Chapter Twelve

The Green Gods

1.

HE WAS ARNAUD Fontaine! He knew he was Arnaud Fontaine. And he was having such a great time… Mon Dieu! Brandy didn’t have anything on this. His head was light, full to bursting with euphoria. His arms drifted at his sides like tethered balloons and everything, just everything, was so funny…

They let him wander about a bit, which was nice… But why would he want to go any further? He had everything he needed right here. Right within his grasp! Well there, there…there was Garrecreux! His old mate Garrecreux, bent over some fusty old science or something, crushing up the lovely sparkly bits and well…being a scientist, because that’s what he did, old Garrecreux. They let him help out and he liked it when he helped, because then he felt helpful, and that made him happy. But he was pretty happy anyway. Life was a dream!

And Coyne! Coyne was here, too. Arnaud loved Coyne. If it wasn’t for Coyne, he’d never be here in the first place. Merci, Coyne! Merci! Coyne didn’t seem to care, but Arnaud didn’t really care about that. Arnaud knew Coyne would talk to him if only he could! But he can’t, not where he is, poor Coyne, but it didn’t really matter. Arnaud knew Coyne loved him, too.

And love! Speaking of love, here was Madame Moonsinge again, coming in, seeing how everything was getting on. It was very important Arnaud helped to get everything done, he knew that, because if he did it right he’d get cuddles and kisses, which he liked. If he did it wrong Madame Moonsinge would get mad, and if she did Arnaud would get not love but horrid hurts, and Madame would take all the fun away until he got all shivery and sad and horrid… He had to make Madame Moonsinge happy, because Madame Moonsinge said they haven’t got long left, and everything that Madame Moonsinge said was fine and dandy by him. It was! Yay!

Arnaud was happy. Arnaud was content. Arnaud had been allowed a little rest, and so Arnaud decided he would go and sit outside the lab, in the big cave that—Shh!—is a big old secret from the world. He leaned back against a rock that he knew was a rock but was really very soft and fluffy, like a pillow at home. And look at the cave! It’s oh so nice. In the middle of the cave, so Madame Moonsinge told him, there used to be a big crystal tree. Arnaud giggled at the thought of that, and the sound of the giggle made him giggle again. Trees aren’t made of crystal! That’s silly! Madame Moonsinge is right, though, he told himself in a telling-off voice. Madame Moonsinge is always right.

The tree isn’t there any more. There’s a bit of it, a whatchacallit—a stump! Arnaud giggled again. Stump was such a funny word. There were all these little children and old women and old men and they were ever so careful when they chipped bits of stump—stump! Teehee!—away. They carried it so carefully to bring it up to Arnaud from the big, wide, cave. When they brought it he and his Best Friend Garrecreux would mix it up together into magic potions, and with those they will make the world a much better place! Much better! That’s what they tell him.

But ooh, there’s angry voices from behind him and he knows he’s been naughty, Arnaud knows he must get back to work. Can’t disappoint!

There’s no disappointing Madame Moonsinge!

Arnaud loves Madame Moonsinge.

Madame Moonsinge gave him kisses and the lovely green stuff.

2.

THE RIDERS POUNDED on, sending a torrent of red dust in their wake. The horses were not spared, relentlessly spurred onwards to their destination. Even Geronimo kept his head down low over his steed, his skill at riding and strength of purpose belying his seventy years of age. The vast, burnt topography of the Arizona landscape surrounded them, unbroken and daunting, lethal to the unwary despite its beauty. Wapi pointed ahead, indicating a hilly area that was barely a low, shallow hump on the horizon. Compared to the vivid, rusty sienna around them, this formation seemed to be composed of an entirely different mineral—it was a pale, jaundiced yellow, as if the rich iron pigment of the soil had been leached away, the bones of the rock left to bleach in the sun.

Wapi’s indication was enough. All the riders whipped their reins down on the horses’ necks and lowered their bodies against the wind. The day was already half-old; the sun had begun its descent down the other side of the sky with a lazy impatience that reflected its ambivalence towards the affairs of mortal men. It would fall and set without caring if these riders reached their destination, and if the stories were to be believed, then the riders would be wise to arrive while light still remained to illuminate this dark and accursed place.

3.

