by Martin Dukes
“Hmmm,” said Zoroaster. “Do you expect sudden blinding revelation? This is all about the gradual accumulation of evidence. We must get inside.”
“How on earth are we going to get up there?” asked Will frowning.
“Well, I suppose someone around here owns a ladder,” said the old man. “And someone might be instructed in the making of a sandwich. You may wish to shed more light on the culinary darkness of this region.”
They returned an hour or so later, provided with a ladder by a local man and with sandwiches by his wife, both of whom were impressed and delighted by the idea. The man was able to tell them a little about the tower. It was, so far as he knew, owned by no one in particular, although it stood on his land. The local people stayed away from it because it was believed to be haunted.
“And you have a key for the door?” asked Zoroaster.
The man shrugged. “There is no key. There is a latch, but the mechanism cannot be locked. There is nothing of any value in there and the windows are so tiny it is almost impossible to see – even in daylight.”
“I’m surprised no one has used it as a fort or a stronghold or such like,” said Will.
“This region was only settled a generation ago,” said the man. “And there are no important families around here who might wish to feud amongst themselves. When my father first came here the tower stood on its own, with no other building for a mile in every direction. The local goat herders called it the Tower of Bilimwezi, but no one could tell him anything about it, except that it was a bad place; a place to stay away from.”
“Is that so?” said Zoroaster, looking up thoughtfully at the narrow entrance. “Place the ladder just so, if you would, sir. Will, perhaps you would break out the lamp.”
Having travelled all this way there seemed little point in wondering out loud if this was really wise. Nevertheless, Will felt a certain anxiety as the old man climbed the ladder and stepped carefully onto the narrow ledge in front of a door set back into the stone. The door was wide enough only for one person to pass through, made from some smooth grey metal and fitting close into a frame made from the same material.
“Remarkable workmanship,” muttered Zoroaster as Will’s head appeared at the top of the ladder behind him.
Above the door was a carved inscription, in an unknown language. Later, Zoroaster would send for writing materials and copy it down. For now, though, he helped Will onto the ledge and turned the simple metal handle of the door. This swung open easily, revealing a single dark chamber, lit by the brilliant shaft of light from the open door and with Zoroaster’s inky shadow etched against it. “Pass me the lamp,” he said. “And the tinder box.”
Soon the lamp was lit. Zoroaster and Will passed through into the tower, holding the lamp up to inspect the internal walls of a single round chamber but finding them to be as smooth and plain as the outside surfaces.
“This door is clearly intended to be shut and barred from the inside,” said Zoroaster, swinging the door closed a little in order to inspect its other side. “It seems odd that it is not constructed from timber. I suppose this metal is iron, but the surface seems strangely free from corrosion or other imperfections.”
“Don’t push it shut,” said Will anxiously.
“Why? Do you fear the imagined phantoms of a superstitious peasant?” asked Zoroaster, but he left the door open nevertheless. The expression on Will’s face told him this was pretty much exactly what he feared.
The roof of the chamber in which they stood was made from corbelled stone, surprisingly high, with a narrow stone staircase curved against the wall that offered access to the next storey. There was no handrail, no architectural elaboration of any kind.
“Shall we?” asked Zoroaster, gesturing upwards with the lamp.
Each storey proved to be occupied by a single identical chamber, but the top one lacked a staircase, as there was no way to access the roof. The ceiling here was a smooth stone dome, which presumably matched the shape of the roof outside.
“Why are the windows so small?” asked Will, running his finger over a single pane of thick glass, flecked with tiny bubbles, shedding a greenish light on Zoroaster’s robe. “You can barely see out. This glass must be as thick as my thumb.”
“I don’t know,” said the old man, stroking his beard pensively. “This place has raised more questions than it has answered.”
They returned to entrance level. Coming down the stairs, Will stumbled and nearly fell. Zoroaster cursed as Will seized his arm for support and dropped the lamp, plunging them into gloom. The darkness was relieved only by a faint light creeping up the stairwell from the level below.
“You clumsy oaf,” Zoroaster told him. “I trust you have the tinder box.”
