James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Nemo unsheathed a machete and started hacking at the dense growth. “We need only reach the island’s interior,” said the captain of the Nautilus . “Our starting point makes little difference.”

They fell in behind Nemo. With every step they spent several minutes hacking away at the jungle. Herbert took up the rear, drinking from a waterskin made from whale bladder and muttering to himself. “All that we’ll accomplish,” he said. “All that we’ll become, doesn’t matter! The Valley of the White Sphinx. The Palace of Green Porcelain. Morlocks. Eloi. All for naught. Weena! Oh, Weena. I shall never again see your beautiful face.”

“What the devil is he rambling about?” Challenger asked as he htrashed at a vine as thick as his wrist. “He’s bloody well out of his tree.”

“He’s feeling the effects of this damnable island,” said Burton. “Be quiet and keep going!”

“802,701,” said the Time Traveler. “Into the future. I’ve now gone even farther into the past. I should have journeyed to the past first. One must see where we’ve been in order to learn where we’ll end up, hey?” He laughed.

They came into a grove of the stubby, stunted trees. Hot sunlight filtered down on them, and Burton realized he was sweating, and not just from the stifling humidity. There was a cloying miasma of malignancy that lay over the place like a pall. The feeling that they were being watched was now even stronger, and he wondered if the others could sense it as well. He surveyed the others. Nemo looked nervous, his movements furtive. Challenger was more irritable than usual. And Herbert was a gibbering mess. He sat on the carcass of one of the stubby trees, talking to himself excitedly.

“Weena. Oh, how I wish you were here with me now.”

“It looks like we made it through the worst of the foliage,” said Nemo. “Let’s keep heading inward. If we can keep to this path, the bay containing the Nautilus will remain at our backs.”

“We should keep a wary eye out for predators,” warned Challenger, clutching his Snider-Enfield rifle.

Burton nodded and unsnapped the holster on his hip. Captain Nemo unslung his own rifle, a direct ancestor to the piece Challenger carried, and held it at the ready, moving deeper into the grove of strange trees.

Challenger kicked at Herbert, who rose and followed, wide-eyed and sweating. Burton took the rear.

Burton wondered if there were any predators about. It was fortuitous that they had arrived at a point after the age of reptiles. But his explorer’s instincts were on edge just the same.

It took them an hour, but after chopping through one final thick clump of ferns and other brush, they came, at last, to the interior of R’lyeh.

It was flat and had obviously been cleared of trees and jungle some time ago. A vast alien city made of green stone stood in the jungle’s wake, scarred by age. On the outskirts, the jungle was encroaching, and it looked as if the place had been abandoned long ago. It was also clear to Richard Francis Burton, who had glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt and the sacred shrines of Mecca, that this city had not been conceived by the mind of man, nor built with his hands. The lines were all wrong, non-Euclidean in their ornamentation, the stairs, platforms and passageways made for something with very different anatomy.

“Fascinating!” Challenger declared. “A pre-human city. But what does it mean?”

“It means we’re not the cocks of the walk,” gibbered Herbert, his eyes darting from every shadow and rampart of the strange alien city. “We never were. Everything we’ve accomplished, will accomplish, doesn’t matter. It’s all a lie. Everything we have become, will become, for good or ill, does not matter. This is their world, not ours.”

“Steady, Herbert,” said Burton, but the Time Traveler ignored him. He was shaking now, even more so than he did after his brush with one of Miss Marsh’s undersea relatives.

Herbert turned toward Burton. “Don’t you see? This is their world. Whomever built this city will return.” He uttered a nervous laugh.

“We don’t know that,” said Challenger. “We don’t know anything yet. In our time, this place is a mile beneath the ocean.”

“And it is returning to the surface,” Nemo said. “That is why we are here, to find out what we are up against once R’lyeh rises from the ocean once more.”

“This place looks abandoned even now,” said Burton. “Look. There’s no one here, and it looks as if that has been the case for quite some time.”

“Time,” said Herbert. “Yes. Time. We can travel up and down its length, but there is no escape. None. I have seen the end. The end of Time, at least for us. And this,” he gestured about the city, “is our terrible beginning.” He cackled, his voice echoing throughout the strange, fungoid towers of the city.

“Does anyone have any idea what the devil he’s muttering about?” Challenger roared.

“I think I do,” said Burton. “But that doesn’t answer the question at hand. Captain Nemo, we’ve joined you on this expedition and traveled into the remote past. We’ve surveyed this island that appears to be once more returning to the surface. Now what do we do? How does knowing this city exists help us back in our time?”

Nemo opened his mouth to say something, but there came a sound of many voices muttering in some incomprehensible, inhuman speech. The party turned and saw a group of vaguely human figures exiting the mouth of an obelisk-shaped building. Raising their rifles, Burton, Challenger, and Nemo watched in fascination as the group moved cautiously closer.

There were three males and one female. They were short and squat, with short yet powerful-looking arms and legs. Their tiny frames rippled with muscles. As they grew nearer, the explorers could make out more of their facial features. The creatures were chinless, and possessed prominent, bony brow ridges.

“Neanderthals!” Challenger whispered.

“What?” said Burton.

Herbert giggled.

“Named after the Neander Valley in Germany, where one of their skulls was discovered,” Challenger explained.

“That’s all very interesting,” said Captain Nemo. “But I’m afraid it is of little help when confronted by the real thing.”

“Living fossils,” said Herbert with a nervous giggle.

“What shall we do?” asked Burton.

“Nothing yet,” said Nemo. “They don’t seem intent on harming us.”

The little group of Neanderthals came up very close and stared at Captain Nemo and the others, their great nostrils flaring. They spoke to one another in some incomprehensible tongue, pointing and staring. They seemed especially curious about Professor Challenger, whose imposing form was bigger than the others.

“The Neanderthals are adapted to flourish in colder climes,” Challenger whispered. “I wonder what the devil they’re doing down here.”

“Perhaps we can ask them,” mused Nemo.

“Morlocks,” whispered Herbert, as he fell back to gibbering to himself.

The Neanderthals were sparsely dressed in animal skins. One of them, apparently their leader, carried a long spear. Burton didn’t want to shoot them, but his pistol was a comforting presence by his side. They would have the upper hand if things went sour.

After several minutes of both parties gawking at each other, one of the Neanderthals turned toward the city and gave a loud, shrill whistle. Soon more Neanderthals came loping out of every structure, hurrying toward their position. Now Burton felt less sure about their odds.

The Neanderthals crowded in closer, heedless of their weapons, touching skin and clothing and conversing in that liquid tongue.

Herbert slapped one of their hands away, as if the creatures reminded him of some repulsive memory.