The Basingstoke Chronicles Read online

  Chapter 6

  Regarding its attempts to make sense of time outside of our clock-watching perception, the human mind can be likened to a captive animal scrabbling for dear life against the walls of an inescapable pit. I confess to having no idea whatsoever how the time machine re-introduced to us an island long ago shifted by tectonic upheaval. Similarly, I make no claim in this discovery other than my being the willing participant in luck's incredible roulette. Sam, Ethel and Dumitrescu might have balked at the opportunity presented them in the first place, but my contribution to time travel, all told, amounts to little more than riding the coattails of fortune. We had certainly not earned the right to be here, whenever here was.

  Rodrigo and I breached the surface at around midday. The sun beamed down directly overhead. A warm, saline breeze provided our first taste of this ancient air. Sculling for a moment, I took in the full dimensions of the land mass.

  It was a gargantuan wall of rock over two hundred feet high, shielding our vista to the east as far as I could see. To the west, it seemed to curve briefly inward before rounding to a vertical head. Directly in front of us were two impressions at the base of the cliff. Shaped like horizontal teardrops, they were partially shrouded in mist but gaped just above sea level.

  "Two identical caves?" asked Rodrigo.

  "Maybe two ways up," I replied.

  "Five dollars on the left one."

  "You're on."

  We traversed the eighty or so feet to shore with relaxed, contemplative strokes. The upper lip of Rodrigo's cave appeared the more rugged of the two, but led into a far deeper hollow in the rock. Faint, orange-brown contours were visible through the shadowy interior of the right hand cave. It looked to press inward a mere ten feet, however, and did not appear to be of much account.

  As we inched inside the left cave, a striking chill greeted us. I was intrigued to notice the absence of any kind of air current. The hollow was uncommonly cold. My head throbbed as we approached a shaft of sunlight from high above. Yet, even that provided no warmth; the cave seemed refrigerated somehow, and we were the slabs of meat floating towards its icy shelf at the rear.

  My face grew so cold I had no choice but to submerge. Rodrigo followed my lead. Thank God for the restless motion of this warm, salty water; if it had been an isolated pool or freshwater lake, I shudder to think what sub-zero temperature it might have reached.

  We crossed the thirty or forty feet to the far wall of the cave in no time at all. The moment we surfaced, Rodrigo's torch beam blazed about the shadows to his left. He had obviously spied something in the water.

  "What is it?" I asked, lending my own eyes to the frantic search.

  "I thought I saw...yes!! There it is in the rock... Can you see... Steps! Steps in the rock. They start ten feet below the surface. Where do you suppose they lead?"

  I was glad to have Rodrigo with me. The fellow was always a lit fuse, liable to explode a practical joke or gesture of brute honesty in someone's face without warning, but his unpredictability also had its benefits, namely an uncanny resourcefulness under pressure. Our various scuba exploits over the years had taught me that.

  We clambered onto a narrow cross-walk which jutted out a few feet from the sheer rocky rise before us. This ledge wound toward the mysterious stairway directly. Not wishing to dally a moment longer, we made our way over, and it was there I gained my first clear view of what seemed to be the only potential dry route from the cave.

  I was less than enthusiastic, though. While definitely not a natural feature--the steps had been carved, in the loosest sense of that word, at some point in time--the flight itself rose upward in a steep, precarious manner against the edge of the rock. The word that came to mind was scale rather than climb. In order to ascend the sixty or so feet until the steps disappeared into a tight crack in the wall, we would have to be agile, flexible, unencumbered by our bulky diving gear.

  "Let's see how far we can get," Rodrigo said from between chattering teeth, "before it starts snowing in here."

  We left our extraneous equipment on the frosty shelf, and decided not to use our change of dry clothing just yet; our wetsuits were far better insulators against the cold. The only item we presently needed from our survival hold-alls was footwear--boots, rather than flippers, with which to make our ascent. Nevertheless, I insisted we take our full packs along. One can never be too prepared.

