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Season I after Out of Time
“We must be approaching Pedraig, the village Veronica spoke of.” Challenger turned to inform his companions. “We can only hope that she was correct in her assertion that they gather latex from the Hevea brasiliensis trees that grow here. And that they might be willing to trade with us.” They had emerged from a rough path in the jungle to a well-engineered and heavily-used road. Challenger had remarked at the time on the possibility that it might be travelled by wheeled vehicles and Roxton had pointed out the tracks that proved him right.
“You’d better be right, George. This has been a long trek. If it ends up being a waste of time…” Marguerite Krux left the threat unspoken. Five hours of making their way through overgrown trails in the stifling heat had sapped her reserves.
Behind her, Lord Roxton smiled at the familiar disgusted tone of the expedition’s reluctant translator. He slapped at the swarm of flies around his head and watched the similarly waving hands of the pair in front of him. “Never mind, Marguerite, I’m sure your sweet talking will bring them around,” he remarked with a hint of playful sarcasm.
“Most certainly. Your facility with languages was precisely the reason I knew this would be such an excellent opportunity. And why your presence is so necessary.” Challenger was so intent on his goal of producing more rubber to replace the envelope of the hot air balloon that he had missed the undercurrent of challenge and ribbing in the words exchanged by his companions. His work in the lab had assured him he could use their local supplies of sulphur for the vulcanization process but there were not enough rubber trees in the immediate vicinity of the treehouse to provide sufficient latex for their needs. If he couldn’t get enough of the natural rubber he would be compelled to develop a synthetic product.
They approached the village cautiously. It was an open design, protected mostly by sentries posted on high platforms in the trees close by. The protective palisade had many openings. It had apparently been designed by people more concerned with marauding predators than with enemy attack.
The sentries shouted a warning and the expedition members waited until a delegation met them at the gate. Marguerite stepped forward and, listening for a minute to the conversation around her to gather the nuances of the language, exchanged greetings with the tribe’s representative and started to discuss a trade. They were invited into the village; the negotiators sat on flat-topped stones that were arranged in a circle around the fire ring.
The party’s weapons intrigued the Pedraig chief. He told them that years of peaceful co-existence with surrounding tribes had been recently disturbed by the invasion of an aggressive nomadic tribe. The Pedraig were eager to exchange trade items for defensive weapons or assistance in resisting the Jaldeep, their new enemy. Challenger wracked his brain to come up with kinds of aid they could offer that did not include the secret of gunpowder, a secret he wasn’t willing to share.
Roxton listened to the translation becoming uneasy upon hearing about the nearby presence of a marauding tribe. Children chattered loudly as they raced through the village; natives went about their daily chores oblivious to the fact that the village was indefensible in the face of a concerted attack. His eyes rose to the surrounding sentry posts. Two were now unmanned! Closer examination showed a limp arm dangling from the floor of one of the perches. He scrambled to his feet.
“Trouble!” he shouted. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and turned in a slow circle. His words galvanized the whole negotiating party to action. Challenger reached for his rifle as Marguerite fumbled with the leather holster that held her pistol. The chief leaped to his feet and called out an alarm. The native men scrambled for weapons as the women screamed for their children. The camp was in chaos.
Challenger looked around worriedly as Marguerite turned to the hunter. “What …“ she began. Without shifting his focus from the danger that surrounded them, he raised a hand to silence her question.
As if on cue, attackers poured through every entrance to the village, through the gates, over the walls. Armed with machetes and axes they hacked their way through the resisting Pedraig. Furious that the advantage of surprise had been lost, forty or more Jaldeep warriors launched an attack, determined to overwhelm their opposition with a sledgehammer blow.
Roxton fired his rifle at the invaders, each bullet eliminating an attacker. As he ran out of ammunition for his rifle, he smoothly drew his pistol and emptied it as well. He had taken several steps away from the central circle and was now up against a wood and thatch building. He had a few seconds to reload his rifle before the next wave of enemies reached him, but it was empty again in moments. The finest long-range firearm he could purchase in London became an expensive club and he swung it with determined accuracy. He fought furiously for survival.
Challenger was beset immediately by a mob of attackers. He had a chance to fire a few shots before being swarmed by the enemy. His rifle was wrested from his grip; the native who took it used it to club Challenger into insensibility. The scientist pitched forward to the ground as the battle raged around his fallen body.
Marguerite fired her pistol at the native rampaging toward her, machete upraised. He fell, tumbling to a halt at her feet. Most of the other attackers were concentrating on the men. She saw Challenger on the ground, Roxton mobbed by a dozen foes. Reluctantly she came to the conclusion that, for now, escape was her best option. She could only hope that she might be able to rescue the others later.
She raced toward a gate that appeared to be deserted. She was close to her goal when an axe-wielding native came through the opening only a few feet away. She fired from the waist. Her shot shattered the hand holding the axe and his weapon fell. The man howled and clutched at his arm. Marguerite raised her weapon to take another shot. The native flung out his arm and knocked the pistol out of the hand of the startled woman.
He followed up his advantage by aiming a blow at her head. Marguerite ducked back to avoid the roundhouse swing then stepped in to deliver a solid punch to his jaw. As he staggered back, she turned and bent to retrieve her weapon. Instead of her pistol lying on the ground before her, she saw feet.
She straightened slightly to find a young boy, terror etched on his face, clutching her pistol in his quivering grasp. His eyes were on the attacker behind her. In that fraction of an instant, adrenaline slowed time to a crawl. Marguerite could watch it all unfold so clearly. She was aware of the man’s presence looming at her back. Her eyes were drawn to her pistol, its barrel pointed at her forehead. She saw the child’s trembling finger tightening on the trigger. Instinctively she dove to the side knowing with deadly certainty that it was too late.
Chalon held the strange weapon in his hand, aiming it at the horrible man who he knew was going to hurt him. Just as he was about to fire, the woman rose up in front of him. It was too late to stop. The weapon jumped in his hand, cutting his finger as it fell. The woman slumped soundlessly to the ground, her hat rolling to a stop beyond her.
The man behind her stood for a moment, staring down at the blood welling out of a hole in his chest. The wounded man sat down suddenly, then toppled backwards, dead. The child began to sob, terrified by the destruction he had wrought. He turned and ran screaming in search of his mother.
Roxton struggled in the arms of the men who had captured and disarmed him, but he was held too tightly to escape. He looked desperately around for Challenger and Marguerite. He saw the scientist being roughly lifted to his feet, his knees buckling for a moment under his weight. There was a smear of blood at his brow but he appeared to be recovering his senses and was muttering threats at his captors. The hunter searched frantically to catch sight of Marguerite but he could not see her. He prayed that she had escaped and was making her way to safety.
The battle was over. The attacking tribe ransacked the buildings for items of value and herded those villagers they thought would make useful slaves for their tribe or to exchange with the gangs who dealt in human trade. A few smaller children were driven out of the village, left to the mercy of the wild beasts as the buildings were set to the torch. The old and wounded were put to death. The dead were left on the ground as they had fallen. The rest were rounded up and driven en masse out of the village.
