The House on Willow Lane (Secret Gateways Book 1)

by John Moralee

  “Wait!” he said. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” I said immediately, in an Indian accent. “We speak good English, sir.”

  “Then I’m hoping you’ll be of some real use to me. Captain, I will pay for their passage. Come with me, boys.”

  The American led us to his cabin, where he showed us a map of India. He introduced himself as Gideon Hunter, explorer and adventurer. He was a handsome man with a roguish charm. I instantly liked him. He explained how he was planning to lead an exciting expedition into an unexplored region. He had marked an X on a blank area of the map. That was where he was going.

  His party was waiting for him upriver, but he had encountered a problem. Just days earlier, his translator had died of a snakebite. He told us his men were expecting him to bring the translator with him so they could give the local Indians instructions. Unfortunately, he had been unable to find a replacement – which would seriously hamper his expedition. He had been considering cancelling the expedition until he found another translator – until two of us came along. He asked us to join his party. As long as we were willing to work hard without complaining, he would pay us well once the expedition was over. The price he named was generous, sufficient to buy us passage out of India.

  We volunteered ... not suspecting the awful purpose of his expedition until it was too late.

  We disembarked at a small trading outpost at the edge of the jungle. There, ten white men and fifty local Indians were waiting for Gideon Hunter. Immediately, I had a foreboding feeling about going anywhere with the white men. They looked like mercenaries. They all carried large knives and guns. Many wore clothes made out of the skins of animals they had killed. They were big game hunters and fur traders, not explorers. They hunted wild animals for sport. They were brutal, dangerous men, with hard, cruel eyes, reminding me of my own father. Some of the white men carried whips on their belts and looked ready to use them. Manjit shivered beside me, his brown eyes widening.

  By then, unfortunately, the steamboat had left, so we had no choice but to work for Gideon Hunter if we were ever to get out of the jungle.

  The expedition began the next morning. It was a living hell. Manjit and I didn’t have to carry heavy supplies on our backs because we were needed to pass messengers between the white men and the Indians, but we still found the trek into the jungle exhausting. The air was so humid it was like breathing through a hot, wet towel. Mosquitoes bit every part of my body, forming angry red welts that itched for days. There was constant danger from poisonous snakes, spiders and wild animal attacks. Soon the outpost was a distant memory as we travelled deeper and deeper into the jungle.

  Gideon Hunter and the mercenaries rode on horseback, but the natives had to walk, mostly barefooted, laden down with heavy supplies of food, whisky and water. For the first week and a half four elephants carried the heaviest items, like the weapons and gunpowder, but then one by one they fell sick of a mysterious disease and died. Gideon Hunter distributed their burdens onto the backs of the natives. It was a mistake to go on without any elephants because they were good at clearing a path through the dense undergrowth. Without them, several natives had to walk in front of the party, constantly swinging machetes. That and the additional load of the weapons made several men collapse with exhaustion, which would have slowed down the expedition - except Gideon Hunter refused to stop for breaks unless he was the one tired. His easy charm had just been a façade. The real man was as cold-hearted as the rest of his men. The unconscious Indians had to be carried by their companions or left behind to die in the jungle. By the time the expedition reached the X marked on Gideon Hunter’s map, over a dozen Indians had died.

  Gideon Hunter had the remaining Indians build a base camp in a region never before explored. The Indians cut down all of the trees in a large circle to make a clearing, then they built huts for the white men. The white men acted as overseers, doing no work themselves, but they became angry when the work wasn’t done fast enough. They drank a lot of whisky and relaxed in the shade. Gideon Hunter moved into the first hut to be completed, where he set up an office, spreading maps and charts all over a table. When the camp was finished, he organised hunting parties to be sent deeper into the jungle.

  The hunting parties mostly scouted and tracked in daylight and hunted at night, frightening animals out of the trees and bushes with burning torches. The wild animals were terrified of fire. They always ran in the opposite direction – where more men were waiting with clubs, nets and cages. For a fortnight, the parties returned with all kinds of captured creatures, ranging from tiny birds to large tigers.

