Okay, thought Raven as he stood on a corner, trying to ignore the drizzle that was rapidly becoming a heavy rainfall. I’ve been a saloon keeper, a Munchkin, and a wizard. Maybe it’s time I became something of my own choosing, something that can help me figure out what the hell is going on—always assuming that it is still my life.
He closed his eyes, tensed his body, and waited.
Nothing happened.
Damn it! I’ve done it before, three times in fact. Now I’ve got to concentrate. Just how the hell did I do it?
He stood still and tried to picture himself as Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. All that happened was that he got wetter and colder, and a cop began staring at him as if he might start tearing off his clothes or maybe pull a gun and begin shooting up the neighborhood.
He forced a smile at the cop.
“I’m okay, officer,” he said. “Just working off a little too much to drink.”
“Watch out for traffic,” replied the cop in a friendly voice.
“I’m not that drunk,” said Raven.
“I’ll take your word for it—but if you stand that close to the curb, you’re going to get drenched.”
“Thanks,” said Raven, moving across the sidewalk to stand under the protection of an awning.
“Take it easy, fella,” said the cop, walking away.
Okay, thought Raven. How did I do it?
He tried to remember the circumstances of his transformations, and realized that he hadn’t willed them at all. Casablanca—Bogart and Bergman’s Casablanca—didn’t exist, neither did Oz, and there was no reason to think he purposely willed himself back over the centuries and across the ocean to Camelot.
Then I didn’t do it, he concluded. They—whoever they are—did it to or for me.
So he was at a dead end, three minutes after walking out of Rofocale’s room.
And then it hit him: Maybe not.
He latched on to the thought. I may not have chosen the destinations or the eras, but I was the one who was transported. That is my ability. I can move from here to—well, to anywhere. All I have to do is dope out how to steer through time and space and reality.
He stopped and frowned. It felt right, but it seemed too crazy to be true.
After standing there for another five minutes without reaching any further conclusion, he realized that he was getting hungry. He looked down the block, saw six or seven establishments with their lights still on, and began walking toward them. The first five were bars, the sixth was a still-open magazine shop that wasn’t even subtle about booking bets on the next day’s races, and the seventh—the Golden Biscuit—was a diner.
He entered the diner, looked around for a table, found that the only three were in use, and sat down on a stool at the counter, where he ordered a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.
“Still pouring?” asked the counterman.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, well,” said the counterman, “how much muddier can Belmont get than it already is?”
“You sure you shouldn’t be working next door?” asked Raven with a smile.
“Nah,” said the man, returning his smile. “If I stopped betting and went to work there, they’d go broke in a week.”
Raven chuckled, and began sipping his coffee as the man went off to make his sandwich. When he returned he laid the plate down in front of Raven.
“Thanks,” said Raven.
“My pleasure. Maybe we ain’t as fancy as the Carnivore, that snazzy restaurant over on the next block, but who the hell wants hippo ham or crocodile steak anyway?”
“They really sell hippo and crocodile?”
The counterman nodded. “You wouldn’t believe what they sell. If it’s wild and not native to North America, it’s on their menu—and if you live on Park Avenue or thereabouts, you can probably even afford it.”
“Probably half the price goes to the guy who risked his life to kill what they’re serving in the first place,” suggested Raven.
“If it was me, I’d want ninety percent,” said the counterman. “Hell, I get nightmares when my neighbor’s cat hisses at me. I can’t imagine what it feels like to stand there and face a charging lion.”
I wonder what it does feel like?
And suddenly there he was, on the African veldt, staring down the barrel of his rifle as a huge dark-maned lion bore down upon him, roaring hideously.
This can’t be happening, he thought—but then he remembered the very real pain he experienced in Oz and Camelot, and pulled the trigger as the lion was making his final leap. The huge cat fell dead at Raven’s feet. His left forepaw twitched a few times, and then he was perfectly still.
“Well done, Bwana,” said a voice next to him, and he turned to see a black face. The face belonged to a tall, lean man who reached out and took Raven’s rifle away from him, and so was clearly his gun bearer.
Okay, thought Raven. That helps narrow it down. He called me “Bwana,” not “Baas,” so we’re in East Africa rather than South or southern Africa. But who am I, and what the hell am I doing here?
He had no answer, and rather than head off in the wrong direction and walk into the jaws of the lion’s companions or mate, he waited until his gun bearer started walking away and fell into step behind him.
They walked across the lush green veldt for perhaps a quarter mile, then came to a narrow river lined with acacia trees and began walking along it. In a few minutes a tented camp came into view, and a lovely auburn-haired woman waved at him. As he drew closer, he was able to make out her facial features. They were Lisa’s.