A small group of children, Chalon among them, looked back toward the raging inferno that had been their home, reduced to silence by the scope of their tragedy. The sound of sobbing rose as the realization of their helplessness sunk into to the minds of the abandoned youngsters.
Roxton, his arms tied behind him, was at the back of the pack. His eye was caught by the sight of a pistol lying on the ground. Marguerite’s! Not far from the revolver, he saw a sight that sickened him. Marguerite lay face down in an awkward heap, a pool of blood by her head. He broke toward her only to be slammed to the ground by the blow of a staff across his back. He was hauled back to his feet and dragged along by captors at each elbow. Roxton wrestled for freedom, the native at one elbow losing his grip in the violent struggle. Powered by the strength of his desperation, the hunter hauled his captors closer to the downed heiress. More warriors, drawn by the disturbance, arrived to club the English lord to his knees. Still straining to escape, he looked back at the still figure behind him as the guards yanked him roughly toward the rest of the captives.
His guttural cry of distress alerted Challenger who turned to see the anguish in the hunter’s face. He followed Roxton’s frantic stare to take in the sight of his fallen comrade. Her posture and the volume of blood led him to conclude that Miss Krux had suffered a traumatic head injury. The chances of her survival were quite remote. “No,” he blurted out in a voice filled with pain. His heart ached at the likely death of a member of the expedition. He was overwhelmed with self-reproach. He had known from the outset that it was insanity to bring a woman on such an enterprise and his worst fears were now realized. His heavy heart and throbbing head made the march into the jungle an agony. Roxton, restrained by a pair of husky guards, was dragged along behind him.
Their departure left the village in silence. The unmoving bodies carelessly strewn in the dust served as mute reminders of the human cost of greed and violence. The crackling flames merrily reduced a tribe’s existence to ashes, mocking the lives lost in the brutal assault. The predators, drawn by the smell of blood, gathered at a distance, kept at bay by the raging fire. Inside the compound one body twitched into consciousness.
The woman awoke to a roaring noise. Was it inside of her or out? It was in her head, she concluded. Her head was broken. The shattered pieces floated in and out of her vision even though her eyes were closed. She raised her hand to put the pieces back. Her hand touched solid matter. Her head seemed to be in one piece.
Her eyes flared open to view her blurry hand, crimson with blood. There was a lot of blood. Fresh blood, sticky blood, dried blood. She was empty of blood, she reasoned, there could only be so much in a person. But that would mean she was dead. No, she must be alive unless a ghost could feel pain. Because it was unbearably painful. Touching her head had changed the roaring into a screaming, an excruciating welling of pain. Eyes closing, she rested a moment.
She gathered strength to open her eyes once more. It hurt. She closed them. A moment later she tried again. There was less lurching of the landscape this time. She willed herself to move. The injured woman could not gather one single thought. Nothing existed in her blasted brain but a few low instincts. First among them was the inborn need to leave a place of danger to seek refuge. The wounded animal in her drove her to move. Weak and dizzy, she was unable to rise to her feet. She began to crawl away from the flames and the stink of death.
Even her survival instinct could not keep her conscious for long. She dragged herself toward the gate and the path to safety. The spark dimmed and she was reduced to a small heap in the compound weakly groping toward her goal.
~~~~~~~
The men trudged dejectedly among the other despondent prisoners. They walked for hours and it was deep twilight before they came to the rude habitations of the Jaldeep people. Though clearly a temporary camp, it bristled with fortifications and was guarded by a large force of armed men. They entered the palisade and were herded into a rough compound. Their captors took the time to retie the bonds so that the hands of every prisoner were fastened behind their backs. After that they were left to their own devices. Roxton paced silently, grief and anger playing across his face. As deep in misery as Challenger himself was, he knew he must somehow make the stricken hunter concentrate on survival.
“Roxton!” Challenger called out in a loud tone. “We need to have our wits about us if we intend to escape.”
The younger man turned a haunted face toward him in acknowledgement of the truth of his words. His jaw clenched as Roxton worked to clear his mind of grief and guilt so that he could concentrate on saving the man whom he had vowed to protect.
“You’re right, George.” The hunter quickly sized up the situation. “Not much we can do trussed up like chickens. Perhaps we can work on each other’s bonds. If our hands were untied, we might be able to figure out something.”
They stood back to back, their fingers trying to ease out the tight knots. They worked in silence for a while then Roxton, in a low, strangled voice, said, “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
Challenger sighed, his own guilt colouring his tone, “Such a bright spirit. I should never have allowed her to accompany us on the expedition. She should have stayed in London. I was a fool.”
“Don’t blame yourself, George, you couldn’t have stopped her if you’d tried. No, this was my fault. Why did I make her join us on this excursion? She clearly didn’t want to come with us. I pushed her into it.” A brief silence followed then Roxton added in a voice so low and filled with emotion, Challenger could scarcely make it out. “We left her all alone. I should have been there to protect her.”
“John, she’s not necessarily dead. Sometimes severe bleeding can indicate a superficial scalp wound rather than a fatal injury. Perhaps she has already recovered. And we are overdue at the treehouse by now. Veronica knows the route to that village. A rescue party may be on their way to her already.” The lanky scientist wasn’t sure he had cheered up the distraught hunter but he had improved his own mood a trifle. He redoubled his efforts to twist out the difficult knots in the vines wrapped around Roxton’s wrists.
~~~~~~~~
Kardoc the trader snapped his whip by the ears of his team. The stocky gypsy remained alert; the jungle was dangerous for a horse-drawn wagon – too many predators at close quarters. The rest of his people stayed in the open land to the south and east. He was the only one who traded with the people in these villages. The exclusive dealings had made him quite wealthy, enough to afford to occasionally replace a team of horses if they were lost to the raptors. More than once he had had to abandon his wagon at the roadside and make his way on foot to acquire new draft animals.
The horses raised their heads and shied suddenly. Alerted he searched the jungle for whatever had spooked the team. He caught the scent of smoke. It was coming from the village of the Pedraig, one of his preferred trading partners. He whipped the team to a faster gait. With his heavy wagon momentum was often his best protection.
~~~~~~~
The trader stood at the seat of his caravan, peering through the gate at the dying blaze within the village. He stepped off the wagon and walked through the main gate, cursing at the destruction within. This had been a good tribe to trade with, fair and reliable, their homes reduced now to embers. The troubled gypsy wandered among the dead, his face bleak at the heartless execution of young and old.
Realizing that carrion-eaters would soon move in to devour the remains, Kardoc hurried his pace as he examined the outer reaches of the compound. At one gate he noticed a female in different clothing than the villagers. Curious he drew closer. As he approached the body he was startled by the sight of her outstretched hand opening and closing on the grass. She was alive!
The swarthy trader knelt by the woman, rolling her to her back. His first impression was that this was the visage of a painted cannibal. One side of her face was sculpted beauty, pale and bloodless. The other was a mask of blood, garish and frightening. Her eyes fluttered open briefly then closed, showing a flicker of life within.