  Rodrigo took the lead and made short work of the climb. Balance rather than effort was required, sure-footedness as opposed to stamina. Together, we reached the point of ingress into the rock and pressed on. A tiny pitter-patter of droplets fell from our wetsuits onto the bare rock. The poorly cut stone route spiraled upward inside the cliff. And as we stayed low to the ground, torchlight ensuring our only visibility in that claustrophobic vena cava, I recall just an endless, dizzying creep, ever higher and ever warmer, to the heart of the island, to a daylight I thought we would never reach.

  The passageway opened suddenly to the bright afternoon. The final few stairs were exposed to the elements, and were overgrown with moss. They ended at a shallow, inclined verge of short, dried grass. I breathed deeply as we stood there, not quite sure what to do next.

  The sweet smell of newly-cut grass excited my senses with a potent mix of ease and nostalgia. I certainly didn't feel thousands of summers from home.

  Before climbing the verge, I wandered over to the cliff's edge. The scenario so closely resembled my childhood jaunts atop the coastal heights of Cornwall that for a few moments I was that dauntless boy again.

  But an anchor wrenched my gut as I looked down over the vertical drop. Our vessel was in a shallow, undersea harbor far below. I stepped back from the seize of vertigo, and instead focused on the inland view. A dense, arboreal shield of a forest barred our way, stretching as far as the coast allowed in either direction. Lime-colored, the vista was muddied by an oppressive, sentry darkness lurking between every leaf and bare trunk.

  I strode over to Rodrigo and joined him in unpacking our kits for a change of clothing. He extended his arm toward me.

  "I'm gonna need the torch again," he said with his eyes fixed on the trees ahead. He flinched as I placed a metal object in his palm.

  "Maybe you'll need this instead."

  It was a brand new, black Beretta, fully loaded and ready to smoke: Ethel's twelve-round life insurance policy she'd wrapped in a towel as if it were nothing more than a snazzy bathing suit. Rodrigo looked hard at the plastic carrier I placed between us on the dry grass, and even harder at me. To my surprise, he threw back the gun.

  "New rule," he said, reaching into his own bag to pull out a silver six-shooter revolver, "all twentieth century men go armed."

  Chapter 7

  Taking careful inventory of our supplies, I nibbled a chocolate Bourbon biscuit Rodrigo gave me. Each now dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt--his was cream, mine was maroon--we flung the heavy bags over our shoulders and sauntered up the verge toward the forest.

  As we approached the first emerald thicket, I slowed to a creep. The place seemed conspicuously quiet, and I sensed we were being watched.

  "Keep a sharp eye," I said, wrenching a rotten branch to one side. "We're not alone."

  The oppressive gloom ahead felt thick, tropical, over-cooked: a hotbed of stakes holding up an evergreen roof. Rodrigo stretched the front of his t-shirt to soak up sweat from his forehead. Our guns handy, we pressed on. After a while, insect noises drowned out the silence.

  The first half hour was hard going. Without a machete, forging a route through the brush proved taxing. On some of the taller trees, the buttress roots were so pronounced we had to negotiate an insanely convoluted route just to walk around them. Rodrigo explained how these buttresses provide stability for tropical rainforest trees, whose roots are ordinarily not as deep as those in temperate zones. Apparently, these ridges can reach thirty feet in height before blending fully into the trunk; the highest we came across was closer to fifteen feet.

&n
bsp; Rays of intense sunlight extended to the forest floor every now and then, illuminating all manner of insects and dry particles in the air, similar to a cinema projection beam in a darkened theatre. As we stopped to rest, I tried to absorb as much of this humid realm as I could.

  "I wonder how much of this is extinct in our own time," I said.

  Rodrigo sighed. "We're talking paleobotany come to life, that's for sure. I didn't even realize there was ever a land mass where we're standing, so Christ only knows how far back this is."

  "Tell me about it. Dumitrescu said the fabric was from an animal that vanished nine thousand years ago. He never said how long the species was actually around."

  "Would it have made a difference?" Rodrigo asked.

  "Probably not."

  "Well, I have to say, Baz, this is the most reckless time travel I've ever been a part of."

  I laughed. "Don't thank me now. We're not even lost yet."

  His faced remained deadpan as he shook his head and replied, "English optimism."