Of course, he thought. You’ve been everywhere else, so why not here too?
“I heard the shot,” she said as he approached her. “Did you get him?”
“Yes.”
She nodded her head. “I assumed so, since there was no second shot. You are quite the marksman, Mr. Quatermain.”
So I’m Alan Quatermain. And now let me hazard a guess as to your identity.
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Just a pleasant smile, no other reaction at all. So you’re Elizabeth Curtis, not Sir Henry Curtis, and that means we’re in the movie, not the book—for whatever that’s worth.
“You must be thirsty,” she said. “Can I have one of the camp boys get you a drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” he replied. He walked over to a camp chair. “Mind if I sit down?”
“It’s your camp, Mr. Quatermain,” said the British noblewoman with Lisa’s face and voice.
“True,” he agreed. “But you’re paying for it.”
“I expect to be well-compensated when we find the mines,” she replied.
“If we find them,” said Raven.
“I have untold faith in your abilities, Mr. Quatermain.”
“If you really mean that,” he replied, “please start calling me Alan.” Oops! I almost said “Eddie.”
“Certainly, Alan,” she replied. “Do you think we’re getting close to them?”
Raven frowned. Where the hell did Haggard put them? It’s been a couple of decades since I read the damned book. “Difficult to say, ma’am.”
“Elizabeth,” she corrected him.
“Elizabeth,” he amended. “The thing to remember is that finding them is only the first part of the problem. They figure to be very well protected. They could have hundreds of warriors guarding the place.”
“Ah, but we’ve got you,” she replied with a smile.
“I admire your confidence, Elizabeth,” he said. “But I’d rather have forty or fifty armed men.”
“No you wouldn’t,” she said.
“I wouldn’t?”
“If you did, we’d have to split the treasure fifty ways, and I probably couldn’t pay your salary out of what’s left.”
He chuckled. “I guess you’re in luck after all,” he said. “How much can it cost to bury one used-up old hunter?”
“Don’t talk like that, even in jest,” she said.
“I apologize, ma’am.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth,” he corrected.
She turned to one of the natives who were hovering around a small campfire. “I’ll have a cup of tea, please.”
The man gave her a snappy military salute, which looked rather ludicrous since he was wearing nothing but a loincloth and a colorful blanket, picked up a kettle, poured a cup of tea, and carried it over to her.
“Thank you, Njobo,” she said.
He bowed, saluted again, and walked back over to the fire.
“Once again, Mr. Quatermain, how far do you think we are from the mines?”
“From the map’s placement of the mines,” he corrected her. “Let me see it once more, please?”
She instructed one of the camp attendants to bring her the ancient folded paper, not quite parchment, and handed it to him.
He studied it for a moment, then looked up. “It all depends, ma’am.”
“Elizabeth,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Elizabeth.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “We’re here,” he said. “And we have to go”—he pointed to another spot—“here.” He paused for a moment. “Now, if this was a map of England, I’d say we could be there in two days without relying on public transportation. But of course, this is Africa, and there’s not a sidewalk or a paved road within a couple hundred kilometers. And there are other factors. First, are there hostile tribes—or, just as bothersome, hostile animals—along the way? Second, is the map accurate?”
“I have been assured that it’s authentic,” she replied. “The paper, the ink, the—”
“I didn’t ask if it was authentic,” replied Raven. “I asked if it was accurate.” He paused. “The map is hundreds of years old, possibly even a thousand. Is that correct?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then clearly you are not its first owner. So how do we know that some prior owner hasn’t used it and plundered King Solomon’s Mines already?”
“You’ve been in Africa too long, Mr. Quatermain,” she said.
“Trust me, if the mines have been found, no one could keep it a secret for a month, let alone a millennium.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.” She added, “And let’s hope there are no surprises.”
The biggest surprise I keep getting is meeting you in all these mythical places. You were charming as Dorothy, and captivating as Ilsa, and every inch a sorceress as Morgan le Fay—but I was never happier than when we were just Lisa and Eddie, meeting for meals, going on dates, and planning to spend the rest of our lives together. He grinned wryly. Who’d have guessed that the rest of our lives included wizards, kings, magicians, Nazis, and man-eating lions?
“You smiled,” she noted. “Is something funny?”
“Probably I’m just happy the lion didn’t eat either of us.”
“You have a very strange sense of humor, Mr. Quatermain.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I persist in thinking it would be considerably less funny if the lion had won.” He looked at the sky. “It’s going to be dark soon, Lisa. Maybe we should have the camp boys start preparing dinner.”