With little effort he scooped the woman up and walked to the rear of his wagon. He made his way up the steps and none too gently placed her in his bed. She would die most likely. But if she lived, she could be of great value. A woman like this usually had someone who wanted her back. She was dressed in the style of the outside world; it could mean she had real money. He was puzzled though, that she was wearing men’s breeches; perhaps she was a recent arrival to the plateau. Few newcomers survived the dangers of the plateau for more than a month or two. The woman was likely the latest victim of a world she was poorly suited for. He pressed his team to go as quickly as they could safely travel; he wanted to be out of the jungle by nightfall. In the wagon, the unconscious woman rolled in the bunk with the jolting movement of the wagon, her sense of self a dim light in the dark abyss.
As the last fingers of the sun let go of the edge of the earth, Kardoc the trader stopped his weary team by a widening of a stream. They had travelled far from the edge of the jungle and the fear of raptor attack was negligible. He unhitched his team and fed them, then started a fire for his meal. The stocky man grabbed a brand to light the lantern and went into the wagon to check the condition of the wounded woman.
She lay unmoving, her features slack. Her breathing was slow and shallow. Kardoc pushed up the lids to see glazed unresponsive eyes. He supported her upper body and tried to get her to drink some water. Her swallowing was quite delayed but he managed to get a little liquid down her throat before she choked feebly. The trader laid her back down gently. She would die tonight; all the signs were there. He sighed. A dead woman would bring no reward. And, beneath the blood, she must be a very pretty woman. What a shame. He could smell his meal cooking. He grabbed a blanket to make his bed outside.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The evening meal at the treehouse was heavy with tension. Summerlee’s delicious entree had been lightly picked at by the diners as they waited to hear the elevator rumble bringing their overdue companions to the table. Veronica tossed a half-eaten slice of melon down on her plate.
“I shouldn’t have let them go without me. They don’t know the Pedraig. Marguerite probably said something she shouldn’t have and they’ve been made prisoners.”
“More likely, they had a run-in with some of the vicious creatures that live on this chunk of land. Maybe had to climb a tree to escape and they’re stuck up there.” Malone still had a visceral reaction to the menace of the carnivorous dinosaurs that shared his new home.
Summerlee was alarmed by either possibility. “Perhaps we should go after them. We would be able to follow their tracks and find out what happened.” He put forth the option tentatively. He knew he was no expert on jungle survival.
Veronica looked speculatively out at the setting sun. “It will be too dark soon to travel. The area between here and the Pedraig village is home to a lot of nocturnal predators. No, we’ll leave before dawn and we’ll travel light and fast.” Veronica looked at Ned and Summerlee. The older man sighed.
“You go. I’ll just slow you down,” he said reluctantly.
“You sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Veronica’s tone revealed her doubts.
“I’ll leave the elevator up and a loaded rifle at my side,” the botanist promised. “And I’ll keep the home fires burning.” He rose and cleared the table.
~~~~~~
One guard roamed among the captives checking through the night that no-one was trying to escape. As the sun rose over the horizon, the man extinguished his torch. Roxton sat propped up against the wall of the enclosure, supporting the head of Challenger on his shoulder. Sometime during the night the sleeping scientist had slid toward the English lord and, apparently finding it a comfortable pillow, had proceeded to break into raucous snoring. Since John felt no desire to sleep, he allowed George to rest and regain his strength. He hoped he would not be deafened by his generosity.
The grieving hunter did not even like to close his eyes for fear another snippet of memory would flash across them – admiring Marguerite’s back after she removed her blouse on their trip upriver. Holding her while she sobbed, haunted by whatever apparition she had seen in that fungus-filled cave. Standing beside her when she had placed a bouquet at the feet of the ancient ruler whose tomb they had discovered.
They had spent so much of their time together in conflict, both real and artificial, that he had not realized how deeply imbedded in his life she had become. He had told her once that she was the kind that only came along once in a blue moon. He swallowed convulsively as he recalled what else he had said to her at that time –something about throwing her to the wolves. How could he have been so callous? Despite her air of superiority and her demonstrated skill with firearms, she was still a woman. His role on this expedition was to protect the others – a role he had failed miserably to perform. He was not a religious man but offered up a prayer that somehow she was alive. If she hadn’t survived, he would kill every one of his captors or die trying. He shook off the thought refusing to accept this grim alternative. Marguerite was a survivor. She was probably cursing him even now for his failure to protect her. If only he could hear her complaining voice once again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spark glimmered weakly in the vast blackness. A tiny capillary in the woman’s shaken brain had been torn just a little. Just a small amount of blood had leaked out and pooled along the inside of her skull. But there was nowhere for it to go and so it pressed against her brain and dimmed the light of her existence. Suddenly, because of pressure or fate, the blood vessel sealed itself and the trickle of blood ceased. The body’s healing powers set to the task of removing the extra fluid. The pool of blood began to slowly ease away from her brain. The spark flared up just a little, illuminating a small part of the darkness.
~~~~~~~~~
The anthem began. The elements gathered: earth, air, fire, water. The woman, clad in streamers of scarlet stepped off the land and into the air. Her bare feet were supported by a knife edge of stone, the air around her reached down to infinity and up to the cosmos. She approached the fiery wall before her with joy, the flames caressing her face, licking hungrily at her flesh. She emerged through the inferno as gleaming white bones, cleansed of impurity. She moved toward the glittery emerald surface before her and slipped through it. She sunk to the bottom of its vibrant green depths, her body once more whole. She drifted there on the bottom drinking and breathing in the nurturing liquid.
~~~~~~~~
Kardoc the trader rose with the coming of dawn. He dreaded his visit to the wagon. To bury a person before the sun rose was no way to start the day. Stirring up the fire, he waited until he could get a brand to light the lantern, then climbed into the wagon with reluctance. To his amazement, the woman was still breathing, a little colour in her face, good tone to her muscles. Miraculously, it appeared that she would survive. He slipped the lantern onto its hook, reached over and lifted her from the bunk.
Kardoc took his burden to the stream and placed her so that her back was on the bank. He supported her head in his hand as he immersed her hair in the water. He gently washed the blood from her face and let it loosen out of her matted hair. He had to do this for some time before he could examine her injury.
High over her left ear there was a furrow of broken flesh then a line of exposed white skull. He frowned trying to imagine what had caused the injury. He wondered if it had been a dull arrowhead that had made such a wide groove or whether the attackers were in possession of firearms. Whatever the weapon, it must have bounced off the tough bone of her skull. She was lucky to be so hard-headed.
He was doubtful about her recovery, though. He had known of people who had survived attacks that had left them unconscious. Though their physical recovery was complete, sometimes their minds were altered, their memories gone, their ability to learn destroyed. Who they were was lost. They were protected by the tribes as children would be or they were sacrificed to the gods. He hated to think that such a beautiful woman could suffer that fate. What a waste that would be. What’s more, her value would be much reduced. Losing his concentration for just a moment, he allowed the woman’s head to slip below the surface. He raised it immediately as the unconscious figure coughed and stirred.
