Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“Historically, priests have probably lived underground more often than any other segment of the world's population,” Burton commented.

Wells gave a dismissive grunt. “The power of faith over rationality.”

“I used to think they were the opposite ends of a spectrum,” Burton answered. “Now I'm not so certain.”

“Surely you're not resurrecting God, Richard?”

“No. But perhaps I'm resurrecting myself.”

“Ah. Faith in oneself. When confronting the unknown, perhaps that's the only thing one can truly hope for.”

“I certainly have nothing else.”

“You have my friendship.”

Burton looked at Wells, reached out, and patted his shoulder.

“Yes. I do.”

They trudged along the central thoroughfare, reached the steps to the temple entrance, climbed them, and passed through the tall double doors. The Batembuzi ushered them to the foot of the staircase then slunk away and were absorbed into the shadows.

“Are they even men?” Wells asked.

“I have no idea, but, according to legend, the Naga managed to breach the natural divide between species to produce half-human offspring.”

They ascended to the hall, walked between its statues, and stopped at the gold-panelled doors.

Burton gripped a handle and said, “The last of my lost memories are in here, Bertie. Do you really want to face them with me?”

“Most assuredly!”

The king's agent swung the door open and they entered the chamber beyond.

He recognised it instantly. Everything was as it had been fifty-five years ago, except: “The Eye has gone!” Burton pointed to the empty bracket at the tip of the upside-down pyramid.

“That's the guarantee that you'll return to 1863,” Wells replied, “for obviously you removed the diamond and took it to London.”

Burton added, “Where it was recovered by the Germans after the destruction of the city. I go back knowing that will happen, so why do I allow it?”

“You'll find out! I say! This must be your Mr. Spencer!” He pointed to the floor.

The clockwork man was lying beside the altar. His brass body was battered, scratched, and discoloured, its left leg bent out of shape and footless. What passed for his face was disfigured by a big indentation on the left side. The speaking apparatus had been removed from his head and was sitting on the nearby block, among the various instruments.

Burton pointed out the exposed babbage to Wells.

“Do you see the seven apertures? They're where the Cambodian diamonds were fitted. They contained Spencer's mind and-and-”

“What is it, Richard?” Wells asked, noticing his friend's pained expression.

“K'k'thyima! I was wrong, Bertie-it wasn't ever Spencer! It was a Naga priest named K'k'thyima. He used the power of the diamonds to send me into the future-but I don't understand; the diamonds are gone, so how can I return?”

Wells pointed to something on the altar.

“Perhaps that holds the answer.”

Burton looked and recognised the key that wound the clockwork man. He picked it up.

“Help me turn this thing onto its stomach,” he said, squatting beside the brass machine.

Wells did so, then watched as Burton inserted the key into a slot in the device's back and twisted it through a number of revolutions.

The two men stood back.

A ticking came from the figure on the floor. A click and a whir and a jerk of the footless leg, then it rolled over, sat up, and struggled upright. It looked at Sir Richard Francis Burton, saluted, and pointed at the altar.

A tremor ran through Burton's body. “Of course. I have black diamond dust tattooed into my scalp. It must be connected through time to the Eye in sixty-three.”

He hesitated. “I'm torn, Bertie. My instincts object, but have I any other choice but to go through with this?”

“All the evidence tells us that you did, and therefore will. Hmm. I wonder. Does Fate eliminate paradox? Could Fate be a function of the human organism?”

Burton climbed onto the altar and lay down. He rested his sniper rifle between his body and left arm. “If it is, then perhaps these multiple histories are disrupting it, making us prone to paradox after paradox.”

“Then you know what you have to do, Richard.”

“What?”

“You have to seal your own fate.”

Wells stood back as the clockwork man circled the altar, closing the manacles around Burton's wrists and ankles.

The explorer began: “Whatever the case, I-” then stopped with a strangled gasp as, without warning, the last missing fragment of memory returned to him.

“Oh no!” he hissed. “No no no!” He looked at Wells and bellowed: “Get the hell out of here, Bertie! Run! Run!”

“What-?”

“Run for your life! Get out!” Burton screamed, his voice near hysterical.

The clockwork man suddenly lunged at the war correspondent, grabbed his head with both hands, and twisted it violently. Bone cracked. Wells slumped to the floor.

“No!” Burton howled.

A bright flash.

The blinding light lingered in John Speke's one functional eye.

The gunshot left bells clanging in his ears.

The noise was gradually superseded by the sound of a man howling in pain and distress.

William Trounce fell against him and thudded onto the floor.

Speke blinked rapidly.

Vision returned.

Burton was on the altar. His head was thrown back and he was screaming hysterically. He'd undergone a shocking transformation. Where, seconds ago, his head had been shaved, tattooed, and smeared with blood, now it was covered by long snowy white hair. Where his face had been gaunt and savage and strong, now it was frail and lined and brutalised, as if the explorer had aged, and suffered intolerably.

His clothes were different. He was terribly emaciated. There was a rifle beside him.

K'k'thyima stepped back and placed the revolver on the block with the various instruments.

“Most satisfactory,” he said. “A sacrifice was made and our intrepid traveller has returned. Mr. Speke, would you calm him down, please.”

Speke breathed a shuddery exhalation and stepped to the altar. He took Burton by the shoulders and shook him slightly.

“Dick! Dick! It's all right, man! It's all right! Stop!”

Burton's eyes were wild. His lips were drawn back over his teeth. His screams gave way to words: “Bertie! Get out! Get out!”

“It's me, Dick! It's John! John Speke!”

“Get out. Get out. Get out.”

Speke slapped him hard.

“Dick! Look at me! It's John!”

Burton's eyes fixed on him, focused, and sanity gradually bled back into them.

“Is it you, John?” he croaked. “John Speke?”

“Yes, it's me. We're in the Naga temple. Do you remember?”

“I remember death. So much death.”

Tears flowed freely and a sob shook the king's agent. “I have lost my mind. I can't take any more of it. Algy was-was-then William, and Bertie!” Burton looked over to K'k'thyima and suddenly screamed: “Get me out of these shackles, you damned murdering lizard!”

“Welcome back, Sir Richard,” the Naga priest said. He limped to the explorer's side and clicked open the manacles on Burton's left wrist and ankle, then moved around the altar, leaned past Speke, and liberated the other two limbs.

Burton sat, swung around, pushed himself to his feet, and sent a vicious right hook clanging into the side of the brass man's head. He stifled a groan as pain lanced through his hand, but was satisfied to see that he'd just created the big dent he'd noticed in the clockwork man's face in 1918.

“You bastard!” he hissed. “I'm going to tear you apart!”

“I wouldn't recommend it, soft skin. Don't forget where you are. This is 1863. You need me to remain here, in this room and in one piece, for fiftyfive years, else how can I return you from 1918?”