  Gideon Hunter wanted live animals because they were worth more than dead ones. He locked them in cages at the north end of the camp, where the noise they made was kept to a minimum. Even so, the mercenaries hated the noise so much they took out their frustrations by poking the animals with sticks or throwing stones. When a man killed a monkey, Gideon Hunter was furious. He had given his men orders not to harm the creatures.

  The reason he cared so much wasn’t because he liked animals, unfortunately. No – he didn’t care about them suffering as long as they looked healthy. He had an unusual hobby for a man so cruel to fellow humans. He enjoyed sketching the specimens in charcoal, rendering them in exquisite detail. He devoted hours to the sketching of each new specimen after it had been brought it. He wanted his drawings to be of perfectly healthy, uninjured creatures. He grabbed the man responsible and put a knife to his throat.

  “The next time you kill one of my creatures, I will kill you. Take this as a warning.” He nicked the man’s throat, drawing blood. “Have Doc see you.” The man ran off, glad to be alive. Gideon Hunter faced the rest of his men. “Nobody hurts my specimens. Nobody.”

  “Mr Hunter,” one man said. “We just want them to be quiet. We can’t stand the noise. We can’t sleep because of it. What are we supposed to do?”

  Gideon Hunter didn’t have an answer. But I thought I did have one. The animals were making so much noise because they were scared and hungry. The next time I was called to his hut, I asked him if I could try calming them down. He agreed to let me try. I spent my free time visiting the caged animals, talking in a calm voice, which did have an effect on the general noise level. Gideon Hunter was impressed. He gave me permission to visit the animals when he didn’t require me. Manjit and I fed them on the days we were not with the hunting parties, a task I actually liked doing, because I didn’t want the poor creatures to die of starvation and maltreatment.

  There was soon an impressive menagerie ready to be taken back to civilisation. But Gideon Hunter wasn’t satisfied with his already plentiful bounty. He wanted more. He wanted to catch rarer specimens because they would be more valuable to sell. He sent his men on longer hunts, while he stayed in his hut, marking off the hunting grounds on his map. The map was soon covered with lines and circles. He spent days planning where next to send him men. Occasionally, he would go out on a hunting trip himself, leaving a brawny Irishman in charge.

  I was with Gideon Hunter the day the scouts found something interesting.

  It was a huge slab of stone standing in the middle of the jungle, hundreds and hundreds of miles from anywhere. Everyone wondered how it had got there and what was its purpose. Further exploration uncovered over a dozen more stones, all in a rough circle. The stones had been there for a long, long time, as they were overgrown with vines and thick undergrowth. A stream had actually worn its way through one of them, which must have taken hundreds of years.

  The scouts noticed tracks in the earth nearby, fresh ones, probably no more than a few hours old. They told me the tracks belonged to some kind of large reptile, but they were odd. There were only the marks of two feet, not four, which meant it was able to stand upright on its hind legs. There were marks behind the footprints left by its tail. It looked as though the creature could not only stand upright, but it could also walk like a human, its long, reptilian tail supporting its balance.

  T
he news excited Gideon Hunter. It was the discovery of a lifetime. A walking reptile! The tracks were concentrated around the centre of the stone circle, which probably meant the creature visited the location frequently. All he had to do was set up traps and station men in hiding, waiting for its return. He sent me with a scout back to the camp with instructions to send more men.

  That night I was sleeping at the base camp when shouting and swearing woke me.

  Getting up, I saw the hunters coming into the camp looking like they had been attacked. Their clothes were covered with blood and some had nasty cuts and bruises. In their flickering torchlight and orange glow of the fire, I could see about eight men carrying a large cage containing something the size of a bear. It was making an unholy noise, shaking the bars, screeching and growling. Its eyes glowed red in the firelight. The native started screaming in fear.

  Behind it, Gideon Hunter rode in bleeding heavily from a savage wound to his neck and jawbone. His skin was hanging off the bone in a ragged flap, but he had the strength to hold it in place to slow the blood flow.

