The Basingstoke Chronicles (11 page)

Each stepping stone was traversable by a single pace. Each step landed me firmly in the
centre of the stone. It required only a small lean in any direction to position my chin over the
edge. In addition, so that each gesture would
appear
to be my chosen step, I either
pulled back or proceeded only at the very last moment. Anything less, I feared, would give the
game away.

Thus, my mind became a difference engine as I played out this charade. The ultimate
Blind Man's Bluff.

A step to the right.

"Why have you come to The Land?"

"To learn. We are curious to learn from this great land of which we have heard so
little."

Another step to the right.

"What do you know of the seafaring science?"

"We are well versed in the basic laws of seafaring, though few from England can sail the
seas any more. You need not fear more of us arriving, as we have traveled a near fatal distance to
reach you."

A very unsure, heart-in-mouth step backwards.

"How well do you know the stars in the sky?"

"Not well at all. The science of the stars is of little interest to me."

Though his choice of topics intrigued me, I wondered how many of these bizarre
questions the Kamachej had in store. Through his crafty mind game, he was obviously putting
together a subtle jigsaw picture of me. I took another backward step.

"How did you come to travel with a great bear from the east?"

Picturing that awful moment when Darkly first appeared, his ferocious claws having
scythed two hyenas, I smiled. The irony lifted my spirits. The bear did all that for me, and I
thought he was lining me up to be the main course. Darkly, my great protector from the east.

"He saved me from the jaws of death in the forest. Before that, I had never seen him.
Afterwards he stood by me without incentive. I will be forever in his debt."

An easy step to the left.

"What do you know of the Chamber of Skulls?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Right, don't move," warned Rodrigo, in response to a curt phrase from the Kamachej.
"Stay right where you are, Baz."

Footsteps snapped rhythmically behind me. I cursed the Kamachej. For all my brave
efforts, was this to be it? Was this Chamber of Skulls ploy a trick question, an excuse to dispose
of undesirables without fair process? Perhaps the Tongue of Deceit resided in the mouth of this
viper, Vichama Supay. Expecting to feel the tip of a spear push me over the edge at any moment,
I felt bitterly disappointed.

But the guard loosened my bonds and, a moment later, cut my blindfold free. It is
impossible to describe that sense of release. Having toiled over a game of life and death, I was
now to be shown that puzzle I had played in darkness.

As my eyes adjusted, I looked down into a deep, square shaft a single step ahead, the
contents of which, far below, were orange and molten. My bridge was in fact a three by three
square of stone flags surrounding this central chimney. A hot shiver ran through me. Sweat
streamed down my face. All I had done was walk round this square pavement to the very spot I
had started.

Indeed, the deception was partially in the name itself, Tongue of Deceit, that one's mind
would never imagine crossing in the form it
actually
took. Those first two steps haunt
me even now. Was there really sorcery at work, which my first two honest answers had satisfied?
If I had been truthful each time, would I have survived without cheating?

Behind me was a narrow bridge, about five paces long, across another drop. This
bottomless void was completely black and encircled the square I was on. Even the scenarios my
imagination had painted were less precarious. I was, indeed, over an unfathomable pit!

Two figures sat on a dark seat across the room. The larger, whom I took for Vichama
Supay, remained in shadow. A shaft of sunlight lit his wife, Chasca Quilla. She was the woman I
had met outside in the garden, the grey-cloaked figure. As I heard these words that I shall never
forget, the solitude of being blind struck a sinuous chord in my heart, for that which I had
suffered so briefly was what this woman was forever doomed to endure.

"
Wun'aa pacha morhanto.
"

"You're free to go."

I felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted. Rodrigo must have also felt it, for
he puffed his cheeks. Two columns of guards flanked us, waiting to escort us from the chamber.
The bloke who had untied me quickly ushered me across the narrow bridge, the only means of
traversing the chasm.

When I reached my Cuban friend, we shared a firm handshake. Sweat cascaded from his
brow. It soaked his tidy stubble and glazed his bronzed skin so that he glistened in the flickering
torchlight. He grinned in that broad manner I knew well, a cheeky, mischievous smile which
somehow covered any mood, on any occasion, without ever changing in the slightest.