“Fine,” she said. “And I’m Elizabeth.” She stared at him. “Who is Lisa?”
“Beats me,” he answered. “Sometimes I think I imagined her.” Hell, sometimes I think I’m imagining all of this.
But you’re not, said Rofocale’s voice within his head.
Then what the hell am I doing here, a fictional character hunting for a probably fictional treasure, in a fictional version of a country I’ve never been to?
Just persevere, said Rofocale, and all will become clear.
You said that the last three times.
The thought that came through was hazy and garbled, and Raven knew Rofocale was losing consciousness again.
An hour later the camp crew had fixed dinner—steaks taken from a Grant’s gazelle he had slain earlier in the day—and he sat down on a canvas chair a few feet away from Elizabeth Curtis.
“It’s very good,” she said, indicating the steak.
“I prefer kudu,” he replied, “but there’s certainly nothing wrong with Grant’s gazelle.”
“So when should we reach the mines?” she asked, then added, “Assuming nothing distracts us.”
“I’m more concerned about being attacked than distracted,” replied Raven, forcing a smile. “The mines have existed for a millennium or two. Someone has got to be guarding or protecting them against intruders.”
She gave an unconcerned shrug. “They’re just guards. You’re Alan Quatermain.”
“But they’ve never read H. Rider Haggard,” he replied.
She frowned. “Who?”
Oh, hell, of course you wouldn’t know. You’re living the story, not reading it.
“Nobody very important,” he said with a shrug. “What do you plan to do with all the trillions we find?”
“First, of course, I’ll pay off any debts Henry left when he died.”
So you’re single and available. That makes the risk almost worthwhile.
“And the rest?”
She shrugged. “I’m sure there are numerous charitable foundations that can use some economic help. And who knows? I may get married again someday. I don’t want my future husband to be marrying a pauper.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t care.”
She stared at him. “Oh?”
“Just a hunch,” he replied with a shrug.
There was a moment’s silence, and then she spoke again. “You still haven’t answered me.”
“About what?”
“When we expect to reach the mines.”
“I’d just be guessing. A lot of it depends on whether our information is accurate—and if it is, a lot more depends on who or what has successfully guarded them for a millennium or two.”
“If you have serious doubts, you shouldn’t have agreed to come,” she said.
I don’t remember agreeing. One minute I was in Manhattan, and the next I was facing a charging lion.
“The thrill of actually finding the mines makes it worth all the risks and uncertainties,” he said aloud.
“Good,” she replied. “Because there seems to be literally no one else with the necessary skills to lead this expedition.”
I could mention Selous or Pretorius or even Trader Horn, but while they existed in my world, who knows if they belong to this one as well?
“I appreciate your confidence in me, Mrs. Curtis,” said Raven.
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry—Elizabeth.” He shrugged. “If nothing else, at least you’ll get to see a lot of Africa.”
“You make it seem romantic and beautiful,” she replied, “but I know that it’s red in tooth and claw. That lion you shot today was the third one to attack one of us . . . and then there was the elephant, and the rhinoceros, and . . .”
“We’re intruding on their territory,” he said. “They have every right to defend it.”
“We’re certainly not eating what the elephant and the rhinoceros ate.”
He smiled. “They have limited intelligence. Hell, if they were smarter, they’d still rule this land, and such men as survived would be kept in cages in their equivalent of a local zoo.”
She chuckled. “I like your imagination, Mr. Quatermain.”
I like it a hell of a lot better than Rofocale’s. What the hell am I doing here? In fact, now that I come to think of it, what are you doing here?
He frowned and stared at her for a long moment.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Quatermain?”
Might as well try.
“Call me Eddie,” he said.
“You’re Alan, not Eddie.”
“Sorry,” he said, forcing a smile. “That just slipped out. I had a friend who couldn’t pronounce ‘Alan’ when I was a child, so he called me ‘Eddie.’”
She stared at him as if he might begin foaming at the mouth any moment, then shrugged. “Actually, it’s not a bad alternative. I think under other circumstances Eddie fits you as well or better.”
“The trick is to find those other circumstances,” he said, watching her intently for a reaction . . . but there was none.
Njobo brought them their coffee.
“Very acceptable,” she said as Njobo retreated. “It would have been better with cream, but one can’t have everything under these circumstances.”
“Someday cream and sugar substitutes will be as common as coffee itself,” said Raven.
“You say that like one who knows,” she replied.
“I’m good at extrapolating,” he said with a smile.
She returned his smile. “So you can predict something that will replace cream centuries from now, but you can’t predict if and when we’ll come to the mines.”