  “Get Doc!” he shouted to me.

  I was secretly pleased he had been wounded, but I dashed off to find Doc. Doc wasn’t a real doctor, but he had learnt how to stitch wounds and perform basic operations as a soldier. He came running with his leather bag, which contained surgical tools and alcohol for sterilising his instruments. He stitched up Gideon Hunter’s face with catgut while he sat by the fire, drinking whisky to null the pain. It had to be incredibly painful, but Gideon Hunter didn’t show it. He calmly waited for Doc to finish stitching.

  “I got it, Doc! I got it! The mother lode. We’re going to be rich!” Despite his ghastly injury, he was grinning like a madman.

  During the chaos of their arrival, I had seen his men take the caged creature to the far side of the camp. The infernal noise it was making everyone terrified. I had heard nothing like it in all my life.

  “Jensen!” Gideon Hunter called out. A wild, hairy mercenary with a bruised eye approached the fire.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do something about the noise before it frightens off the natives.”

  “With pleasure, Mr Hunter.” Jensen pulled out a knife. “I’ll cut its throat.”

  “No, Jensen, you imbecile – I don’t want it dead. I could have already killed it earlier. I want it alive.”

  “How can I shut it up then, sir?”

  “Use clubs. Knock it out - but don’t kill it. If it dies, Jensen, I’ll feed you alive to a pit of snakes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr Hunter.”

  Jensen and some other men entered the cage armed with clubs. Even from some distance away, I could hear the thudding of wood on flesh. They beat the creature until it fell silent. I heard nothing from the cage for the rest of the night, but I didn’t sleep another wink. I lay awake, thinking about what I’d seen.

  The next morning, the entire camp was filled with rumours. Everyone had heard about the beast captured last night. But only a handful of men had gone to look at it – and they didn’t want to talk about it, the fear etched on their faces for everyone to see. Many men believed it was a demon. They were calling it by a nickname: the Red Devil.

  I was, like everyone, afraid of the beast, but the tantalising glimpse I’d seen had awoken my curiosity. Of course, I wanted to see the Red Devil for myself. I crossed the camp until I could see the cage. The Red Devil was lying inside as though sleeping. From twenty feet away, it looked like a medium-sized crocodile the colour of dried blood. Its dark red scales were unique, but I was a little disappointed. I had seen bigger crocodiles in the Ganges, thirty-feet long monsters. I had been expecting something more demonic.

  It was just a big red lizard.

  A mercenary was sitting on a tree stump armed with a flintlock, keeping a watch on the cage. His eyes narrowed when he heard my footsteps.

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “Mr Hunter sent me to feed it, sir.” I walked over to the cage, ready to jump backwards if it made any sudden moves. I was carrying a pale of water and a handful of raw meat. The smell of blood was strong. I could throw the meat in, but the pale of water had to be taken inside. “Is it safe to open the cage?”

  “Safe? Yeah – if you don’t mind getting bitten or slashed. Feed it through the bars. Just throw the water at it, let it drink off the floor.” He stood up, holding his gut. “I’m going for a break. Don’t let it eat you while I’m gone. Mr Hunter wouldn’t want it to get indigestion. Heh-heh.”

  The guard left me alone with the Red Devil.

  I had a better look at it and started to change my opinion about it. It resembled a lizard, but it wasn’t one. I saw why the men had called it the Red Devil. Its long tail forked at the end just like the devil’s. The two tips were covered with thorn-like barbs that could rip a man’s face off. It had large muscular rear limbs, but smaller front ones. The front limbs were multiple-jointed arms, with hands that had opposable thumbs, like a human. Its fingers ended with vicious black talons several inches long, each as sharp and dangerous as a knife. Two or three had been broken off, probably in the fight to subdue it. Its reptilian head was about the size of a horse’s.

  “What are you?” I wondered aloud.

