Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“I don't understand any of this,” Trounce grumbled.

The clockwork man gave a soft hoot. “Do not be embarrassed, William. Non-linear time and multiplying histories are concepts that most soft skins struggle with. For your kind, it is virtually impossible to escape the imprisoning chains of narrative structure. We have come here to address that deficiency.”

“Oh. How comforting.”

They entered a prodigious and opulent chamber. Its floor was chequered with alternating gold and black hexagonal tiles. The walls were carved into bas reliefs, inset with thousands of precious gemstones, and the ceiling was a solid blanket of scintillating phosphorescence from which hung censers forged from precious metals and decorated with diamonds.

Oddly, though, the chamber reminded Burton and Trounce less of a temple and more of Battersea Power Station, for there were strange structures arrayed around the floor and walls; things that appeared to be half-mineral formation and half-machine, with, dominating the centre of the space, a thick floor-to-ceiling column made up of alternating layers of crystalline and metallic materials.

Despite the abundance of precious stones on display, there was an air of abandonment about the place. As they passed through the chamber and started up a winding stairwell, Burton noted that many of the gems had fallen from their housings in the patterned walls and were lying scattered around the floor. There were cracks and crumblings in evidence everywhere, and at one point they had to step over a wide hole where the stone steps had collapsed and fallen away.

“Straight ahead, please, gentlemen.”

“My bloody legs!” Trounce groaned as they climbed higher and higher.

The stairs led up to a long, wide hall with gold-panelled double doors at its far end. Fourteen statues stood against the walls, seven to each side. They depicted Naga, squatting on short plinths, some with one head, some with five, some with seven.

At K'k'thyima's command, the three men approached the doors. The brass man clanked past, holding his gun levelled at Burton's face, took hold of a handle with his free hand, and pulled one of the portals open far enough for the men to pass through it.

“Enter, please, gents.”

They stepped into what turned out to be a medium-sized room. It was square and the walls were panelled with oblongs of phosphorescence. The tall ceiling was shaped like an upside-down pyramid, with an enormous black diamond the size of a goose egg fitted into an ornate bracket at its tip.

“The last unbroken Eye of Naga!” K'k'thyima announced.

A stone altar was laid out beneath the gemstone. Metal manacles were fitted to it, and there were stains on its surface that Burton didn't want to examine too closely. Gold chalices, containing heaps of black-diamond dust, stood to either side. The explorer noted nasty-looking instruments, like something one might find in a surgery, arranged on a nearby block, and there were other items around the room that, again, looked somehow more machine than architecture or decoration.

“William, Mr. Speke, if you would move over there-” K'k'thyima gestured to one side of the chamber, “-and Sir Richard, I'd be much obliged if you'd climb onto the altar and lie down.”

“Do you intend to sacrifice me, Naga?”

The clockwork man gave his soft hooting chuckle. “Rest assured, you'll leave here alive. On you get, please, or-” he moved the pistol, aiming it at Trounce, “-or do I have to shoot William in the leg before you'll comply?”

Scowling ferociously, Burton sat on the altar, swung his legs up, and lay down. Immediately, he felt an energy, like static electricity, crawling over his skin.

With one hand, K'k'thyima closed the manacles around the explorer's wrists and ankles.

Speke, who'd been detached and withdrawn since they'd entered the temple, suddenly spoke up: “Wait! Whatever you're going to do, do it to me instead!”

“I'm afraid that wouldn't be at all satisfactory,” K'k'thyima responded. “Only this man is suitable for the task.”

Speke fell to his knees and held his hands out imploringly. “Please!”

“Quite impossible. Stand up, Mr. Speke, and be quiet. The song will not require you again until the final verse.”

“Task?” Burton asked.

K'k'thyima picked up a wicked-looking knife from among the instruments on the nearby block.

Trounce stepped forward.

“Back, William! I intend no harm to your friend! See, I'm putting down the pistol now-” he placed his revolver next to Burton's head, “-but I'll slice his throat if you come any closer.”

Trounce bit his lip and gave a curt nod. He returned to his former position.

The brass man took hold of Burton's hair and, working quickly, began to slice it off.

“You have a most remarkable mind, Sir Richard,” he said. “When you wandered into this diamond's range of influence during your first expedition, we immediately recognised that you were the soft skin we'd been waiting for.”

Burton winced as the blade scraped across his scalp.

The priest continued: “The one with an open and enquiring intellect; an observer, sufficiently separated from his own culture to be able to easily absorb the ways of others; one not disorientated by the unusual or unfamiliar.”

“Why is that of any significance?”

K'k'thyima removed the last few strands of hair from the explorer's head and said, “William, Mr. Speke, I have to perform a delicate operation now. Do not interfere. If you try anything, he'll die, and so will you. Is that understood?”

Both men nodded.

The clockwork man put down the knife and took up a small bowl. It was partially filled with a sticky paste.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “The Batembuzi prepared everything well!”

He dipped the bowl into a chalice, scooping black diamond dust into it, then used a small instrument to work the dust into the paste. Limping to the head of the altar, he employed the same instrument to paint an intricate hieroglyph on Burton's naked scalp.

“It is of significance, Sir Richard, because it gives you the wherewithal to remain sane while experiencing history beyond the boundaries of your natural lifespan.”

“Beyond the-” Burton began. He stopped and his eyes widened. “You surely don't intend to send me through time!”

“I intend exactly that.”

The Naga priest finished painting, put the bowl aside, and reversed the instrument he was holding. Its other end was needle-sharp.

“This will hurt,” he said, and started to jab the point over and over into Burton's skin, working at such speed that his hand became a blur.

Burton groaned and writhed in pain.

“Time, Sir Richard. Time. Time. Time. You soft skins have such a limited sense of it. You think it's the beat of a heart, that its pulses are regular, that it marches from A to B to C. But there's much more to time than mere rhythm and sequence. There's a melody. There are refrains that arise and fade and arise again. Time can change pitch and timbre and texture. Time has harmonies. It has volume. It has accents and pauses. It has verses and choruses. Your understanding of it is tediously horizontal, but it has all these vertical aspects, too.”

William Trounce snorted. “Even if all that gobbledegook is true,” he growled, “so bloody well what?”

“Just this, Detective Inspector: when the ripples of consequence spread out from an action taken, they go in all directions, not just forward, as you soft skins would have it. All directions.”

“Ruddy nonsense!”

K'k'thyima straightened up from his task and said, “Do you happen to have a handkerchief?”

Trounce shook his head, but Speke reached into his pocket, pulled out a square of cotton, and passed it to the clockwork priest. K'k'thyima used it to wipe the blood and excess paste from the explorer's freshly etched tattoo.