AND YET AN unwanted rider followed them. A sneak, a thief who had cajoled a boy she had beaten into helping her onto a horse too big for her, a boy she had threatened to beat again should he breathe a word of her transgression. She was a rider who learned quick, who kept her mouth shut and her eyes wide open, had absorbed the skills of tracking and hunting and skinning without ever being given a word of instruction.

The girl whose father did not deserve life, the daughter of a woman whose spirit had spanned the stars. She had been adopted by Geronimo but knew she did not fit, and in the eyes of Annabelle Bedford she had found that life she had always dreamed of, and so she left her old one in order to pursue it.

4.

NATHANIEL PACED FOLKARD’S office while Tally, who had pointed out that it was the height of rudeness not to enjoy a fine smoke with fine drink, had sat back in a maroon Chesterfield with a thick cigar he had purloined from a humidor on Folkard’s desk. Nathaniel had no patience with all this waiting, and had badgered a steward that he be granted an immediate audience with Admiral Sir Richard Vesey Hamilton, the current First Sea Lord and professional head of the Navy. If he had known how, he would have also insisted that some message be directed to the offices of Secret Service Bureau with a demand that whosoever called the shots in that clandestine faction should also attend. The true extent of the dangers they faced—on a personal, political and global scale—was only slowly coming to light, each possible trail seeming to end, literally and figuratively, in a frustrating stump. It was time for a true course of action to be decided.

The steward returned within minutes to inform Nathaniel and Tally that such a meeting had already been scheduled for later that afternoon but, with the current situation and Nathaniel’s insistence holding considerable sway in the right circles, schedules had been cleared and it was due to commence momentarily. The two were led quickly through the corridors of the Admiralty to the State Room that lay at its heart. Here was a room reserved for the highest level meetings, the whispers within which could alter the fate of the world.

Admiral Hamilton’s secretary, a studiously decorous and professional-looking man in a morning suit, nodded as he opened the grand double doors to the State Room. Inside this opulent space was a vast oval oak table with only two of its many seats occupied. Maps affixed to portable boards surrounded the far end of the table and a magnificently bright crystal chandelier hung low in the centre of the room.

Admiral Hamilton sat forward in his seat, poring over a document. He was wearing a double-breasted naval tunic adorned with braided epaulettes and bright brass buttons, and as the door clicked softly behind Tally and Nathaniel he beckoned them wordlessly to join him. The pomp and ceremony of the admiral’s uniform totally overshadowed the appearance of the man who sat to his right, a man Nathaniel had never seen before. He was dressed in the attire of a clerk or accountant. He wore a dark, nondescript suit with an ash-coloured scarf wrapped around his neck. Roughly fifty years of age, his dark hair was thin and cropped close to his skull. His grey eyes were shadowed under his brow, a fact that did not seem to diminish their intelligence and attentiveness. The other features on his face seemed oddly out of proportion—too large a nose, an oddly-rounded chin, but the overall effect was not one of ugliness, but of the mundane.

Tally stepped forward to take a seat but Nathaniel caught his arm—it would not do for them to sit with a man of such rank unless invited, and so they remained standing.

“Good afternoon, Professor Stone. And this, I take it, is Mister Cahalleret?”

“Indeed it is, sir.” said Tally, somewhat bashfully. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The admiral smiled briefly at Tally’s nervousness, but the look was soon lost as he turned to more serious matters. Nathaniel noted that the other man had neither been introduced nor introduced himself; his purpose here as yet a mystery and therefore prosaically obvious. Probably best not to make Tally aware of this just yet, lest the Irishman attempt to box his ears in retribution for broken promises.

“Gentlemen, the fact of the matter is that we have very little idea of the current state of play. Everything seems to be in confusion, threads dangling and disappearing almost as soon as they appear. I fear we are being played, to put it in frank terms, and are in a position of being permanently on the back foot.”

“Which is why it is imperative,” said Nathaniel, his tone remaining respectful but bordering on a command, “that Sovereign be commissioned forthwith to take us to Calcutta. It is there, I believe, that the villains who set the Horseguard’s bomb are headed.”

“And why is that?” asked the unnamed man quickly, his voice warm, precise and questioning.

“Because they told me,” said Nathaniel simply.

“Tell me exactly what happened in Dublin,” the man continued. “You may spare me the explosion and its upshot. I read the papers.”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth momentarily. “We discovered a cavern under Phoenix Park. It had been mined, if my guess is correct, by the Russians, and was the provenance of the mysterious green residue that imbued the Horseguard’s bomb with such deadly power. We discovered a sample there, far larger, and it was this that was used an accelerant to destroy all evidence of the operation. The bomb was set by as distasteful a pair of blackguards as I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“And who are these… villains?” asked Hamilton.