I turned once more to look at Chasca Quilla as we marched out. A tall fellow helped her
down the steps from the throne. Before he left, he stopped to meet my glance. I recognized him
straight away as Puma Pawq'ar.

The Prince of Apterona?

His superior demeanor seemed to fit. Also, his insistence that we follow the strange code
of silence en route to the Kamachej tallied with that of an obedient son.

He and Pacal were wise to keep that from us. Strangers are always best dealt with
cautiously.

Our exit from the palace was far less convoluted than our entrance had been. Only two
guards accompanied us to the golden arch. The rest filed away into a shadowy alcove.

Pacal greeted us with all the warmth of the afternoon sun. Behind him, the blue steps
leading outside the ziggurat baked in a liquid haze, as if our miraculous survival had somehow
predicated a walk on water. No sooner had we reached the valley floor than Pacal broke the
silence. "He says only two foreigners have ever survived their audience with the Kamachej,"
relayed Rodrigo, "including you, Baz. He's very pleased, and wants to know how you did it."

"Tell him it's because I've got nothing to hide," I replied.

Rodrigo translated, after which the native gave me the slightest of bows. "
Tataku
wan fijiga menunto
," he said.

"The devil possesses all faces but one," Rodrigo translated.

"And which one is that?" I asked.

Rodrigo answered that one on his own. "Honesty, of course."

On that afternoon of our third day, we relied solely on Pacal Votan. Our trek back to his
village was spirited. Rodrigo and I bombarded him with questions on every facet of his culture, to
such an extent that he began deflecting them with queries of his own, but he learned considerably
less about us than we did of Apterona.

To me, the most pertinent mystery was the absence of law enforcement. The
assassination attempt on me, Pacal said, "Needed no further intervention, as the status quo was
resolved on its own."

Even forgetting the fact that our party, including Darkly, had killed five men among us,
and the status quo had therefore
not
been resolved, I found this an abhorrent philosophy.
What was the motive behind the attack? Who had orchestrated it? Was there to be no
investigation?

"The guard of the Kamachej guards
only
the Kamachej and his family,"
explained Pacal. "If there is a dispute that we cannot resolve among ourselves, Puma Pawq'ar,
son of the Kamachej, makes the decision. Now you can understand why he treated you so
abruptly. There is no more responsible a role than his on Apterona."

"But what if a serious crime is committed? Is there no punishment?"

"Not punishment, no. We humans are not qualified to measure a crime. Who are we to
judge what reprisals fit the flaws of a man? No, in such instances, and those are extremely rare,
that person is allowed to prove his worthiness to remain among us."

"Yes, Baz," agreed the Cuban. "The next time you get an urge to sneak up on the queen,
feel free not to. I intend to stay here longer than suicide attempts like that will permit."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What? You're actually thinking of living with this
rabble?"

Rodrigo nodded.

"My friend, tell me, how many more attacks do you think they'll plan before one of them
does the job properly?" I asked. "You heard Pacal. Their law only wakes up after the fact--which,
by that time, is something
we
won't be able to do. I'm telling you, these people are the
worst kind of iniquities, just begging for a reason to turn nasty."

Pacal observed me closely as I said this. Nothing in his conduct thus far had given me
cause to suspect
him
, yet he had not been able to protect me the previous day. I felt far
from safe.

He offered us both a strip of dry meat, which we promptly devoured. It was my first bite
of anything substantial since supper on board the
Moncado
. I have never tasted a more
succulent slice of beef!

"There's no rush to leave is there, Baz? Pacal says the palisade gates are under constant
supervision. If we arm ourselves and keep a low profile, we can stay as long as we like."

"Just how long are we talking about, Rodrigo? Weeks, months, years? I've a feeling
we've learned all we need to learn already."

"I tell you what, give me the time it takes you to learn the language, OK? That way,
when you return to England you'll have a real souvenir to show off."