  The Red Devil opened an eye. It was as black and shiny as obsidian. I could feel it studying me. In one swift movement, it rolled to its feet and I saw it was at least as tall as a man. It charged towards me - but was stopped from reaching the bars by an iron collar around its wide neck. The collar was fixed to an iron chain connected to a ring in the floor. When the chain was at full stretch, the Red Devil was jerked backwards. Its hands pulled at the collar, but it could not pull it off. There was a sturdy lock preventing that. It gave up after a minute. It hunched down, its black eyes fixed on me. It made a low warning growl, baring its teeth. Its mouth was large enough to bite off a human head.

  “Easy now,” I said. “I’m bringing you food and water. I mean no harm.”

  Its head tilted as though listening.

  “You eat food,” I said, and demonstrated what I meant by raising the meat to my mouth, making chewing motions. “Food is good,” I said, then threw it though the bars at its feet.

  The Red Devil poked the meat with a claw. It spiked it with a talon and raised it to its blunt, wide nostrils, sniffing it. It looked around. There was nobody else nearby.

  “Food?” it said.

  I couldn’t believe it had spoken. Had it understood? Was it just mimicking the sounds like a parrot?

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s food.”

  “Food?” it repeated, looking at the meat.

  “Yes,” I said.

  It devoured it in one gulp like a young bird would swallow a worm.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  It tilted its head.

  “English?” I pointed at my mouth as I spoke.

  It said something I didn’t understand.

  “Water?” I said, and pushed the pale between the bars.

  “Water?” The Red Devil grabbed the pale like a cup and drank the entire contents. It then returned it to me.

  I pointed at myself. “Me - Lucas Ravencroft.”

  The Red Devil pointed a talon towards me. “Me Lucasss Ravencroft?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Actually, just Lucas Ravencroft. Not ‘Me Lucas Ravencroft.’”

  I didn’t think it understood what I was saying. I tried again, keeping things very simple. Eventually it understood my name was just Lucas Ravencroft. It also learnt the meaning of a few essential words in English like “yes”, “no”, “good” and “bad”. I learnt some of its language, too. Lacking paper, ink and a quill, I drew a map of the world in the dirt with my fingers. I used simple signs to show him where we were and where I was born. Then I asked him to show me where he was from. (He was male, he told me.) He drew a circle and marked points with stones. He also scratched something in the dirt. He pointed at himself and said something that sounded a little
like “dragon.”

  “Dragon?” I said.

  “No. Dragnok.”

  “Dragnok?” I repeated.

  “Yessss,” it replied. “Me - Dragnok.”

  Dragnok sniffed the air and looked away. “Heh-heh!”

  Was Dragnok laughing? No. I looked around and saw the guard coming. “Heh-heh” was the laugh he’d made when Dragnok had looked asleep. Somehow, Dragnok had smelled the man before he was in sight.

  “I’ll come back,” I said.

  I hoped he understood.

  As I was leaving, Dragnok banged his tail against the iron bars. The meaning of the gesture was obvious.

  Dragnok wanted freedom.

  Later, I confided in Manjit what I’d learnt about the so-called Red Devil, but I said nothing to anyone else. I didn’t want Gideon Hunter to know how intelligent Dragnok was. He’d probably make him tell him where the rest of its kind lived so he could imprison them, too.

  In front of the others, Dragnok behaved like a wild animal, but when I was with him unobserved he acted like an intelligent being. I introduced Manjit to him as someone he could trust. Each time I visited him, he taught me more of his language so we understood each other better. I picked up his language quite quickly, but he was remarkably fast at learning mine. He covered the ground with scratches in his own language and simple to understanding drawings, which he hid under his body when pretending to be sleeping so nobody else would see them. He moved aside so I could see them. In one drawing he had drawn himself with the iron collar unlocked.

  “Free Dragnok?”

  “I can’t. I haven’t the key. Gideon Hunter has it.”

  “Gideon Hunter?”

  I drew a man with a scar on his face.

  Dragnok’s tail rose in the air above his head as though agitated. I was beginning to understand his gestures. He used his tail as well as third hand. “Gideon Hunter bad.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Lucasssss, help me.”