Marguerite lay peacefully on the bottom of the sea, her hair snaking through the water with the movement of the ocean currents. Her memories came to her in the underwater river and tangled in her hair. They were eager to return to their place within her. Suddenly she could no longer breathe the water. She reached up through the cloudy water toward the surface.
Startled, Kardoc intercepted the woman’s hand in his own strong grip as she reached toward his face. Her grasp tightened in response The woman’s eyes flared open, startling in their intensity. The burly trader could see the pupils constrict and linger on his face. He could picture the confusion within that battered brain. “Take it easy,” he said in his language and repeated it in the traders’ language used in this part of the plateau. “You must rest.”
The injured woman tried to make sense of her situation. Her head throbbed so much, she could barely make out the man’s blurry features and the sounds he made were just noise. She closed her eyes and tried to remain still.
The trader carried her to his blanket by the fire and went to the wagon for some soft cloths and his medical kit. He tossed some fishing line that he had threaded through a hooked needle into a pot of water simmering over the fire. With the care he had learned mending the hurts of his children, he used the threaded needle to bring the edges of the wound together and made four neat stitches to hold them in place. His wife would be pleased at his skill, but jealous of the beauty of his patient.
Gently, he squeezed the moisture from her thick curly hair, then placed a pad on the wound and knotted a cloth around her head to keep it in place. Though her eyes remained tightly closed, he could tell that she was conscious throughout his ministrations. At one point during the stitching, she had uttered a stifled whimper. He raised her once again and got her to drink some water. She slumped back against his shoulder, unconscious once again, as he lifted her to her place in the wagon.
The memories climbed back in chaotically, some silently creeping into place, some tumbling over themselves in their eagerness to return, others, parading across her sleeping self as living dreams. A frown flitted across her face.
A street in a small town in Belgium, a cool breeze flipping up the collar of her thin overcoat. A blue metal gun barrel, the gray field uniform of a German soldier. The crack of a rifle shot, horror, silence. The image faded as it took its place.
The wagon drove slowly down the rutted path, the patient in the wagon lurching with every pothole.
The vision came from long ago. Was it an infant’s memory or a lonely child’s dream? Clutching a porcelain doll to her chest, its beautiful expressionless face before her, she looked up at the shape of a retreating woman. Her own small fingers were wrapped around a locket. Frantically, the unconscious woman tried to picture the features of the figure; she knew it was somehow important. But all she could see was the cold clay face of a doll. Their faces blended together and found a place in the sleeper’s brain.
She heard the tearing of her blouse and felt the cool breeze on her back. A robed figure ran a rough finger over her birthmark - the moon, the sun and the serpent. The stone altar felt cold beneath her cheek. The memory dove to a secret place deep within her brain. The wagon moved on.
~~~~~~
Ned and Veronica had left the treehouse well before dawn. Their journey was swift and uneventful, despite Ned’s sense that the surrounding greenery hid hordes of prowling raptors. He figured that the rapid pace that Veronica set through the narrow path had them past the danger before the dinosaurs were even aware of their presence. They emerged on the larger thoroughfare at mid-morning. The air was redolent with stale smoke and decay.
The jungle-reared blonde turned back to her companion and laid a hand on his forearm.
“Keep your eyes open; there could be raptors nearby. This stink will have attracted a whole host of predators.”
Malone, already tense with the potential threat of attack, loaded a round into his rifle and held it at the ready. They stepped cautiously toward the village, slight wisps of smoke still rising from the ashes within. The signs of carnage were everywhere, strewn clothes and broken weapons, flies buzzing over the remains left by predators, trampled grasses stained with dried blood, buildings levelled. Only the external palisade remained as evidence that a people had lived there just a day earlier.
Sick at heart the pair wandered through the compound looking for traces of their lost comrades. Veronica was hunkered in the centre of the compound, reading the footprints in the dirt when she was hailed by Malone’s tense call. “Over here.” She approached to see him holding Marguerite’s wide-brimmed hat, her pistol at his toe. He mutely displayed the hole in the hat where the brim met the crown. He handed it to Veronica, then picked up the pistol and broke it open. “It’s been fired. Still has a couple of shots left.” He snapped it together and pushed it into his waistband as he straightened.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said, gesturing at the hat in Veronica’s hands. She shook her head wordlessly. “How about you? What did you find?” Ned asked gently, hoping that Veronica had seen something more positive than his grim discovery.
She looked up and dragged her mind from the ominous article of clothing she held. “There was a big fight. Looks like the Pedraig were overwhelmed pretty quickly. I can see boot prints – Challenger’s and Roxton’s, but a lot of the prints have been trampled on, afterwards.”
“Raptors, right?” Ned queried. “That’s why there are no – bodies.” He hesitated, the silent question hanging in the air between them.
“She might not be dead, Malone. The attackers might have taken her with them, carried her. Maybe she walked away from this and her prints are covered by the raptors’ prints. And we do know that Challenger and Roxton left here alive. So we’re going to follow those tracks until we find them.” Her voice held both a note of fiery determination and a quiver of fear.
Veronica continued to cast around the compound reading the details of the combat, conquest and reptilian feast before nodding Malone to join her as she left through a side gate following a trampled path.
~~~~~~~
The wagon lurched to a stop. Kardoc dismounted to feed and water his animals. He prepared a small fire to make a mid-day meal. He had placed some dried meat, root vegetables and water in the cooking pot at his morning meal to begin a stew. Now he placed it back over the fire to simmer while he checked the condition of his vehicle then went inside to see if the woman was conscious.
She murmured in her sleep, her face marred by an expression of fear or anger. She raised herself up on one elbow, opened her eyes briefly then rolled into a ball, turned away from him. The trader reached to shake her shoulder in an attempt to rouse her, but there was no response. He left the wagon concerned. It looked like she had a brain fever. He feared the wound had made the woman crazy.
Memories? Nightmares? They tumbled in at her in intermingled form. Some were clear pictures. A man in bed (her husband?) with a young woman, his voice a distorted jumble. She was filled with disgust and humiliation. Running through the maze of streets in old Paris, pursued. By older children? By the gendarmes? She could feel the panic in her flight.
Other memories were less vivid. A woman’s voice. Her mother? A nightclub, couples chattering as a voice soared above the hubbub. A dingy alley, a man slumping to the ground, her eyes crawling downward to see the gun in her own hand. Icy coldness in her heart. No! The fractured mind denied the visions. This could not be real. She turned away from her memories and tried to return to the blank abyss that existed before the memories had come.
The trader scooped up a bowl of the stew for his meal then poured some of the remaining liquid into a bowl to cool. After he finished eating, he took the broth to the patient in the wagon. This time he managed to rouse her and help her sit up a bit. Her large light green eyes tracked his movements as he mimed eating. Her face was made ghostly by the beginning of bruising around her eyes and along her left temple.