  A remarkable acoustic effect was created by the dainty chirruping of birds we could only partially glimpse, perched high above us, atop lofty lianas. These adaptive, draping vines either climbed into the tree canopy, reaching for sunlight, or started life already up there and sent roots down to the ground.

  Rodrigo took to naming new, strikingly colored species of birds he spotted through these creepers as a means of keeping his spirits up. It proved a helpful distraction for me, also, from the ever-so-elusive rustling sound I swore kept pace on either side. By the time our path opened up into a stunning glade awash in a deluge of sunlight, my friend had named over a dozen fresh, possibly endemic, species: 'Nice With Soya Sauce', 'Robin Under-the-Hood' and 'Luke Vinewalker' are the ones I can recall.

  The heat in the forest hollow was stifling. A liquid haze emanated from its singed yellow grass like the flames of a phantom inferno. An hour earlier, our bones had creaked in a cavernous chill. Now, fully thawed, we were roasting. I'm inclined to believe the old adage for persistent rotten luck was prefixed thousands of years before by our own "from the freezer into the frying pan."

  Rodrigo laughed as I winced, tilting my head from the sun.

  "Kill for some sunglasses, wouldn't you, Baz?"

  "Phew, what's next in this kitchen? Served on a platter?" I replied.

  "How long before you think we should give this up as a bad idea?"

  "Shall we say another couple of hours? If we don't reach the other side by three, let's kick this into touch. I'm certainly not spending the night in this jungle. No bloody fear!"

  "No arguments there."

  As we left the middle of the glade, I felt a stitch in my side. I had to stop. Rodrigo threw his carrier on the grass and stretched out in the sun, using the plastic pack as a pillow. I was about to kick his shins when a terrifying roar drew my eyes to the trees.

  Over a dozen ravenous, hyena-like creatures tore out of the foliage from every direction. Dark brown, emaciated, they sprinted straight for us with bared teeth. I tried to turn but Rodrigo held me at his side.

  "Christ! Aim for the leaders," he snarled.

  He took steady aim with his revolver and fired. His first shot missed its target but snapped me into action. My belt buckle snagged the Beretta's trigger guard as I pulled it out. I cursed the world and flicked the safety off. Rodrigo fired a second, then a third time, stopping two creatures dead in the dirt. My own first shot plugged its target less than twenty feet away. I emptied my clip, picking off the quickest onrushers with frightening rapidity. The odds against us were too great; my Beretta held twelve bullets, Rodrigo's revolver only six. We were outmatched.

  Our rounds were exhausted in a matter of seconds. The creatures were upon us an instant later. One leapt at me, slashing my shoulder with its claw as I barely managed to side-step. As it landed, I launched a hefty kick to its throat, crushing it with my boot. Straight away, another one bit into my right calf. I let out a terrible cry. The brute shook me in its grip. All I could do was drag it closer by its knotted mane. Red-hot stabs tore through me. Using both hands, I managed to prize it free from its bite and wrestle it into a head-lock. With a tremendous yank and a twist, I snapped its neck. Its head flopped silently to the ground.

  Two more attacked, side by side from behind, while I was still crouched. They must have leapt at my back simultaneously. They knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air and waited for their second strike. With half a breath, I turned to face the end with every bit of hate I could muster. The bastards weren't going to eat for free.

  One of the beasts lay eviscerated before me, its stomach practically cleaved in two. The other, circling behind, was engaged in a struggle with the most ferocious animal I have ever encountered.

  A huge, lumbering bear, eight feet tall on its hind quarters, and obsidian black, delivered a devastating swipe that tore the second brute's limb completely from its torso. The bear immediately settled on all fours and sank its teeth into the hyena's neck, shaking until the struggle was no more.

  Fully expecting to fall under its scything claws, I lay there shivering, cowering before the black behemoth like a rodent in a tomcat alley. As it strode forward, its dark, penetrating eyes chilled me to the bone. I was paralyzed, infused with utter hopelessness. My eyes closed as I felt his awful breath on my hair. A hollow opened up inside me, waiting for my release.