"OK, Rodrigo. Just one condition--if anyone even begins to suspect we're from the
future, we hot-foot it immediately. No buts. We've lucked out so far, but if the Kamachej should
ever get wind of the time machine--"

"Absolutely. But there's no way they can find that out unless we let it slip. Plus by the
time
you
learn their language, we'll be the relics around here."

"Easy up," I replied. "I should tell you--I'm a dab hand at speaking bullshit."

"Brother, you can say that again."

Try as I might, he did not take my warning seriously, and I resigned myself to the fact
that if Rodrigo had no desire to leave just yet, I could not leave him marooned. We had, after all,
traveled through time together as explorers.
And a little exploring is all he has in mind, isn't
it?

We set about making this voyage of discovery a fulfilling one. In truth, only a few
incidents during our stay in Yaku, or water village, had any significant bearing on this tale, for
we confined ourselves safely within the bounds of the palisade. But we were there to learn, and
learn we did.

For the first few weeks, we were content with an introduction to this remarkable culture.
It was a steep learning curve. As students from a time of great technology, the practicalities of
basic living were as alien to us as computerized payrolls or pizza delivery would be to an
Apteronian.

Our days often split into three. The mornings, which started quite early for an idle
aristocrat like myself--I would say around six o'clock--entailed much of the physical work of this
self-sufficient community. This was when pairs of hunters stalked the plains for venison and
antelope, using only long wooden spears, the common weapon of Apterona. I never fully trusted
anyone who bore a spear, and with good reason, it seems to me. The identities of those assassins
were never disclosed. Rodrigo told me how their bodies had been carried away by a dispatch of
palace guards, without explanation or investigation.

Hunting parties often spent the best part of a day gathering food stock. On occasion, I
was allowed to assist in the sorting of these dead animals for food preparation. But I never
developed a taste, as it were, for either chore. What fascinated me, however, was the sheer
diversity of birds and beasts these errant gatherers brought home. As well as the more regular red
antelope--a nimble creature, very easily spooked--there was a veritable prime menu of quadruped
steaks on order. Tastiest of all were the spotted cattle, exceedingly clumsy, large, grey beasts with
two spiraling horns. The beef cut from these beasts alone was worth the price of a time travel
ticket.

Only the most adroit hunters tried to capture the two swiftest species on the west of the
island. These were zebras and white deer. Once they kicked into full flight, they could
never
be caught. I was given opportunities to taste both, but rarely. The zebra meat was a little too
stringy for my palette, while the white venison was exceptional by any standards. Rodrigo,
became quite the gourmet and proclaimed the white deer meat fit for a king.

An essential animal for the community was the
wanaku
, or giant alpaca, whose
gluttony was legendary on Apterona, and whose long, silken wool was sheared and then
fashioned into the cloth used to garb this ancient people. I grew quite fond of these poor beasts.
Relatives of the llama, they often reached seven feet tall, and, unlike the other nearby
quadrupeds, were obedient. Granted, they weren't slaughtered for their flesh--the hyena creatures
of the forest had whittled their great herds to an all-time low--but I found their cooperation
unusual and pitiable. Indeed, they had gotten so used to humans, they were now practically
domesticated.

I often thought back to that night at Dumitrescu's, to the mystery man and his woolen
clothing. The disparity of nine thousand years was no longer the enigma. The time machine had
unraveled that question. What intrigued me now was the identity of that doomed time-traveler,
whose fateful escape to our own time had kick-started this adventure.

One morning, Rodrigo, while trying on a white chiton made for him by K'achita, a very
tall local woman whose weaving skills amazed us, expressed his own views on the matter.
"It seems pretty obvious to me, Baz, that we've hit the jackpot insofar as likely
candidates for our unfortunate time traveler.
Wanakus
provide the clothes, the natives
wear the clothes. The body they found in the sea was dressed in exactly the same fashion. We're
probably living next door to the poor sonofabitch right now. And since there's no way we can
identify him, we'll just have to wait and see what happens. The only thing that concerns me is the
state he was in when the fishermen plucked him from the sea."