He spooned some of the broth into her mouth and she swallowed eagerly. After a few mouthfuls she reached to take the spoon from his hand. Though a little shaky, she managed to take over the chore of feeding herself. He talked to her in a soothing tone while she ate, trying most of the European languages that he knew. She occasionally glanced at him, but responded to nothing.
She ate hungrily, the thick broth filling her empty stomach. She watched the man as he spoke, the sounds distorted and strange in her ears. She sensed that there was meaning there just beyond her capacity to understand. Frustrated with her helplessness, she concentrated on her body’s more immediate needs.
Putting the spoon aside, she used the man’s arm to pull herself to a seated position. She could feel her brain crash to the front of her skull then rebound backwards. The sickening sense of being in rapid motion became even worse when she closed her eyes. She opened them quickly and focused on the opening at the back of the wagon. She tried to rise to go out. Kardoc took the easier route and carried her down the steps. He placed her on her feet by the edge of the clearing. She swayed as she clutched at the nearest tree.
The whole procedure of relieving herself left her sickeningly unbalanced. She rose to a stand and tried to turn back to the wagon but that added to her vertigo. The ground seemed to rush toward her and she leaned back against the tree in desperation uttering a strangled cry. The gypsy grasped her upper arms to brace her; she was beginning to sag. He again peppered her with his thin vocabulary in various languages. She made no response, just let her forehead drop to his chest. He gathered her up in his arms and carried her back into the caravan. She was sleeping or unconscious before he laid her down.
~~~~~~~~~
It took little skill to follow the tracks of the raiders and their prisoners. Veronica saw the signs of the defeated, their steps stumbling in fatigue, an intermittent trail of blood attracting a host of crawling insects. She could pick out Roxton’s size eleven boot and Challenger’s slightly smaller footprint; they must be near the back of the group. She was comforted to see their steps looked strong with firm regular depressions. Challenger’s gait had seemed a little tentative at the beginning, as though he might be injured or distracted.
She and Ned would be able to make better time than a group this size with wounded and stunned prisoners. They would cut into the raiders’ near twenty-four hour lead. She only hoped an opportunity to free their friends would present itself. Despite Ned’s firearms they were no match for the large force of trained warriors they followed.
They arrived at the outskirts of the Jaldeep village by mid-afternoon. It had been built since Veronica’s last visit to the area. She cautiously led Malone to a hill above the walls where they could view most of the activities outside of the camp and a little of the inside of the compound as well. Veronica nudged Malone in the ribs and gestured at the compound.
“See there, the inner wall?” She indicated a line of upright timbers, sharpened at the tops. “That will be where they keep the prisoners. That’s where Roxton and Challenger will be right now.”
“And Marguerite, I hope,” muttered the journalist softly. “Damn it, Veronica, I wish we could get them out of there. They must be going through hell right now.” Ned’s boyish face tightened. He smacked his fist against his thigh in frustration and compassion for his imprisoned friends.
“Well, we’re not going to be making a rescue through the front door. This encampment is very well-guarded. See the watchtowers and the narrow opening between the high walls? Any major assault would have to funnel through there. We’d be sitting ducks for the bowmen at the walls. We’re going to have to figure out a different way to free them.”
“Why did they take so many prisoners anyway? It’s a pretty small village from the layout. It doesn’t look like they do any farming or herding. Or if they do, it’s somewhere else not here.” Malone frowned as he considered the puzzle.
“You’re right, Ned.” She thought for a moment. “This has got to be a temporary camp for the raiders. I haven’t seen any sign of women or children. I’d guess the prisoners will be used as slave labour. But they can’t keep them here for too long; too many mouths to feed. They either have to break camp in the next few days to head home or … trade the slaves to someone else.”
“You mean to slavers –like those guys in the northern maple forest you were warning us about?
“Yeah, those ones or others like them. That’s the most likely option.”
“Great. Either free them from bloodthirsty warriors or cold-blooded slavers. Not going to be easy either way.”
Veronica sighed in frustrated agreement.
“Well, we’re not going to be able to rescue them tonight, so I guess we’d better find a place to stay where we can keep an eye on the camp. We don’t want Roxton and Challenger taken away without us seeing them go.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a long uneventful day in the prisoner’s compound. Two or three guards constantly circulated to make sure the prisoners’ hands remained tightly tied. Twice during the day, their bonds had been released in groups of four or five so that they could eat and relieve themselves. There were two buckets of water in the compound so prisoners could slake their thirst. The only interruptions to the monotony were the occasional visits by tough-looking men who wandered through the compound sizing up the prisoners.
“Slavers.!” spat out Roxton. He sported a cut lip and an angry weal that stretched from chin to ear. Earlier a guard had noticed him and Challenger trying to free their bonds. A swift blow of his spear-end had knocked the hunter to the ground and set his head spinning. Now all the guards watched them carefully and any opportunity to free themselves had evaporated.
“No doubt,” agreed Challenger, “It appears that we’re all for sale to the highest bidder.”
“Hmm. It seems they’re not exactly sure what to make of you and me, Challenger.”
“I sincerely hope whoever bids highest takes us both. I fear your youth and superior strength will make you a more attractive acquisition than myself. These barbarians appear to value physical prowess over mental acuity. We may get separated.”
“Something had better happen soon. I can’t see how we are going to get out of here ourselves and I don’t fancy the chances of Veronica, Ned and Summerlee to break us out of this place.”
“Do you actually believe our comrades will have tracked us here?” The scientist was doubtful.
“If they had to take Marguerite back to the treehouse to treat her injuries, it might be a long time. But if she was able to accompany them, they could be out there already just waiting for their opportunity.” Roxton held tightly to Challenger’s encouraging words about the Marguerite’s condition. Challenger wished that he felt as hopeful himself.
Challenger looked up at the hills beyond the palisade. Roxton on the other hand fixed his gaze on the guards, searching for any vulnerability he could use against their captors.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The trader urged his team on to their next stop. The fast moving wagon lurched over potholes and ruts, causing Marguerite to linger in that dream state between sleep and wakefulness.
The memories were rich with details now. The scenes were clearer and longer. But still the voices spoke gibberish, just outside of her comprehension. Frequently she saw a heart-shaped pendant before her, marked by etchings. Sometimes it was held by the pudgy hands of a little girl, sometimes by the graceful fingers of a grown woman. Sometimes it was marred by a falling tear, sometimes snapped shut and thrust away. But it had deep meaning to her, she knew that much. And it made her sad. She could feel the sadness now.
~~~~~~~
She awoke with a start. Marguerite. “To our daughter Marguerite –forever in our thoughts.” Her name was Marguerite! Her heart soared with the knowledge that she had an identity. It would not take long, she reasoned, to know all the details of her past.
~~~~~~~
She was in a room in Shanghai, Xan’s chamber, unwrapping a broken amulet. But the memories around this were still foggy, she only knew that she needed it for something.
~~~~~~~~
The beefy gypsy pulled his wagon off the trail early for the evening. He had spent some time trading at the farming village of Medeera before retracing his route. He was going to have to make a decision tomorrow morning. Presumably, the people who belonged to this lady must be somewhere in the vicinity of the Pedraig village. But if she wasn’t able to tell him anything, he’d soon be moving out of the area.