“Well, yes,” admitted Will. “But I left it in my bag downstairs.”
“Fool!” said Zoroaster disapprovingly, his frown lost in the gloom. “Some explorer you are.”
Will wanted to say that Zoroaster could easily have carried the tinder box himself, but by this time they were in the entrance level room.
“Shall I light it again?” asked Will, groping in his bag.
“Hardly any point now,” said Zoroaster, shouldering his own. “I think we have learned all there is to be learned from this place.”
Apart from the necessary materials for striking and kindling a light, the tinder box also contained a little loose change. One of these small Zanzibari coins dropped out and rolled across the floor. It was quite invisible in the dark at his feet, but Will could hear its short journey on the smooth stone of the floor.
“Hold the top of this ladder, would you?” grunted Zoroaster, swinging open the door.
“Hang on a mo’,” said Will holding up a finger.
With part of his attention Will had been listening to the rolling of the coin. Curiously, there had been no tinny metallic sound as the coin reached the end of its journey and fell onto its side. He groped for it in the inky darkness beyond the light path from the door and his fingers encountered a small hole in the floor.
“Let me have the lamp again,” he said emerging into the light.
The lamp revealed that one of the rectangular floor slabs had a short slot cut in one end of it. The masonry of the floor was as close-fitting as that of the walls, with joins barely wide enough to admit the point of a knife. The gaps around this slab were somewhat wider, however, and it was immediately clear that Will had found a hatch giving access to the space beneath their feet. Zoroaster slipped his finger into the slot and tried to lift the slab, but it was obvious that they would need a sturdy metal rod of some kind with the end bent through ninety degrees.
It was an hour before the Zoroaster and the local man were able to find an object matching that description, an hour in which Will sat anxiously on his own by the open door. He told himself that he was not a superstitious person, that there were no such things as ghosts and that the local people were ignorant, uneducated peasants. It was hard to feel entirely confident of such things, however, especially with that oppressive darkness yawning at his back. He became acutely conscious of sound, of the thin buzz of insects, of the rustling of dry bamboo in the choked ditch to the east. Who had built this tower? And why? Perhaps this was the more important question. Will ran his hand across the smooth surface of the door. It was made from quite thin metal, where wood might have been expected, and it was clearly not meant to resist a serious siege. Anyone with a sledgehammer could batter it down, provided they could find room to swing it and somewhere to stand whilst doing so.
The slab was heavy but lifted easily when Zoroaster returned with a suitable length of bent iron, revealing a dark void beneath, untouched by the dim glow of the lamp. With some difficulty they drew up the ladder they had used to climb into the tower and lowered it down into the new room they had discovered. Will’s heart was hammering in his chest as his feet felt for the rungs and he descended into a space that might have been undisturbed for centuries. The still air around him, the
inky shadows that seemed to press on his back, filled him with terror of the unknown horrors that might lurk there. Only fear of appearing a coward in Zoroaster’s eyes enabled him to take one halting step after another.
“Okay, pass me the lamp down,” he said at last, peering up at Zoroaster’s silhouette in the rectangle of light at the head of ladder.
The lamp illuminated not the nameless ghouls and horrors that Will had imagined around him but what must once have been a storeroom. Anything of use had been removed long ago, so what remained were a few broken pots and jars. There were shreds of what might once have been sacks too, and an uneven scatter of wheat grain under foot. The walls were as smooth as they were throughout the tower, but in one place someone had scratched a crude drawing using a broken piece of pottery. Will and Zoroaster studied it in the yellow glow of the lamp.
“What do you reckon?” asked Will.
Zoroaster frowned and stroked his beard. “Well, I imagine these small squirming shapes are meant to represent worms.”
“And these?” asked Will, pointing. “These little guys look like they’re running away. It’s like they’re running away from the worms.”
The scale was all wrong but it did look as though a number of badly drawn little men were running away, with the air around them thick with worms.
“What about this jaggedy bit?” asked Will, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his sleeve. “Mountains, maybe?”
