I took occurred to me until many hours later. My mind is evidently so constituted that I am subconsciously forced into the path of duty without recourse to tiresome mental processes. However that may be, I have never regretted that cowardice is not optional with me.

  In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not know, but within an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my view I had whipped out my revolvers and was charging down upon the entire army of warriors, shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs. Singlehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, for the red men, convinced by sudden surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars was upon them, turned and fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles.

  The view which their hurried routing disclosed filled me with apprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon lay Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the braves. That he was already dead I could not but be convinced, and yet I would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches as quickly as I would have saved the man himself from death.