James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“I am,” Burton said, nodding.

“Good. Begin.”

Burton felt the weight of something heavy and cold resting on his forehead, and another on his chest. “You remember the crystals? They will help focus the energies at work around you. Things are in such chaos. This might not work.”

“It has to work,” Burton heard Challenger say as he began the meditation. He began by taking several deep breaths and relaxing his whole body. Then he cleared his mind of all thought. The only sound he heard was Helena’s humming somewhere above him. At first nothing happened, and he thought this attempt would be a failure. Then he felt his body slowly drifting, untethered. He opened his eyes and saw himself lying on the couch, Herbert and Challenger standing by, hats in hand, while Helena stood waving her arms back and forth over his body. He saw glowing lines of force vibrating around his body, tangled like snakes. With each move of her hands the lines straightened, increasing in radiance. The scene below him faded from view then, and Burton found he was somewhere else, floating through an all-encompassing blackness. In this blackness he could hear strange voices, like whispers. A pinprick of light opened in front of him, growing larger and larger as he grew near it. It resolved itself into a hexagonal portal through which shifting golden dunes could be seen. Its desert heat blasted him as he stepped through.

Burton looked around, sinking into the desert sand as he scanned the area. He moved in a circle, taking everything in. There was nothing but limitless desert. Even the portal he had stepped through was gone. The heat was instantly oppressive. He began sweating immediately and removed his jacket as he decided what to do next. What direction should he go? What was he doing here? Was any of this real? He considered his options as a flash of movement caught his eye. It was a man wearing a flowing white jebba and turban, sitting astride a solid Arabian. The horse galloped toward him, kicking up puffs of sand beneath its pounding hooves as it closed the distance between them. Burton stood and waited for their arrival, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. When the figure on horseback moved close enough to make out, Burton’s knees almost buckled beneath him.

The horseman, on the other hand, did not seem that surprised. “Another one. Bismillah! I should have guessed.”

Burton stared up at him. His face was tanned and hardened from the sun, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed. The long, Y-shaped scar across his left cheek left no doubt. He could easily pass for an Arab. But Burton knew who he was.

“You’re me,” said the explorer.

The horseman grinned. “Yes, and I am you. So it has been these last few days. Come with me, and all of your questions will be answered. Hopefully.”

The horseman helped Burton onto the horse’s back and turned the beast back in the direction he had come. He spurred the horse into a gallop.

“In my youth I dressed as you did,” said Burton, “making the pilgrimage to Mecca incognito.”

“As did I,” said the horseman. “But after some time away I decided to return. People in these parts know me as Hadji Abdullah the Bushri. For simplicity’s sake, you may refer to me by that moniker.”

“And you can just call me Burton.”

Abdullah the Bushri nodded. “As you wish.”

They rode on in silence, Burton grinning at the feel of the powerful animal’s graceful movements beneath him. He had ridden horses many times with Isabel at her family’s country estate, but the experience hadn’t been as exhilarating as this. This was like his time in Persia and his stint in the Army. They crested a dune and moved down toward a wide flat area. Several large tents had been erected in this spot, and Burton saw a figure tending to a horse near them. Abdullah slowed his steed as they entered the camp, and Burton saw that the figure tending the other horse was a woman. And not just any woman. She was thin and graceful, wearing a white flowing jebba with pants and boots. But it was clearly Isabel. A long thin scimitar hung from her belt, and she eyed Burton with intense curiosity.

“Yes, that is Isabel,” said Abdullah, eying Burton. “ My Isabel.”

Burton nodded, understanding. The woman standing before him was a complete stranger. His Isabel was safe at her parents’ home, awaiting word from him that it was safe to return to London. They got off the horse and Abdullah handed the reigns to a small boy before leading Burton into the main tent.

Inside, sitting at a long wooden folding table, was an assemblage of three other Burtons. The first wore a gray eye patch over his left eye. His beard was short but his hair was long, and he wore what appeared to be a Navy uniform of some kind. He scowled at Burton such that it made the explorer think this was his usual expression. The Burton sitting next to him gave the explorer a sneering smile. What was most notable about him was his right arm, which had been replaced by a complex, ornate mechanical appendage, a thing of gleaming brass inlaid with dark, polished wood, the metal fingers of which drummed on the table. At the far end of the table a thin, wizened, almost sickly version of Burton sat cross-legged in the chair, wearing only a white loin cloth and turban. Burton could see his ribs protruding through the man’s parchment-like skin, which was covered in strange tattoos. His wrinkled forehead was encrusted with several of the black Wold-Newton fragments, and his deep, penetrating eyes appeared as if they were looking right through Burton. The explorer flinched under their intensity.

“You were right, as always,” said Abdullah the Bushri to the thin man. “He was right where you said he’d be. Now what?”

“Now offer him a drink,” said the wizened man with a thin smile. Abdullah motioned toward a wooden sideboard laden with clay decanters of wine.

“Help yourself,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”

Burton poured himself a glass of rich dark wine and drank, recalling cherished memories of his own time in Persia. Then he turned and took a chair opposite the mechanical armed Burton.

“I suppose some form of introduction is in order,” said Abdullah. “We can’t very well call each other by our given names, now can we?” He went down the line, pointing at each of them in turn. “We call him the Captain,” he said, pointing to the eye-patched Burton. “The fellow with the mechanical arm goes by the nom de guerre Ruffian Dick, and that mystical fellow on the end calls himself Abu El-Yezdi.”

“Just call me Burton,” said Burton. I’ve seen some of you before. In my dreams.”

“As have we,” said Abdullah.

Burton addressed the Captain. “You command the Nautilus , yes?”

“Aye,” said the Captain grimly. “After Nemo was killed battling the cursed Deep Ones. My world has been besieged by them. They held dominion over two-thirds of the planet for millennia, and now they almost have the final third in their grasp.”

“I lost my bloody arm to John Hanning Speke,” declared Ruffian Dick. “That mad blighter grew crazed when we happened upon a series of ruins near the Mountains of the Moon.” He patted his mechanical arm. “This little beauty was a gift from Mycroft Holmes. A clever gentleman by the name of Daniel Gooch designed and built it for me.” He balled its brass fingers into a formidable-looking fist. “It has its advantages, but it’s just not the same.”

“El-Yezdi brought us all together,” said Abdullah. “Though we’re still not exactly sure why.” He brought out a pipe and lit it.

“The Man of Truth is beyond good and evil,” El-Yezdi intoned. “The Man of Truth has ridden to All-Is-One. The Man of Truth has learned that Illusion is the One Reality, and that Substance is the Great Impostor.”