K Jeter - Morlock Night

"Let em try," said Tafe with fierce determination. "I haven't gone this far just to be stopped an inch from the finish line."

We made our way without incident to the little village at the foot of the hills. There I convinced one of the local burghers that Tafe and I were English tourists who had gotten separated from our hiking party. For a nominal amount of pound notes – my wallet had stayed in my inside coat pocket through all our trials so far – I hired a small cart and a pair of horses to draw it I promised to have them sent back by someone at our destination, which was the nearest town situated on a railway line. Another wad of notes secured the possession of two ancient, rust-specked rifles and a handful of rounds. "For the trolls?" said the seller, laughing as he handed the guns to me.

"Trolls?" I said. "What trolls?"

"Ach, some of the little children here claim to have seen trolls in the hills nearby. Pale white ones with blue glass spectacles. Such imagination they have!"

"Indeed," I murmured, and hurried outside to where Tafe was waiting with the cart.

"I'll take the reins," I said and handed her the rifles. "Load these and be quick about it. We'll need them before very long, I'm afraid."

The sun had not yet risen when we left the village. To reach our planned destination we would have to pass directly beneath a row of weathered cliffs that terminated one section of the hills from which we had descended earlier. This was the point at which I anticipated the Morlocks attempt upon us. I coaxed as much speed from the two venerable plow-horses drawing us as was possible, while the cart jarred in and out of the rural lane's ruts, shaking as if it were ready to fall apart.

For a moment, as we passed the last of the small cliffs that bordered the road, I dared to hope that the attack I had expected was somehow not to be realised. My small spark of hope was dashed when a pair of rifle shots sounded above us. The two startled horses bucked and reared at the noise, tearing the reins loose from my hands. One of the cart's wheels caught in a rut and twisted, snapping the worm-eaten axle. The cart crashed onto its side, throwing us clear and interposing itself as a temporary barrier between ourselves and any more shots from the cliff.

The bundle containing the sword Excalibur lay within reach of my hands. I drew it to my side, then gestured to Tafe a few feet away. "Give me one of the rifles," I said urgently. "They'll rush us soon – perhaps we can pick off enough of them to give us a chance to break for it."

"No," she said, holding the rifles close to herself. "Take the sword and one of the horses. I can hold them back while you head for the town."

"Give me the rifle. We're going on together or not at all."

"I can't go with you," she said, her voice straining. "Can't you see? I'm hit." She moved her arm away from her side and in the dim moonlight I could see the blood pulsing through her torn clothing and onto the ground. The two shots from the Morlocks had found their mark.

My mind swam dizzily for a moment at the sight, then held with decision. "I'll carry you," I said. "On the back of one of the horses. We'll be able to get away from them, and we can find a doctor in the town ahead."

She shook her head. "That's useless. I've bought it. I've seen enough of my buddies get shot in my own time, and I can tell how bad this is. I'd be dead from loss of blood in a mile and the Morlocks would catch up with you and kill you and take the sword and what good would it all be. Come on, get out of here. Take the goddamn sword and go."

I hesitated, then bowed to her wishes. "I'll send someone back for you," I said.

"Don't bother. I'll be dead by then." She winced from a sudden pain deep in her vitals. "That'll just cause trouble for you, and you've got to make time back to England."

Bending low to stay behind the cover of the overturned cart, I loosed the faster looking of the two horses from his harness. Under one arm I carried the bundle with Excalibur inside. "Good-bye, Tafe," I called back to her. "I- "

"Hey, are you going or not?" she said in exasperation.

I swung myself onto the horse's back, clutched my free hand into its mane, then dug my heels into its ribs. A hasty shot from one of the Morlocks kicked up dust at its hooves, but I was soon out of their range. I looked over my shoulder and saw Tafe lining up a shot over the side of the cart, then she was lost in the darkness behind me. As I rode I leaned into the horse's mane, trying to press everything but my flight, from my breast.

I travelled by train all the way from Berlin to the Franco-German border in a state of high anxiety, unable to sleep or rest for fear of further Morlock attempts on my life. As well, the question of whether, after all my efforts so far, I would be in time to do any good preyed on my mind. Perhaps the Morlocks would have already launched their invasion from below London by the time I arrived… perhaps Tafe's sacrifice had been in vain and I was already hopelessly late, unable to forestall the horror… Thus my thoughts churned ceaselessly behind my brow, working through my brain like a fever.

An old school friend serving in the British Consulate was able, with a little cash to the right hands, to smooth over my lack of a passport. I explained Excalibur to the authorities as the result of an expedition financed by the British Museum to a distant Asian archaeological site. While the customs officials were debating whether I was a jewel smuggler, due to the ornamentation on the sword's hilt. I simply did smuggle it past with the assistance of an elderly Anglican clergyman returning from sabbatical. The old cleric carried it across the border under his cassock for me. Other desperately improvised subterfuges got me across France without arousing any more suspicions, and at last I was crossing the Channel to home. My dear England, unaware of the enemy laying their plans beneath the streets of its capital… The Dover cliffs were tinted red as blood with the waning light reflected from low clouds when we came into view of the coast.

My friendly Anglican got the sword past British customs for me – I had convinced him it was a sacred relic needing protection, which was not far from the truth. When we were safely past the officials I took the bundle from him and ran to catch the train for London without even a word of thanks for the old gentleman's help.

The last stage of my return journey was an agony of fretting and fuming at the train's slowness. Every second seemed like a drop of some precious fluid – life itself – that was spilling out onto the ground to be lost forever. When the train at last pulled into the station I pushed roughly past a pair of old ladies and knocked over a pram complete with squalling infant in my haste to dismount.

Outside the station I hailed the first hansom, gave the driver the address of Thomas Clagger's residence, pushed a sovereign into his hand with an injunction to hurry, and climbed in, bearing my precious parcel under my arm. I leaned back into the cab's upholstered seat, but was unable to catch my breath. Listening to the rapid clip of the cabhorse's hooves on the paving stones, I half dreaded to see an army of Morlocks come boiling up out of every sewer grate.

I took my gaze from the cab's window and saw for the first time that there was another person in the cab sitting opposite me. This was too much – the cabbie was apparently trying to increase his profit by carrying two fares at once. I could brook no delay caused by such an arrangement.

"See here, fellow," I exploded angrily to the other passenger. "I've given the driver express orders to take me directly to my destination. You'll have to get out and find another hansom."