“An inhuman brute and a degenerate narcissist with a penchant for gloating. They call themselves Potsdam and Klopstock. Beyond that I have no idea.”

“Ever heard of them?” the admiral asked the mysterious man. He shook his head blankly and looked back down at the paper before him.

“Look,” started Nathaniel, leaning down to quietly address the gentleman with the scarf. “I know who you’re here representing. That much is obvious. You must have some knowledge on the progress of Arnaud or Captain Folkard. And while we’re on it, what was the nature of the captain’s mysterious mission? I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, you know. Who exactly are you? A figurehead? A messenger? You haven’t even told us your name.”

The man looked up at Nathaniel and blinked slowly.

“You can call me Tooler,” he said. “For now. As for your other requests, they are not without merit. We have heard nothing from any of your companions and must therefore assume the worst. However, seeing as you have mentioned Sovereign, allow me to offer you some small relief. It is currently en route to London, after which it has been ordered to seek out and assist the Bedfords in their American investigation.”

“Investigation?” sputtered Nathaniel. “So the honeymoon was all just a smokescreen for your insidious Bureau’s ends!” Tally’s ears pricked up, but he remained calm.

“Regrettably, yes,” said Tooler smoothly. “But rest assured; we are doing the best we can, Professor Stone.”

“And Jacob?”

“Captain Folkard’s mission was of the highest priority, and he was chosen due to his unique relationship with Sovereign. I regret that it falls to me to tell you, but we discovered…”

Tooler’s revelation was stopped short by a commotion coming from behind the doors at the other end of the room. A heated debate had sprung up, and Admiral Hamilton barely had time to utter “what the deuce?” under his breath before the doors were flung open and in strode Thomas St John Curnoble, 28th Lord of Chillingham, his face a dozen shades of red.

“Hamilton!” he bellowed. “By God, I’ll have you strung up for this! Do you really think you could convene such a meeting without me finding out? A demonstration not only of your lack of foresight but also of your lack of respect for my position. Needless to say I shall use these defects of character as principal reasons to call for your dismissal.”

Hamilton seemed unfazed. “Lord Chillingham,” he said coolly. “Please take a seat.” Lord Chillingham! Upon hearing the name, Nathaniel stiffened noticeably. He looked across, and for the briefest of moments the two men’s eyes met.

Chillingham broke the contact as if nothing had occurred. He huffed over and sat to the admiral’s right, dropping his bulk into the chair. He gritted his teeth, looked briefly over the papers on the desk without picking them up before sweeping them to one side with a gesture of impetuous irritation.

“I should have been in on this débâcle from the start, Hamilton,” he said. “If I were, I shouldn’t have let you make such a hash of it all.”

“And to which hash are you referring?” asked Nathaniel coolly. Chillingham barely registered his presence.

“Yes, Stone,” he muttered. “I might have known you’d be here, poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Lord Chillingham.”

“Well,” said Chillingham, shifting in his seat. “All of it. Obviously. The whole sorry mess.”

“It appears, Lord Chillingham,” cooed Tooler, a faint whiff of satisfaction in his voice, “that you’re not as well as informed as you would have us believe.”

“And who the devil are you, sir?”

“Oh,” said Tooler offhandedly. “I’m just chipping in.” Lord Chillingham opened his mouth to reprehend Tooler but Admiral Hamilton raised his hands in a gesture of pacification.

“If you wish to be better informed, Lord Chillingham, I suggest you sit back and let our friend here, as he so modestly puts it, chip in.”

“Very well. But I do so only under sufferance.”

Tooler waited a moment, then began.

“As I was saying, Professor, I’m afraid I must inform you that the blueprints of Sovereign have, by means unknown to us, found themselves in the hands of the Russians. It has long been our fear that they have been producing their own version of the ship. As you know, the Russians have been aware for some time of your covert mission on behalf of the Crown, and indeed your own survival was…”

“Yes. Whatever did happen to Mister Fenn?” Nathaniel asked, his mind drifting back to Mars and the prompt arrest of Jack Fenn following his admission of his betrayal of their mission to the Russians.