  Yet, something coarse, wet, almost tickly, dispelled the feeling almost instantly. It pulled me back from the brink. The monster, obsidian black and ferocious, was not a monster at all. As he licked my face, the way a dog expresses affection to a worthy human, the bear reminded me I was still alive. To this day, I have never felt a greater sense of providence.

  Rodrigo crawled over, nursing multiple wounds on his arms. Luckily for us, the slavering assailants did not have the jaws to match their appetites. Their bites proved painful, but shallow. I would liken their strength to that of a medium-sized canine.

  "You OK, Baz?"

  "Ask him," I replied. "He seems to be calling the shots."

  "I think he scared the bastards away. The ones on me ran hell for leather as soon as he showed up. Good thing, too. I was in bad shape."

  The Cuban lay on his back, trying to catch his breath. "Well, you were right about one thing, Baz. We were watched all along. I wonder which it was, though--them or him?"

  The bear sat between us, quietly observing as we helped each other to our feet and collected our packs. His pronounced, fleshy lower lip twitched open from time to time, as if he were concentrating, attempting to figure me out somehow.

  "What's he up to?" I whispered.

  "I think he's asking that same thing of us."

  "I dare say we need him with us. If we try for the time machine without him, those things will be back for seconds. If we push on without him, God knows what else we'll come across."

  "All right, now the question," he said. "How do you make an eight-hundred pound bear play tag-along?"

  "Hmm...let's find out." As I tried to limp past him, the bear growled and shifted position to block me. I went to pass him on the other side. Again, he barred my way.

  "He seems to know more than us, Baz. I think he's trying to tell us the way back is too dangerous."

  "Great. So we should press on indefinitely?"

  "Hey, it's not my idea. Like you say, he's calling the shots."

  I turned to our new ally, and, seeing there was no way his instincts would ever let us pass, I sighed and spoke to his loyal, adoring eyes for the first time, "OK, bear, let's see how far we can get."

  Chapter 8

  Rodrigo's assumption was correct. The bear, to whom I gave the name Darkly--the unknown deep of the rainforest ahead seemed to fit, in my mind, with the blackness of his hide--followed us closely, never falling more than a few meters behind.

  "He must think we have a chance in this direction," I said, "or else he just feels compelled to keep us safe. Either way, it's a strange attachment he's
formed, not that I'm complaining."

  "I've never really given much credit to bears," said Rodrigo. "I knew they were experts at survival, but I've never heard of one extending that to protect a human."

  "The bear's one of the Red Indian spirit guides, if I'm not mistaken. They definitely hold them in high regard, at any rate."

  "Darkly's some kind of guardian angel. But it's you he saved, Baz. He ran straight to your side. Maybe it's that English aftershave."

  "Or perhaps he took one whiff of you and decided you'd be better off lining the stomach of some butt-ugly beast," I retorted.

  We made tracks into the sweltering forest for the best part of two miles, stopping occasionally to rest and drink. Our water flasks were inadequate in this tropical kiln, though. I sweated more than I drank. Darkly never faltered, despite bearing a hide that must have seen him char-grilled beneath. I often wondered what his natural habitat would be like: mountainous perhaps, or a cool, reclusive cave system, similar to the environment we had encountered hundreds of feet below. So why was he here? What had compelled him to venture so far out of his milieu?

  I was intrigued to note how his attentions were ever on me, not my companion. If Rodrigo and I rounded an obstacle on opposite sides, Darkly would take my path. Whenever we stopped, his head would rarely swivel from my direction. Every so often he rushed our flank, halted just ahead of us on all fours and thrust his snout high in the air. Bears have an incredible sense of smell, far better than their lackluster eyesight. I believe Darkly utilized his as if we were his surrogate family.

  By early evening, I was ready to drop. In our few hours spent in this long-ago-buried hour glass, we had swum, climbed, walked, fought and limped our way to nowhere. Our route became less congested, though, while the temperature fell a few degrees.

  "Is that what I think it is?" asked Rodrigo, pointing to open grassland through the trees ahead. It was lit by a sliver of sunset.

  We had reached the far side of the forest. The relief was so potent, I felt my knees buckle. I let them collapse from under me. "We've made it," I sighed.