I’d say “Touché,” but you’d probably find that offensive.
“I could be wrong,” he said.
“Let’s just hope that the map and the information poor dear Henry collected about the mines aren’t wrong.” She stared at him. “What will you do with your share?”
“My share?” he repeated. “I’m just the hired help.”
“If we find it, there’ll be riches for everyone.” Suddenly she grinned. “Which means, for you and me.”
“I must confess that I haven’t given it a moment’s thought,” answered Raven.
Which is why I keep wondering if we’re even going to find them. Because a few handfuls of diamonds should have made me among the richest men in the world, but when I met you before all this began, I was just a normal guy with a normal income and normal debts.
“Well, that should give you something to dream about,” she said, finishing her coffee and getting to her feet. “I’m going to retire to my tent and get some sleep. I keep hoping that tomorrow will be the day, and I’ll need all my energy for it.” She paused. “I just wish those monkeys would stop chattering.”
“They’re on our side,” said Raven.
She frowned in puzzlement. “Our side?”
He nodded his head. “When they stop chattering, we’ll know that a lion or leopard is approaching the camp, and that we shouldn’t leave our tents.”
She smiled. “I never thought of that. Thank you, Alan.”
“Sleep well, Elizabeth,” he said.
She wandered over to her tent and entered it, and Raven found that he was carrying a pipe in his safari coat. He pulled it out and stared at it, and while he was doing so Njobo brought over a pouch of tobacco.
“No, thanks,” said Raven. “I don’t smoke.”
“Then why . . . ?” Njobo frowned as his voice trailed off.
“Must have belonged to her husband,” he said, and appreciated that Njobo had the courtesy not to ask what he was doing with it.
“I think we get there tomorrow, Bwana,” said Njobo.
“I hope you’re right,” answered Raven. “We’re not that far from the border, and I’d hate to go to all the trouble of getting more permissions.”
“Then why bother?” asked Njobo.
Raven sighed. “No way around it. It’s their country. They make the rules.”
“No!” said Njobo harshly. “It is our country, and no one may tell us where we can and cannot go!”
“I knew I liked you the day we first met,” said Raven with a smile. “But just the same, I hope we find the mines in the next day or two.”
“So do I.”
“What will you do with your money?” asked Raven.
“Easy,” answered Njobo. “I will give it to a white farmer for a dozen cows. And then . . .” He smiled and sighed.
“And then?” prompted Raven.
“I will buy twelve young and beautiful brides.”
“No wonder you come with me on every hunt and every trek,” said Raven with a chuckle. “You’re clearly building up your stamina.”
Both men laughed.
Raven decided that as long as he was carrying a pipe he might as well try the damned thing, so he filled it, lit it, and tried to remember not to inhale.
“If you get twelve wives, you won’t be able to come out on safari with me,” he said.
“Certainly I will, Bwana,” said Njobo.
Raven smiled. “I admire your notion of a happy home life.”
“They will be too busy caring for my sons and daughters to miss me.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” said Raven with a chuckle.
“First, because you are a white man, and second, because you do not belong here.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Raven sharply.
“You look like Alan Quatermain, and you shoot like Alan Quatermain,” said Njobo. “But you do not speak or think like him.”
“Then why have you stayed with me on this safari?”
“Because you are a good man, and the woman depends on you, and before long you’re going to need all the help my men and I can give you.”
“Why?” asked Raven promptly.
Njobo smiled. “If you were really Alan Quatermain you would have read the signs the last three days.”
“What signs?” demanded Raven.
Njobo smiled. “You see?”
“What did the signs say?”
“Keep away.”
“Just that?”
Njobo shook his head. “Keep away—or die.”
That’s damned good advice, Eddie, he said to himself. Maybe you ought to take it, no matter how good a shot you are as Quatermain.
“We will not tell the memsaab,” said Raven at last.
“We work for you, Bwana—not for her,” agreed Njobo.
“Okay. Point out the next couple of signs when we come to them.”
“I will.”
“Okay,” said Raven, heading off to his tent. “Might as well get some sleep while I can.”
“I have had two men guarding your tent every night while you sleep,” said Njobo.
Raven was about to tell him not to bother. Then he thought about it, thanked Njobo, and entered his tent. He sat down on his cot, elbows on knees, fists propping up jaw, and considered the situation.
Hey, Rofocale—are you there?
No answer.
Okay, it just meant that he would have to use his combined skills as Raven and Quatermain to solve whatever problems Fate chose to throw at him next.
He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling that Fate was chuckling at the thought.