Tooler waved his question aside. “That is not something I am at liberty to discuss. Needless to say, Folkard was sent with a small team of our men to confirm or deny our fears about the Russians version of Sovereign. Then there is the issue of this mysterious compound. Reports have come to our attention that indicate the two are inexorably linked. The Russians, Lord Chillingham, are making a play for power…but to what end?”

Chillingham’s face burnt a deeper red, as if the question were an insult. “You said it yourself, sir!” he exploded vehemently. “Power! The only goal those quarrelsome swine have is to unseat us as the greatest nation on God’s Earth.”

“Quite,” said Tooler, pointedly. Chillingham bristled, but said no more. A moment of silence descended on the room. Here were the representatives of three bodies—the Government, the Navy and the Secret Service Bureau—all sharing a roughly common goal but having such disparate approaches and conflicting agendas they were barely able to have a civilised conversation. Tally was out of depth, having nothing to add, and so Nathaniel thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out the weight he had carried there from Ireland, the hunk of green mineral he had chipped from the crystal root. All three representatives of England’s foremost powers watched carefully as he set it down neatly on the table before them.

“This, gentlemen, is a sample of the mineral the Russians have been pursuing so ferociously. To uncover its mysteries is to uncover the true reason behind the Russian plot.” He turned to Hamilton. “Admiral, do you know when Sovereign is due to return?”

“It is set to arrive at first light tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Nathaniel. “That should hopefully be enough time for me to begin my investigations into the properties of the crystal. I can continue my research on Sovereign, should Doctor Beverly be good enough to let me use the sickbay as an impromptu laboratory. There should be plenty of time during the voyage to Calcutta, via, of course, Arizona to rendezvous with Annabelle.” He turned around. “Tally,” he continued, “can I rely on your help?”

“Ever to the end,” said Tally, smiling, “and at least until I’ve knocked the head of that bastard with the brass hands.” Nathaniel returned his smile, but the moment was usurped by Chillingham slamming his fists on the table and launching himself to his feet, sending his chair crashing back behind him.

“Am I to understand,” he seethed, “that not only are we now taking orders from a civilian—a civilian whose actions on Peregrine Station remain under close scrutiny, and whose character is in serious doubt—but we are also allowing into the Admiralty an Irishman, whose fellow countrymen deem it fit to rabble-rouse with talk of independence from the Empire?”

“Yes,” said Nathaniel simply. “That is what you are to understand. Particularly so, seeing as any fears concerning my involvement in the Peregrine tragedy have long since been allayed.”

Chillingham fumed. He understood Nathaniel’s emphasis well. Chillingham’s own role in Peregrine’s destruction and the subsequent cover-up was less known. As a result, it was almost as if he didn’t know where to direct his substantial ire first, and was therefore left helpless. Admiral Hamilton stepped in.

“Lord Chillingham,” he said, “despite your notorious reach of influence there is nothing you can do to stop me allowing Professor Stone passage to India on Sovereign. And as he says, that course of action may well be the only way to apprehend the terrorists responsible for such death and devastation. If you have a better idea, you’re welcome to share it.”

Chillingham stayed silent, brooding. Nathaniel sensed Chillingham’s petulant mind whirring, thinking of how the right words in the right ear, the right men sent out to snoop in the appropriate places, could bring retribution on those in the room who had emasculated him. Chillingham was not a man accustomed to defeat, but tactical retreat was quite another matter.

“I’ll bide my time,” he said eventually. “But a report will be made to the House of Lords concerning this matter. I’m sure they’ll be interested in how the Navy uses vital resources for holidaymaking, and what’s more, assisting a known saboteur…”

“Who is, officially, dead and was cleared of such a charge,” Hamilton pointed out.

Chillingham barely paused, showing no indication of hearing Hamilton’s well served point. “…and, above all things, a damn Fenian.”

Tally was about to rise to the bait, but Tooler caught his eye and gave him a warning glance. He spoke to Chillingham without looking at him, directing his attention instead to the papers before him like a true bureaucrat. He squinted at them for a moment.

“Mister Cahalleret, so I have been informed, has done far more to stem the bloodshed of an Irish uprising than you are ever likely to, Lord Chillingham. Speaking of which, Mister Cahalleret,” he said, turning in his seat to smile at Tally, “I would rather like a word with you in private at some point. You’ve proved yourself very capable, it seems, and certain promises were made. We have much to discuss.”

