Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

But when they reached that low depression in the earth, the only thing that Holmes and his companion could do was stagger to a numb, bewildered halt.

The large black insects had entirely vanished.

“One poacher dead, and four in hospital,” the police captain for the district told them, once evening had fallen.

The carnage out on the flatlands had been so severe that Harris Masterton had had no option but to call in the authorities. After what was, to Holmes’ mind, an unreasonably long wait, two old ambulances and a police car had shown up, and the survivors and the corpse been ferried away. The captain showed no genuine sign of wanting to remain around here for much longer. This was not a criminal matter.

“From the woods, you say? I’d stay away from them, if I were you. There’s nothing else that you can do about it.”

He climbed back into his car and left. Holmes, Jomo and Masterton remained on the veranda.

“There has to be a nest,” the older man insisted. “It’s simply that it’s too well-hidden, and you haven’t found it yet.”

He was rummaging in a cool-box and produced two cans of beer. Holmes declined, opting – for want of anything better – for a small bottle of pineapple juice. And that was most probably for the best, because he needed an extremely clear head. He exchanged a wry glance with Jomo.

“I assure you, we’ve searched every inch of those infernal woods. There’s nothing there. The bees just disappeared.”

Masterton stared back at him with the most disgruntled of expressions.

“I thought you were a man of logic, Mr Holmes? So how could what you’re telling me make any sense?”

Which bothered Holmes the entire evening. And that same distress continued long into the night. He lay wide-awake in his bed, the occasional roar of a big cat or else the laugh of a hyena punctuating his dull, solemn thoughts. Masterton was right, of course: what he’d described did not add up. But what else could he believe except the evidence of his own senses? He had seen it. He had heard it.

He finally got up, crossed over to the window and stared out at the night sky.

A shooting star flashed across it, there for a brief, dazzling instant and then gone. A second one lasted a few moments longer before breaking up, and it was followed by a couple more.

A very curious, tight expression drifted across Sherlock Holmes’ features. And a strange gleam started up in his own eyes,

He returned to his mattress and lay very still there, and only someone watching him from close quarters would have realised that his eyelids were still slightly open.

He had finally dozed off, and was awoken the next morning by the sound of unfamiliar voices, talking in a language he could not make out. Holmes pulled on the dressing gown that Masterton had provided him with and went outside, to see his host and Jomo in deep conversation with none other than a pair of Masai warriors.

They were magnificent fellows, tall and powerful-looking in a lean and wiry way. They were both carrying large spears, and had red-dyed hair and strings of what looked like lion’s claws around their necks. Masterton and Jomo were chatting with them in their own guttural dialect.

“They’re from an encampment about six miles off from here,” Masterton explained. “And they know about the poachers. But they’ve been having problems of their own.”

He proceeded to explain the Masai’s strange traditions. It had once been the case that, when a boy was grown-up enough to make the passage into manhood – at about twelve or thirteen years of age – something quite extraordinary was expected of him. He was required to go out into the bush, entirely by himself, and kill a full-grown lion.

“It’s illegal these days, naturally. But some young chaps still want to give it a try. They use the pretext that the lion has been attacking their cattle.”

It was a terribly brave way for anyone so young to comport himself, certainly. But the whole thing seemed a little overblown from Sherlock Holmes’ point of view. This was his first time here though, he reminded himself. And he supposed that he ought to respect the local customs.

Except that – just a few days back – that particular custom had gone very badly wrong.

One such doughty teenager had wandered off this way. Had spotted a young male lion not far from the woods in question. He’d approached it, murder on his mind. Had raised his spear to do the deed.

And had been set on by the swarm of black bees.

He was back at the encampment by this time, being tended to by its medicine men, but the poor lad remained in a grave condition.

One of the tribesmen started speaking again, letting out a couple of brief, garbled sentences.

“They’re convinced that there’s an evil spirit at work here,” Jomo translated.

Holmes – who had encountered such beings – simply grimaced. Wouldn’t such a creature set the bees attacking just plain anyone?”

“Do they know the inside of the woods at all?” he asked.

Jomo interpreted what he had said, then nodded.

“They are familiar with the crater in it, yes?” Holmes went on. “And do they know what caused it?”

Both the Masai frowned and nodded, and then tried to talk across each other. Jomo had to sort their answers out.

“Their fathers and their grandfathers have told them of a star that fell down from the sky, some fifty years ago.”

Holmes’ eyebrows lifted very partially. “A meteor?”

“In modern parlance, yes. That’s what it had to be.”

But Jomo was looking very puzzled, not even starting to understand where there might be a relevant connection.

“Tell them that they have our prayers for the boy’s swift recovery,” Holmes said briskly.

And that was the only thing he deigned to say at all upon the subject. He had already decided not to utter another word until he was certain of his theory.

Both his hosts kept staring at him, quite askance.

“Come on, Mr Holmes,” Masterton prompted. “I can see that you’ve got something on your mind. So let us in on the big secret, won’t you?”

Holmes merely gazed back at him for an unblinking while.

And then told him, “We’re going hunting.”

“Are you sure that this is wise?” Jomo asked as they went bouncing back in the direction of the woods.

Masterton was at the wheel of the Land Rover. Holmes and the young guide were standing in the rear section, clutching onto the back panel of the cab.

“I’m sure it’s very unwise,” Holmes responded, smiling at him rather tightly.

“Then why do it?”

“It’s the only way to solve this case. There is no other option.”

Still, the trepidation of before came back to him, redoubled, as the stretch of woodland began growing in his vision. He had only a vague idea of what was causing all of this. He’d discerned that it was some manner of controlling intellect from the very start. But of what nature, how profound and how perceptive, he could not be sure. And his very survival now depended on such issues.

He was not unarmed this time. He’d brought along – Masterton had chosen it for him – the most powerful hunting rifle in the Gold Valley Safari Lodge. It was a weighty monster of a thing, and his host had assured him it could bring down anything short of a wild bull elephant. In truth, such massive firepower was unnecessary. But he did not want his adversary knowing that.

Was there a degree of telepathy involved in this whole scenario? He hoped so, or else he might well prove to be undone. Holmes thought hunting thoughts. He tried to picture slaughtered carcasses, and mounted heads and other trophies. It was quite distasteful to him on one level, but he did his very best to feign primitive bloodlust just as accurately as he could.