He couldn’t keep the woman with him; his wife would have his hide if she found out. He knew that it would be easy to make a deal for her perhaps with one of the bar owners in the larger towns, the slavers, maybe even some farmer whose wife had died. He knew she was worth a pretty penny even if she was mute or addled; lots of men wouldn’t care much about that.
Kardoc made up his mind –if she wasn’t back to normal by the evening meal, he was going to have to make a deal for her. He really hoped she could talk; she would be worth a lot more if she wasn’t damaged. Besides, he’d become a little protective of her. He shook his head in disgust at such sentimentality then grinned, picturing what his wife would do if she knew he was thinking like that.
Marguerite lie on her back relieved that the wagon was finally motionless. For the first time she was able to survey the interior of the caravan. Large bundles of furs, buckets of grain and heaps of woven cloth filled one side of the wagon. Rows of candles were draped over poles that ran the length of the ceiling and dyed fabrics were stacked in the back corner. Marguerite speculated that the man used this wagon to trade or transport goods to the tribes in the area. When they had stopped sometime earlier that day she had been half aware of him at the back of the wagon talking and hefting in barrels. She gingerly sat up only to be overwhelmed by the unnerving sight of trade goods dissolving into a maelstrom of blurred colours. The injured woman gripped tightly to her bedside waiting for the merry-go-round to stop.
After the meal was set over the fire, the trader looked in on his patient. She was sitting up, her arms stiffly bracing herself in the effort to ward off vertigo and nausea. He spoke to her in a host of languages, at last using his limited English. “You want to be out?” She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged. She nodded fractionally, fearful that she might increase her dizziness.
He plucked her up, carried her down the stairs and sat her on a small stool by the fire. She held tight for almost a minute before relaxing her grip on his shoulder. The woman remained silent as he put some of the stew on a tin plate and thrust it toward her. She smiled her thanks and ate with relish. Anxious to make a decision, Kardoc began to ask questions in English.
“Can you talk?” A minute shake of the head was her response.
“Try!” he demanded. She frowned in concentration, her mouth working to form words. Eventually a harsh sound emerged “Canned.” Breathing hard with the effort, she placed a shaking hand on her forehead, bracing her elbow on her knee.
“Try again!” he exhorted her to continue. She shook her head without raising it from her hand.
“Where do you live?” She looked up at that, casting her eyes around the meadow. She shrugged her shoulders to communicate her utter lack of knowledge on that topic.
“Do you live near the village that was destroyed, where you were attacked?” When she shrugged again, the man demonstrated his frustration by tossing his empty plate to the ground.
The angry man towered over Marguerite. “Don’t you know anything?” In a gesture of candour, she shook her head. Even if she could speak, she had no answers to his questions.
“Stupid woman!” he muttered and walked away. He put a bridle on one of his horses and, using the wagon as a step, vaulted aboard its broad bare back. He kicked the reluctant beast into a lumbering trot. The trader had only a few hours before it was dark, barely enough time to reach the encampment of a local band of slavers. He knew the leader. For a slaver, he was a reasonable man. It was time to make a deal. He had hoped to return the woman to her people for a tidy reward. It hadn’t happened. It now looked like the lovely woman had lost her voice and a part of her mind. Kardoc knew when to cut his losses.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Afraid to risk a fire, Ned and Veronica shared a meal of dried raptor meat and fruit in a strained near-silence. Malone took the first watch as Veronica tried to still her racing mind and get some needed sleep. The city-bred American looked at the surrounding brush with unease. Raptors that would rip him to pieces if they caught his scent, his friends imprisoned facing a life of slavery, Marguerite missing and most likely dead - he was beginning to believe this savage Eden would not be satisfied until he was dead, till all of them were dead. As if to punctuate his melancholy thoughts, a nocturnal creature voiced an eerie plaint.
~~~~~~~~
Arthur Summerlee leaned his elbows on the railing of the treehouse balcony. Hands folded, he looked out upon the last rays of the sun sliding over the horizon. The resulting loss of light spurred him to reluctant action. He stepped back into the central room to pick up a lantern. With practised skill he trimmed the wick and lit it, adjusted the flame and closed the glass. Returning to the balcony, he reached up to hang it on the hook so it could serve as a flickering guide for any travellers approaching along the path.
The older man chastised himself for his disappointment. The absence of his companions merely confirmed their original suspicion that this was more than a misunderstanding in a trade deal or a missed turn on a jungle path. It was something more serious. Now they were all out there, those brave young people that had kindled his fatherly concern, and that old blusterer, Challenger.
He too had found a place in his rival’s heart. In some ways, their scientific methodology had shifted as their adversarial relationship had changed to respect. Summerlee, surrounded by a land filled with living proof, found himself making conclusions and connections he would never have allowed himself back in the lab in London. Challenger, on the other hand, freed of his obsessive need to have his dinosaur theory accepted, had broadened his focus, flashing the bright light of his quite amazing mind on various aspects of physics, technology and chemistry. The resulting inventions had made their life on the plateau a little safer and more comfortable.
The botanist fervently hoped that the expedition would return to London, not only to turn the scientific world on its ear, but also to demonstrate that rivals could agree, that people could change. What a show that would make! He chuckled as he imagined the scene at the Royal Zoological Society’s lecture hall.
I wonder if they have forgotten us, he mused. That thought turned his mood melancholy. If we don’t return, they’ll forget us soon enough. He retreated to the cheery hominess of the treehouse living area. Tomorrow he would organize the medical supplies. They would be needed if one of his missing comrades had been injured.
~~~~~~~~
Marguerite sat alone by the campfire, unwilling to stand and bring on the dizzy feeling again. She was quite pleased with her ability to just sit there. Her headache seemed to be subsiding and she didn’t feel as though her head might fly off her shoulders when she moved it slowly.
She was troubled by the man’s anger and subsequent departure; an instinct told her that she could be in danger. The injured woman sighed. She was in no position yet to protect herself, but she vowed she would recover soon. No bloody peddler was going to threaten her safety. She gently slid off the stool and curled up by the fire, her strength drained by her brief exertions. With the firelight flickering on her pale face, she drifted off.
The deal was struck. Kardoc returned to the campsite, pleased with the bargain he had made. He had hoped the slaver would come back with him, but the man did not relish a night under the stars.
The exchange would take place in the morning. Kardoc would travel down the road past the Pedraig village and meet the slaver at the crossroads that led to the south. Apparently Truin had heard of a number of slaves available at the Jaldeep encampment. He and Kardoc had agreed they were probably survivors of the Pedraig massacre.
Truin shrugged when the trader asked him if he felt bad trading for people who had once been his neighbours. The slaver spat before his reply, “It’s business.” Then he grunted, leering suggestively. “You should talk. You’re selling me the woman you’ve been keeping in your bed.” Kardoc had squirmed under his taunting gaze.