“Right so,” said Tally, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “But I was hoping on accompanying the professor, what with having a score to settle, an’ that…”

“Quite so, quite so. I think that’s permissible, is it not, Admiral?” The admiral nodded.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Not in my book,” said Chillingham.

“Your protest has been duly noted,” soothed Tooler, not without a hint of sarcasm.

“I’ll get a telegram off to Sovereign,” said Hamilton. “Professor, we’ll keep you informed, but in the meantime I suggest you prepare for your journey in what little time you have remaining.”

Nathaniel nodded. Chillingham looked at him with a wholly undisguised contempt.

“Then I think it wise I talk to Doctor Grant,” said Nathaniel, ignoring the lord’s petty ire. “If his madness has not subsumed him, he may well be of some assistance.”

Hamilton and Tooler exchanged an uneasy glance. Nathaniel picked up on it instantly, and looked at them with a challenge in his eyes.

“I’m afraid, Professor Stone, that isn’t possible,” said Admiral Hamilton.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because, regrettably, it is my duty to inform you that Doctor Grant has disappeared.”

“He seems to be making a habit of that,” Nathaniel said.

Grant was not the only one—disappearances in the Admiralty now seemed to be quite the done thing. If the knowledge of the unstable doctor’s disappearance was not troubling enough, it was only then that Nathaniel noticed the chunk of mysterious crystal he had placed on the table had vanished.

Any of the three men could have taken it.

5.

THE PALENESS OF the earth was eerie. It was almost as if they had ridden onto another world, a sensation Annabelle and George were not unfamiliar with. Yet here the sense of strangeness and dislocation felt far more acute. Perhaps it was because of the way it was their own planet that suddenly felt so alien. Perhaps it was simply the way the wind seemed to die away as soon as they approached, leaving the area cloaked in a still and sudden silence. Whatever it was, it was abundantly clear why the Apaches thought this a cursed place.

The low mesa that sat to the right of Greenore Gulch seemed much taller now they were close to it; this effect was enhanced by the basin in which the mine sat. Yet there was no evidence of this ever being a place for prospecting, a place where hopeful Americans had come with avarice in their hearts and silver in their mind’s eye. The entrance was nestled at the base of the mesa, hidden by an overhang and obvious only to those who were already aware of its existence. The riders approached cautiously—even the horses were spooked.

They looked around them. Everything seemed desolate and deserted. There was nothing on the horizon, no enemy on the approach… A blessing, possibly, which gave the already tense atmosphere a further layer of ill-omen. This was a quiet that should not be trusted. The horses scuffed down the steep side of the basin, sending up clouds of sallow, sickly dust. The group arranged themselves in a semi-circle facing the cave opening, and Wapi hopped down from his horse. There was nowhere to tie their steeds, whose wide eyes and ceaseless, shifting trots indicated they were moments away from bolting.

One-by-one the riders dismounted, with Wapi helping Geronimo down. They grouped together again, each keeping the reins of their horses held tight. Wapi reached into a large saddle-bag and brought out half a dozen wooden torches, the rags tied to the ends infecting the air with the stench of kerosene.

“Gopan and Iki, you stay here,” he said. “See if you can find somewhere to tie up the horses. Bly, Devra—scout the area, you must keep an eye on all approaches. If you see anyone or anything, come to find us, without haste.”

The braves nodded and swiftly obeyed Wapi’s instructions. Geronimo, wrapped in a tight shawl and seeming somehow frailer than before, stared at the young brave with a slow, sad intensity. Wapi turned away. He still could not look Annabelle in the eye, and avoided George’s too. The atmosphere felt as sour as the barren, washed-out landscape around them. Bert, sensing the tension, attempted to inject a little life into the party.

“So,” he said, in his chipper London accent. “Who’s up for exploring a mine, then?”

6.

THE TORCHES WERE lit and the group, with Wapi at its head, descended into the tunnel. Even here, the only indication of previous human interaction with this strange, accursed place was the odd scrape-mark of a pick on the walls. There were no pit-props, no tools…nothing.

“This place holds evil close in its heart,” said Geronimo, as they descended the gentle slope into the tunnels. “The white men who came did not respect the spirits as we do, but still they felt their presence. Their minds became bloated with fear before they could reach the true depths, the Green God Tree that nestles at the centre, the tree that needs neither sun nor water to thrive. It is said that only those who are true of spirit can come close to the Tree.”