“They could be,” said Zoroaster. “And this part over here seems to represent buildings, does it not? But what are these curious curving marks above them?”
“It looks like they’re on fire,” said Will, setting his glasses back in place. “What can it all mean?”
“I’m not sure,” said Zoroaster. ”But it all comes back to the worm, does it not? The worm is at the heart of the matter. We must find out more about the worm.”
The Sultan was to hold a great banquet on the eve of the expedition’s departure, to which all the great dignitaries of state were invited as well everyone who played any significant part in its organisation. Kashifah and Nusrat, conscious perhaps that this would be a rather formal occasion, organised their own party in the week before, inviting to it many of the young people of the palace. They had a wide circle of friends, and as the Sultan’s sisters a certain prestige attached to being invited to attend. As ever, the party spilled out from their apartments into the garden beyond and musicians were engaged to play on the terrace that overlooked the harbour below.
“It’s a pity Will’s missing this,” observed Tanya, looking over a row of artistically dressed food tables with a score or so liveried servants distributing plates and drinks.
“He’d rejoice in our happiness,” said Henry, taking a plate and moving off to fill it. “I’m sure he’s quite content out in the desert somewhere, chewing on dried goat.”
“Do you think he’ll be back before the expedition goes?”
Henry shrugged. “Probably. He’s been gone nearly a fortnight now. I shouldn’t fret. He’ll be back alright.”
Alex would have been there too, but he was required to attend the Sultan’s council of war, where final plans for the sailing were to be discussed. It was unlikely that he would be released from this obligation until late into the night.
“Where’s Kelly?” asked Henry.
Tanya pointed into the next room.
“Where do you think?” she said, the expression in her eyes conveying a mixture of concern and disapproval.
Kelly sat on a carpet with Jemail and Rakesh whilst one of Nusrat’s friends told them a funny story about her uncle’s disastrous business ventures. The room was quite crowded, and with more people coming in to sit down, Kelly soon found herself sitting shoulder to shoulder with Jemail. The pressure of his shoulder on hers was somehow intoxicating, and before long she found herself leaning against him, her hand on his arm as he told her about his own uncle’s adventures in Persia.
“It was he who first kindled my interest in that land,” he told her. “I am told that the cities are very fine, with mosques and minarets that are famous throughout Asia. He was engaged by the Shah to reorganise his library, although he didn’t speak a word of Persian and, if truth be told, was hardly a keen student of writing of any kind.”
“So how did he manage?” asked Kelly, aware that the general conversation had moved elsewhere and that they spoke one to one now. “It sounds like quite a challenge.”
“It was,” said Jemail, his eyes gleaming with animation. “But my uncle was never one to duck a challenge. He found an ancient scholar in one of the mosque schools and asked him to prepare a catalogue… By the way,” he said, stopping suddenly and glancing furtively around to see that no one was attending to them. “Did I ever tell you the colour of your eyes is perfection itself? May we step outside so that I may perceive them more clearly?”
“You’ve got to stop saying stuff like that,” said Kelly with a laugh, but she took his hand and followed him nevertheless as he led her out into the garden.
Henry had eaten as much as he could sensibly eat without being sick and was turning his attention to drink. After his first bitter experiences in this regard he had begun to learn the value of restraint and was pouring himself a glass of generously watered wine when he found himself accosted by an undersized youth called Ahmed with a keen interest in comparing cultural practices.
“Our faith forbids us to eat the flesh of swine,” said Ahmed. “Although it is often disregarded nowadays. Does your faith place similar restrictions on your diet?”
“Yeah, I’m not allowed to eat giraffe on a Tuesday,” said Henry, who had just noticed Alex arriving unexpectedly and being greeted by Kashifah.
“A curious restriction,” said Ahmed with a wondering frown.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” said Henry distractedly, moving off to intercept his friend.