He returned to the campsite to see the woman curled up by the dying fire. Resisting an unsettling qualm of guilt, he threw a blanket over her, built up the fire once more then retired to the wagon. He took a moment to strip the bloodstained coverings from the bunk and place his last blanket on the pallet.
~~~~~~~
Roxton lay unsleeping on his side. His tied hands were beginning to throb, but it was his inner pain that kept him from rest. Even though he was close at hand, he was helpless to protect Challenger. What would he do if they were separated? Through it all, the nightmare image of a woman’s form, crumpled like a rag doll, haunted him. Damn her anyway, why was she always getting into trouble? Why couldn’t she just be like other women? The captive hunter felt an immediate stab of remorse for his outburst of anger. He eased his weight a little forward and slowly drifted into a light, restless sleep.
~~~~~~~~
The crackling fire softly lit the features of the sleeping woman.
It was a powerful memory driven by the strong emotions of a young woman.
Adrienne was laughing as she described her plan. “It will be easy. When Le Vol steals the gems, I’ll just take a few from the bag. He’ll never notice they are gone and even if he does, he’ll never suspect me.”
Marguerite frowned in dismay. “You’ve got to be crazy. You don’t steal from a man like that. He’s too dangerous. One word from him and your throat will be slashed in some dark alley just like that.” She slid her finger across her own neck to demonstrate his power.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be careful. Then we’ll leave, you and I, go to the Riviera - Saint Tropez maybe. A little money and, who knows, we could be living the life we deserve. Meet some rich men, yes?”
Suddenly it flooded in to the convalescent’s consciousness – Adrienne had died that night and she had been on the run for a long time after. She shuddered with a deep chill. Were all her memories moments of loss and killing and loneliness?
~~~~~~~~
In waves the memories flooded back, her childhood crept in along her long wavy hair, the vagabond years before the war chased behind them clamouring for attention, her complicated life during the war came as empty footsteps edging along the hole in her head.
The memories stopped in that back alley in central London, the German agent dead at her feet. Try as she might, she could think of no reason why she was in a gypsy caravan in a strange land with a serious head wound. She could only surmise that one of the many dangerous enemies she had collected over the years had caught up with her.
Underlying her returning memories was the bitter realization that, even with almost full recall, she had no name, no identity, no parents, and no childhood. As her life had flowed back into her brain, she had been struck by how bleak it was and how hardened she had become to live it. Her life had been dangerous and exciting perhaps, but ultimately hollow and empty.
She had a dim recollection of having held a gun to her own head. Perhaps that was why she was here in this wagon? Perhaps she had attempted suicide and botched the job? She closed her mind to that depressing line of thought, instead used the sharp stick of her focus to poke at the end point of her memories, that dark alley. She slipped deeper into sleep.
~~~~~~~~
She entered a room crowded with men, men in the seats around her, more in the balcony above. Their attention was focused on the speaker upon the stage, his red hair and beard bespeaking a quick temper. The man was obviously in a state already, colour high on his cheekbones, his voice a roar to drown out the catcalls raining at him from the crowd.
One man challenged him about the finances for his plan. She heard her voice cut through the tumult offering to pay for the expedition. Every eye in the room turned to her in admiration, amazement or condescension. She suspected the whole room was wondering “What was that woman thinking?” What was she thinking indeed? It would take her last penny and more to finance an expedition to – to where…?
Suddenly her vision melted into a jungle scene, a bellowing roar above her head. She raised her head to see a gigantic creature towering above her, its head so large, it turned to one side to look at her with a single reptilian eye. Marguerite awoke with a start, her heart hammering. Now that surely was a dream, a nightmare. There was no such thing as a living dinosaur.
~~~~~~~
John Roxton rose out of his dream like a man surfacing from deep underwater. His heart ached with regret and sadness. This time though, it wasn’t the usual nightmare –the one where his brother lay dying in his arms while he helplessly tried to staunch his blood.
This time he had been running across an Arctic landscape toward a cluster of wolves. As he shouted, the pack reluctantly abandoned its prey, revealing the heedless pose of a lying woman, trampled blood in the snow beside her. He thought he faintly heard the echo of his own voice “Marguerite, I’ll never forget you, that’s for sure.” – the words he had said to cheer up the unusually glum heiress that day outside the ancient tomb.
And it came to him that it was not guilt or revenge or his failure to protect his charges that put the lump of misery in his gut. No it was her – that irritating, infuriating, stubborn, enchanting woman. Haunted by his dream of a woman thrown to the wolves, the man got no more sleep that night.
~~~~~~~~~
Malone jumped as Veronica shook his shoulder. He had been in the midst of a nightmare and her touch had merged with his dream of a constricting snake. In seconds, he was aware and had himself under control. Their morning vigil was about to begin.
~~~~~~~
Shortly after dawn Marguerite eased herself up from the ground. When she was standing, she took a few tentative steps free of vertigo. She grabbed a stick and poked the fire back into life. The trader emerged from the caravan, stretching and scratching.
As the man set to making the morning meal, Marguerite noticed he said nothing and made no eye contact as though he somehow wanted to keep his distance from her. Her war-trained instincts were alarmed by the change in the man’s behaviour; he appeared to be waiting for something… or someone.
Marguerite had an overwhelming urge to leave the camp. In preparation she filled her stomach with fruit and hard bread. She had decided that at the next habitation, she would leave the caravan. She was filled with fear to be in a strange land with no memories of any friends or allies, but something told her that this refuge was no longer safe. With so little else to trust, she would listen to her instincts.
Breakfast finished, they broke camp. The recuperating woman was determined to be active, pushing herself to gauge the limits of her stamina. While Kardoc harnessed the team, Marguerite put things in the wagon, resting occasionally when a bout of dizziness overcame her. She needed to move very deliberately to avoid it completely. At the point of departure, Marguerite pantomimed her wish to join the man on the seat of the wagon. He nodded abruptly, thrust out an arm, and hauled her up to the seat. As she recovered from the abrupt motion, he snapped the reins and the caravan moved on, back toward the Pedraig village and, just beyond that, a rendezvous with Truin the slaver.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The watchers on the hillside crouched behind cover, using Ned’s journal to map out the area and to keep track of patrols in and out of the Jaldeep encampment. There appeared to be a number of strangers visiting the village, men that Veronica identified as likely slave traders.
“It looks like there’s competition to buy the slaves. There are three, maybe four different groups who’ve already come in to talk to the leaders of the tribe.” Veronica wracked her brain to figure how this bidding war could be used to their advantage.
Ned thought about this newest development. There had been many heroic rescues in the ‘Boys’ Own’ adventure stories that he had read in his younger years. But the ploys seemed a little impractical when it came down to saving his friends’ lives and not losing his own. He marshalled his most plausible ideas and pitched them to Veronica.
“Maybe we could convince these natives that their gods are angry with them –maybe wear a mask or something. Or we could convince a neighbouring tribe to attack the stronghold. We could free Roxton and Challenger in the confusion.”
Veronica got that look she always wore when one of her new friends demonstrated their ignorance of her world.