“I once kicked a pigeon when I was drunk,” said Bert. “Hope that means I qualify.”

Wapi spun around, and suddenly the flame of the torch was close enough to Boon’s face to singe his eyebrows.

“You think this funny, magaanii? You think this evil place is one deserving of laughter, foolish talk of drinking and pigeons?”

“No, no,” said Bert, taken aback. “I’m sorry, I just…” He faltered.

Wapi stared at him for a moment, before turning around and heading once more into the gloom.

“…Wanted to lighten the mood,” Bert finished lamely. Geronimo placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse him,” he said. “The return of Yohana has brought back many memories, many emotions. They boil within him like a pot on the fire.”

“That’s as maybe,” said Boon, “but he doesn’t have to be so ruddy rude.” Geronimo patted him and smiled warmly, passed by Boon’s shoulder and weaved after Wapi downwards into the blackness. The forms of Annabelle and Bedford resolved themselves out of the dark to join Boon.

“Everything okay?” asked Bedford.

“Well the wind’s got up old Wapi, that’s for sure,” answered Bert. “What’s his problem?”

Annabelle and Bedford exchanged a glance.

“A tale for another time, Bert,” said Annabelle. Bert seemed to pick up on the insinuation pretty quick.

“Righty-ho,” he said. He looked behind him, checking that Wapi and Geronimo were out of earshot.

“Look,” he whispered. “What’s going on? Fact is, when I was sent out here by the Bureau they gave me sweet Fanny Adams to work with, to put it bluntly. Normally I’m a bit more informed than this. It was that slimy git Coyne who was meant to prep me, the one who’s with your French friend. Only he swans off without a by-your-leave. ‘Just look after the lovebirds’ is all he said. It was almost as if he was expecting you to make all the headway, which, credit where it’s due, is exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“Well,” said Annabelle, “we’re no more enlightened than you, Bert. The raiders who attacked us might be linked to this place, but they might not. Fact is, we can’t ignore the possibility we were targeted, and that this place might hold the key to their identity. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got to go on.”

“And trust me,” added Bedford. “I don’t like not knowing any more than you do.”

7.

IT DIDN’T TAKE them long to catch up with Wapi and Geronimo. The latter had overtaken the former as head of the party, leading with a confidence that the others were truly grateful for. Suddenly, his already wrinkled brow wrinkled further in the torchlight, a tight pursing of his lips indicating that everything was not, somehow, quite right.

“The feeling,” he muttered.

“Feeling?” asked Bedford. “What feeling?” Geronimo didn’t turn; in fact, it was almost as if Bedford’s question has strengthened his resolve, and he moved forward with a renewed vigour.

“The feeling that always comes,” he called back quickly, “that teases the mind in these tunnels, one I have felt each time I have entered here, somehow, now… It is gone. We must hurry.”

Though the caverns branched and tangled together, Geronimo seemed to know exactly where he was going. The intensity of his purpose seemed to render any further conversation moot. They continued ever downwards, and that keen sense Geronimo had mentioned, the one that allowed him to explore the spaces beyond the corporeal veil, began to tickle the minds of the others in the party. It was faint, indistinct, but unmistakable. It seemed to jar memories of past slights and jealousies in their mind, tug at them, almost mocking them. While at the same time reminding them of moments of pride, passion and success. It was unsettling and alien, the shadow of an intruder in the consciousness.

Geronimo stopped.

The tunnel ahead of them was illuminated with a faint, pale green glow. He turned back to the rest of the party, looked to each of them in turn for sign of the mental distress that coiled like tentacles from this haunted, foreboding place.

“We have arrived,” he said.

With a sudden caution he began to pick his way across the tunnel floor to the glowing chamber. The others followed suit.

It was not a particularly large space, and compared to the barren darkness of the tunnels, stepping into the cavern was like entering a nightmare from a long stretch of heavy, empty-minded sleep. Here the walls seemed to have had any trace of life or nutrients bleached from them; they were a crumbling, chalky white. Hung on this alabaster canvas was a myriad of offerings and totems. Skulls adorned with feathers hung from blackened strips of leather, wood and animal horns had been carved into grotesque, twisted parodies of people and the creatures of the desert. It was obvious, even to the untrained eye, that these pagan relics came in a myriad of styles and age; they were not the work of just one civilisation. This had been a place that had shocked the hearts and minds of many tribes over countless thousands of years.