Hassan, the Sultan’s admiral, was unwell and the meeting broke up early. Alex, returning to his quarters, remembered that everyone else was at Kashifah’s apartments and made his way there, exultant that he had been spared a long night of tedium and that events had played out in his favour. Kashifah greeted him warmly when he was shown in by one of her servants and he made his way across to the buffet tables in the main reception room, peering about through the crowd for Kelly, Tanya or Henry. A few of the young people he had come to know in Zanzibar approached him and wanted to know how things were going with the expedition, so it was some moments before he caught sight of Henry by the door leading out into the garden.
“Oh, hi Henry,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Not so bad,” said Henry, looking unaccountably shifty. “I was just stepping out for a breath of fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Alex cheerfully. “It’s stuffy in here, isn’t it?”
“Actually it’s probably a bit chilly out there,” said Henry hurriedly. “Let’s go and get a drink, shall we? I thought you were the Sultan’s date tonight.”
“I was,” said Alex, following Henry over to where a short, fat servant was pouring long, tall drinks. “But the Admiral’s stuck in bed with a fever, so it got called off. We’re going to have another go at it tomorrow when his deputy’s back in town.”
“Fantastic… Well, the Sultan’s loss is our gain, I guess. Come and let the light of your countenance shine on some of my military buddies.”
Outside, Kelly was subject to a baffling array of emotions and sensations. It was a delight to be with Jemail, tall and lithe, with his sweet, earnest face and the youthful intensity of his gaze. He led her to a quiet place where the moons shone full on them both, almost as bright as day, and he tilted her chin so that he could admire her eyes. She thrilled to the sight of him, to the smell of him, his breath on her face, his soft words in her ears, and she wondered if this was what it was like to be in love. And yet a part of her, a part that on the whole she was able to ignore, recoiled from the moment, wagged a stern finger at her
. What about Alex? What loyalty did she owe him? What did she think she was doing? She was being sucked into this place, was the answer, blending bit by bit into a world that was not her own. When she was with the Outlanders it was possible to believe she was still just plain Kelly from the rougher side of Cardenbridge, with exams coming up after half term. Out here, with the cicadas and the cool evening air and the moonlight and this beautiful youth, it was easy to be drawn in to the world of Zanzibar, to be seduced, in fact. Only a tiny part of her could find the will to resist when she felt his lips on hers. She closed her eyes. That small voice of reason, that part of her that turned its face from this folly was borne down, overwhelmed on a tide of emotion she could barely recognise but which surged through her like fire.
“I have never seen the moons so close,” breathed Jemail when they drew apart. “I have heard it rumoured there will be an eclipse. Some say it portends ill, but I cannot find it in me to see evil in such strange beauty in the heavens.”
His eyes met hers. “We are like two worlds, you and I,” he said. “Dare I hope that we draw together likewise?”
“Where’s Kelly got to?” asked Alex, having been introduced to several of Henry’s military friends and listened to accounts of their training.
“Search me,” said Henry. “This is Amjad, he’s Zanzibar’s top fast bowler. Not that that’s saying much. He’s a bit of a chucker but he’s basically okay. He’s… Oh.”
Alex had slipped away. Henry shrugged, looking after his receding back for a moment before returning to Amjad and the others, eyebrows raised.
Alex made his way outside, through little knots of chattering courtiers, busy servants weaving amongst them with trays of drinks or empty glasses. The band played a thin, reedy tune with instruments that he barely recognised, and the ominous twin moons bathed the gardens in an unearthly light. His search was casual enough; he wished only to share with Kelly the events of his day, but when she was not immediately to be found he began to experience a strange urgency. He found her at last, turning a corner onto a path that led between tall magnolia trees of impressive size and girth. He saw her immediately then, her chin uplifted as Jemail kissed her. Alex recoiled in shock, shrinking into the shadows as a sudden chill shuddered through his frame. The image was seared into his consciousness in that dreadful flash of recognition and he knew with grim certainty that he would see it again, over and over, in the weeks and months to come. He felt his heart pounding within his chest, and a sense of loss, of grief, washed over him. There was no immediate sense of rage. His knuckles did not ball into fists of righteous fury and he felt nothing more urgent than a desire to be elsewhere. He turned and hurried back to the party, a great swollen lump aching in his throat.