“Nice try, Malone, but I don’t know this tribe; much less what their gods might be like. And I suspect a warlike group like this would have made sure there was no threat of attack from their neighbours. No, we’ll have to wait until they leave the garrison then take our chances out on the trail.”
Ned sighed, recognizing the truth in Veronica’s words; the experience of the jungle-raised woman once more deflating his enthusiasm. He often felt out of his depth in this world, never more so than when Veronica showed her superior knowledge. Today though, he bore the slight readily; their friends’ lives depended on a well thought out rescue.
The blonde woman turned again to her equally fair-haired partner.
“If we’re going to be here all day, we’re going to need some food. We finished the last of our food at breakfast. I’ll see if I can find some meat and fruit while you keep track of the camp. If they go, follow and leave a trail. I’ll come after you.”
Her reassuring smile smoothed Malone’s instinctive jump of anxiety. It would be hard to concentrate on activities in the camp below when he knew some murderous lizard could be silently stalking him. He nodded his agreement as she slid silently into the forest. Even when Ned focussed on her retreat, she vanished like smoke, another wild creature blending into the savage land.
~~~~~~~~~~
Marguerite scanned the landscape as it rolled by, hopeful that it might spur her memory, but it only increased her uneasiness. This vegetation bore no resemblance to that which she knew, the trees at the edge of the meadow were clearly tropical, typical of Brazil, maybe or Venezuela. South America… A blurry photographic plate – a pterodactyl? A toast – to adventure, to the Lost World. A canoe sliding up the river in the jungle. A high sandstone mesa – a tepui – looming before her. Spears, shouts and gunfire. Panic-stricken, throwing herself into the basket of a hot air balloon.
So, she was on a plateau in South America, heaven knew why. She now had every confidence that those memories too would return. If only the man beside her wasn’t exuding an aura of fear and danger. They passed a recently abandoned village. Marguerite glanced curiously at Kardoc who was craning his head to look at the smoking ruins within. Less than a mile beyond, he pulled the team to a halt. He turned to her with regret and spoke in the language of his own people, the Rom.
“Sorry, lady. It would have been good to bring you back to your people but it was not possible. Truin is not so bad; maybe he will sell you to a kind man who will take care of you.” He looked at her bruised face in regret.
Marguerite masked the alarm that his words caused. Luckily he would not suspect she understood Romany considering that a day ago she couldn’t understand her own language.
Buying and selling people – such primitive customs. And what a dangerous spot she was in. The trader wrapped the reins around the brake and stepped to the ground. He came around to her side of the wagon and held out a hand to help her dismount. She stood with a charming smile, holding tightly to the side of the wagon. With all her might she viciously kicked him. The stunned trader sprawled on the ground, his mouth agape. He saw the woman reach for the reins. Marguerite crouched on the seat, whipping the horses into a run.
The wagon careened down the trail at a dangerous pace. Half a dozen men stood at a crossroads around the next corner, gesturing at the wagon approaching them. One man, apparently their leader, shouted orders and those men with bows drew arrows. A few shafts flew by as she drove the stampeding team at the band of armed men. They scattered at her wild approach. She was by them!
The caravan thundered wildly down the road. The team was panicked by now; one of the draft animals had been injured by an arrow. Spooked by the sudden pain it veered toward its mate. Then horses and wagon headed inexorably toward the edge of the road.
By the time the team had recovered and moved back toward the harder surface, the giant wheels had sunk in the soft earth close to the ditch, tilting the big wagon to an ominous angle and slowing its progress to a near-halt. Horses and harness were pulled backward as the caravan toppled to its side and began to slide down the embankment. Marguerite had clung to the seat of the wagon through the jostling journey, leaping aside only as the seat approached the vertical. She scrambled away to avoid the wild-eyed horses being pulled down behind the wagon.
Bracing herself against the return of her motion sickness, she took in the scene. The caravan was on its side, wedged against the bottom of the gully. The horses plunged for a while trying to regain the bank, then they stopped, shivering in fear. She would have liked to unharness them but she had scant time before pursuit would be upon her. Hopefully Kardoc would come to free them.
She picked her way to the back of the wagon and reached into the tangled mess inside. Searching through the debris she rescued a canteen that she filled from the water barrel which remarkably lay undamaged a short distance from the wagon. She was pleased to find a knife, which she thrust into her boot. Anxiety that the slave traders might be upon her in a moment caused her to break off the search. She hesitated briefly then plunged into the jungle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The experienced journalist kept accurate notes and diagrams of the camp’s activities. His reporter’s eye allowed him to identify some of the major characters in the tribe and he made some reasonable conjectures based on his observations. Almost three hours after Veronica had left, he was startled by her low murmur directly behind him.
“I’m so glad you’re still here. I wasn’t looking forward to tracking you.” She unwrapped some cooked meat –likely from one of the small agouti that inhabited the plateau in abundance. He raised an eyebrow.
“I grilled it over the fire where I snared it so the smoke wouldn’t give away our position here. She offered him some meat then wiped her knife to slice some melons and cut away the seeds. Ned ate with a young man’s healthy appetite. He twirled his knife, inspecting the meat skewered on its end and said with a grin “Once again, I’ll live in the mystery.”
Veronica smiled warmly in fond memory of a wonderful moment in their relationship – a moonlight picnic. It had been tainted shortly afterwards by a violent argument precipitated by a young native’s search for a dream wife. She had struggled to articulate her feelings of betrayal at Malone’s high-handed actions –presuming to take control of her life.
Up to then, she had been confused by her growing attraction to the handsome and sweet-natured American. That incident had shown her another side of the man and, if she thought about it, of herself as well. Until she had sorted it all out, it was best that she not encourage any advances on his part.
Ned cursed himself for bringing back those memories. He saw the young beauty’s smile fade into a look of pensive distance. That day he had done what he thought a gentleman –any man- should do –protect a woman. He had been stunned at her anger and despair. Instead of being thanked as a hero for fighting for her honour, he had been compelled to prevent Veronica from taking her own life. Her cold words of warning “and I’m not yours either,” had made it impossible for him to press his romantic intentions as he would like.
Veronica glanced up at the encampment then dropped her melon to the ground. “Looks like something’s up.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Challenger shook himself out of the light doze he’d slipped into. Propped up against the wall sitting in the shade, the boredom of their aimless day had finally caught up to him. He’d considered every avenue of escape possible and dismissed them all.
He’d thought though a couple of his recent scientific hypotheses to what appeared to be interesting conclusions. He sincerely hoped that someday he’d have the opportunity to investigate them more thoroughly in his lab. As well, he had kept an eye on his companion with steadily increasing concern.
Lord Roxton was pacing the compound, fuelled by angry energy. He walked on the balls of his feet, his gait and manner that of a predatory animal prowling in the tight confines of a cage in the London Zoo. Challenger worried that his companion’s restless energy might explode into a desperate and doomed bid for freedom. The scientist himself had reached a state of resigned despair. Challenger realized that his own skills and qualities would be of little esteem to the slavers. If he and Roxton were separated…
~~~~~~~~~~~
Continued in Part 2
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