Yet their work had been desecrated. Wherever the relics had been reachable by human hand, they had been torn from their moorings and smashed on the floor. All, that is, except for one, which sat at the back of the room undisturbed before a great, green, crystalline stump that rose from the centre of the floor, perhaps three foot high and half as tall, jagged where it had been cut away.

But the malignant shard was not what caught the attention of Bedford and Annabelle. Their gaze was trapped and held by the skeletal figure that oversaw this ancient place, strapped to a rough wooden seat in a sitting pose, monarch of this desolate kingdom. The seat was surrounded by more elaborate offerings of old feathers and intricate carvings, and had the look of some ancient heathen throne.

It had the rough shape of the people of Earth but its proportions were warped, almost apelike. The skull was bulbous and enlarged, the eye sockets large and pushed towards the sides of the head. The face seemed almost squished between the large forehead and long, protruding chin.

Memories of their previous excursion to Luna came rushing to the fore, and Annabelle remembered one of the images rendered on the monolith protruding from the surface of Phobos. It seemed these creatures had travelled further than the moons of the Solar System.

“A Drobate.” whispered Annabelle.

“You know of it,” said Geronimo. It was a statement, not a question. The five of them gathered around the alien, misshapen thing, captivated by its other-worldliness. The very look of it seemed to reach out on a primal level, intrinsically linked to the subconscious pull of this place. It was no wonder that, despite the destruction meted on the rest of the shrine, this reminder of ancient lives had remained untouched.

“They’re a race of creatures that inhabit the deeper reaches of Luna,” said Annabelle, reaching forward to touch the Drobate skull but just stopping short.

“From what we can tell,” continued Bedford, “the Drobates used to be a flourishing civilisation with an astounding degree of technological and scientific advancement. But something happened. Their society declined and collapsed to the point where they live little better than animals, savage and unruly, territorially aggressive—vicious, telepathic fighters. The presence of this feller here would seem to indicate that, at least at one point in their race’s history, they visited Earth.”

“It is said,” intoned Geronimo, “that in the stories passed down about the great crystal tree, that the Shaltak came. The meaning of Shaltak has been lost as languages grew and intertwined, but my own grandfather used to think it could be translated as ‘the spirits of the minds in the sky’.”

“Certainly ties in with your theory,” Bert said to Bedford.

“I cannot claim ownership of the theory; merely sharing what has been discovered by Professors Stone and Quintana, as told to me by Annabelle.”

Geronimo nodded at Bedford, and continued. “Nobody knows if the Shaltak planted the Crystal God Tree, or if they came in search of it.” He indicated the stump in the middle of the cavern. “But the legends state that the Shaltak crawled into the minds of our ancestors and pleaded with them that the tree should be protected and revered. It is my greatest shame, and one I shall carry to my grave, that it was in my lifetime this sacred and ancient duty was betrayed. I relied too heavily on the tree’s power to ward men off. I underestimated the evil in the minds of those who came and desecrated this place.”

“Having faith in the essential goodness of people isn’t something you should beat yourself up about,” said Bedford. He stopped, suddenly realising how trite and unimportant that sounded with the gravity of the situation.

“Whatever the circumstances,” stepped in Annabelle quickly, “the fact remains that we’re too late.”

Geronimo, suddenly leaden with the weight of his years, shuffled over to the stump and bent down to touch it gently.

“Look at it,” he said quietly. “Look at what remains. Beyond the effects it has on the minds of mortals, the Crystal God Tree was a wonder, a thing of great beauty, its branches spanning the whole of this cavern. A thing of nature and awe, Yohana, cut down by the ignorance of evil. It is my failure. No good will come of this.”

Annabelle crossed to him and gently lifted him up. “I understand the pain and disappointment you must feel, Goyahkla. But we have friends who can help, who will work with us to ensure the danger you speak of is fought, curtailed, and brought to justice. Any failure here may only be the start of a greater victory for the entire world. Have faith.”

Geronimo, who had suddenly seemed so aged and broken, stared at her, the light in his eyes reigniting.

“You are wise beyond your years, Yohana,” he said. “You give faith back to this old man. There is nothing more we can do here.”

Taking one last look at the strange and disturbing place, the group grabbed their torches and began the long climb back up the tunnel to the surface. They had got maybe half-way before Gopan came pelting down the passageway towards them, a flaming torch in one hand, the other holding his rifle aloft.

“Riders!” he cried.