Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

To Burton, the quickness of dawn in this part of the world came as no surprise; to the others, it was breathtaking. One minute they were enveloped by the frigid luminescence of the night, and the next the sky paled, the stars faded, and brilliant rays of sunshine transformed the landscape. The desert metamorphosed from cold naked bone to hot dry flesh.

They slogged across it.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“Cover your eyes,” Burton called.

On his recommendation, they were each wearing a keffiyeh -a square headscarf of brightly striped material, secured on the crown with a circlet, or agal -which they now pulled down across their faces. The light glared through the material but didn't blind them, and, as they came to the top of the dune, they could clearly see through the weave that the redheaded poet had reached its base and was starting up the next one.

“I can feel heat!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed. “Already!”

“It will become unbearable within the next two hours,” Burton predicted. “But by that time we'll be encamped at Al Atif.”

A few yards away, Honesty glanced toward the huge molten globe of the sun and whispered, “Gladiolus gandavensis. ”

“What?” Trounce asked.

“A plant. Not a hardy one. Dislikes winter. Roots best kept in sand until mid-March. Then potted individually. You have to nurture them, William. Start them off in a greenhouse.”

It was the first time, in all the years they'd worked together, that Thomas Honesty had used Detective Inspector Trounce's first name.

“I say, Honesty-are you all right, old fellow?”

The small, dapper man smiled. “Thinking about my garden. What I'll do when we get back. Do you like gardening?”

“My wife takes care of it. We only have a small patch, and it's given over to cabbages and potatoes.”

“Ah. Practical.”

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“William.”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“About Spring Heeled Jack. Didn't believe you.”

“Nor did anybody else.”

“But you were right. He was at Victoria's assassination.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Will you forgive me? Misjudged you.”

“Already done, old fellow. Some considerable time ago.”

“When we get back, there's something I'd like.”

“What?”

“You and Mrs. Trounce. Come over. Have tea with Vera and me. In the garden.”

“We'd be honoured.”

“Maybe the gladioli will be out.”

“That'll be nice.”

“Ahoy there!” Swinburne shouted. “I see palms!”

“The oasis,” Burton said.

“Praise be!” Krishnamurthy gasped.

“Arse!” Pox squawked.

They climbed up to the poet and stopped beside him. He pointed at a distant strip of blinding light. They squinted and saw through their lashes and keffiyehs that it was dotted with wavering palm trees.

“Please, Captain Burton, don't tell us that's a mirage!” Sister Raghavendra said.

“No,” Burton responded. “That's real enough. It's just where it ought to be. Let's push on.”

They each took a gulp of water from their flasks, then returned to the hard work of placing one foot in front of the other, on and on and on, not daring to look up in case the oasis was farther away than they hoped.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Another hour passed and the temperature soared, sucking away what little strength remained in them.

Then, suddenly, they were in shade, green vegetation closed around them, and when they finally raised their eyes, they saw a long, narrow lake just a few yards ahead.

“Thank goodness!” Isabella Mayson exclaimed, sinking to the ground. “Let me catch my breath, then I'll prepare some food while you gentlemen put up an awning.”

Forty minutes later, they were tucking into a meal of preserved sausages and bread and pickles, which they washed down with fresh water and a glass each of red wine-an indulgence Swinburne had insisted on bringing, despite Burton's directive that they keep their loads as light as possible.

They sighed and lay down.

“My feet have never ached so much,” Trounce observed. “Not even when I was a bobby on the beat.”

Herbert Spencer, sitting with his back against the bole of a palm tree, watched Pox flutter up into its leaves. The colourful bird hunkered down and went to sleep. The clockwork philosopher made a tooting sound that might have been a sigh. “For all your complaints, Mr. Trounce,” he said, “at least you can enjoy the satisfaction of a good meal. All I ever get these days is a touch of oil applied to me cogs 'n' springs, an' that always gives me indigestion.”

Trounce replied with a long, drawn-out snore, then rolled onto his side and fell silent.

Peace settled over the camp, and into it, Swinburne said softly:

“Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.”

“That's beautiful, Mr. Swinburne,” Sister Raghavendra whispered.

The sun climbed and the heat intensified.

Three hours passed.

They were too tired to dream.

Herbert Spencer's polymethylene-wrapped canister-shaped head slowly turned until the three vertical circles of his face were directed at the king's agent. He watched the sleeping man for many minutes. Very quietly, the pipes on his head wheezed, “Time, Boss, is that which a man is always trying to kill, but which ends in killing him.” Then he looked away and sibilated, “But for us, only equivalence can lead to destruction-or transcendence.”

He sat, motionless.

“Wake up! Wake up! We're attacked!”

Herbert Spencer's trumpeting shocked them all out of their sleep.

“We're attacked! We're attacked!”

“What the devil-?” Trounce gasped, staggering to his feet.

“Grab your rifle,” Burton snapped. “Be sharp and arm to defend the camp!”

He winced, realising that he'd uttered the very same words back in '55 at Berbera; the day a spear had transfixed his face; the day his friend William Stroyan had been killed; the day John Speke had begun to hate him.

There was a thud, and Trounce went down.

A wild-looking man stepped over him and jabbed the butt of a matchlock at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with his forearm, lunged in, and buried his fist in his assailant's stomach.

From behind, an arm closed around the explorer's neck and the point of a dagger touched his face just below the right eye.

“Remain very still,” a voice snarled in his ear. Burton recognised the language as Balochi-a mix of Persian and Kurdish.

He froze, tense in the man's grip, and watched as brigands rounded up his companions. They were big men with intimidating beards and flowing robes, wide blue pantaloons, and colourful sashes around their waists. They were armed with matchlocks, daggers, swords, and shields.

Herbert Spencer-who they obviously regarded as some sort of exotic animal-was surrounded and roped. With his enormous strength, he yanked his captors this way and that, throwing them off their feet, until one of the bandits raised a gun and fired a shot at him, at which point Burton, afraid that his friend would be damaged, called, “Stop struggling, Herbert!”

The brass man became still, and his attackers wound him around and around with the ropes then bound him to a tree trunk.

“Goat ticklers!” Pox screeched from somewhere overhead.

Burton was dragged over to the others. The two women were pulled aside, and, with their arms held tightly behind their backs, were forced to watch as the men were lined up and pushed to their knees.