Beneath Ceaseless Skies #88 Read online

  “Well, Captain,” Powell said, “you’re the expedition’s intelligence officer, what do you suggest?”

  Aspley gazed back towards the horizon they had left behind. The ridge of green hills could still be seen there as a thin blue line. There was fresh water back there, and game too. Survival was assured.

  “What do the orders say?” His mouth and tongue were dry, and he knew as he heard his words he had given them an uncertain edge. There was the hope in his mind that the orders would tell them to return once the river had run dry, once it was clear, obvious, that there was no inland sea that sourced the Cremorne and other rivers that flowed to the coast. Indeed, even if that was the mighty goose they were chasing.

  “Oh, the orders,” Powell said. “Yes, here they are. For what they’re worth.” He pulled a sweat-stained envelope from his pocket and handed it to Aspley.

  Taking it, Aspley saw the black wax seal it bore had already been broken. He looked at Powell.

  “Opened, but a moment ago,” Powell said. “Go on, read it.”

  Aspley removed the folded piece of paper, opened it out, looked at the page. He turned it over to be sure. There was nothing written there. Empty and white. Both sides. The sun glared back from the page, forcing him to squint. The White Page. Terra Incognito. No further orders. Major Powell could decide to continue on into uncertainty or abort the expedition if he wished. Whatever Powell desired. That was its meaning.

  “I need to know what we are seeking, sir?” Aspley said, his voice cold and dry as if he already knew Major Powell’s next command and feared to hear it.

  “Like all good intelligence officers, Captain Aspley, you have a fear of uncertainty, a fear of never having enough information with which to make the best possible decision out of all the options that you may logically conjure up. Whereas I, like all military officers, know that the intelligence most often arrives too late, and instead a decision must be based on intuition, gut feeling, and whatever evidence might lay to hand.”

  “Both you and I know, sir, there is no evidence to hand other than what our eyes tell us.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Aspley,” Powell said, bending down to study the sand and rocks at his feet. His fingers began to probe the soil until they seized upon something that lay embedded there. He rubbed and scraped at it, freeing it of the dirt that had entrapped it. Then he held out his treasure to Aspley. The look upon his face was one of humility and supplication. “Take this, brother,” he said, “may it serve you well.”

  Aspley gazed down at Powell’s open palm. Upon it lay a seashell. Its mother of pearl interior glittered prettily in the harsh sunlight.

  “Onwards, Aspley, onwards!” Powell cried, rising to his feet. “It is the inland sea we seek. Come, I can smell the salt of its waves already. Can’t you hear the mermaids singing?”

  Aspley turned away and sighed.

  * * *

  The Journal of Captain Richard Aspley

  7th July

  Damn that bloody seashell that has sent us on this wild-goose chase. For ten days now we have traversed this stony desert plain. It is red, red, red to the horizon, as if we have left the Earth and set foot upon another planet whose wretched terrain holds little life but dry scaled lizards and a weedy grass that makes the horses’ bellies swell, and ants, mountains of them, crawling everywhere.

  Yet Major Powell remains undaunted. He has that wild look in his eye, a fearless gaze set towards the horizon, the very same one he gets when he has been over-doing the laudanum, and a relentless zeal about his whole manner that brushes all argument aside.

  Yet, perhaps these qualities of Powell’s that I find most cause for concern are the very qualities which are needed for true leadership. The fact that true leadership may fail more often than not—resulting in a tragic loss of life—is perhaps entirely beside the point. For the successes are remembered and rejoiced in heartily, and when a monumental failure occurs then that too leads to rejoicing of a kind, for so dramatic and poignant does the failure become that those involved—albeit sadly perished—are worshipped as heroes for generations to come.

  So we seek the inland sea. Yet I wonder in my darkest moments whether Powell was already in possession of that seashell and had kept it concealed among his khakis to reveal when there was nothing left to justify the continuance of the expedition. Now he drives us into increasing uncertainty, a gambler who does not care to understand the odds of the game he plays.

  8th July

  There is nothing to say of the day, other than it is done. There will come a time in the next few days where we reach the point of no return, where the most critical decision will need to be made. To gamble beyond that is to take us most certainly to our deaths.

  McKenzie and I together have kept ample records of our dwindling supplies, the condition of both men and beasts, and what would be needed for us to reverse our tracks back to the green hill country we left nearly two weeks ago, even if on hard rations; even if we must slaughter our beasts, eat their meat, and drink their thickening blood to survive. The line in the sand must be drawn soon.

  It is my responsibility to make that decision. Powell will not make it. I am convinced he would rather perish—Oh noble death of grand and sweeping fame, he shall surely cry as he dies—rather than admit that his judgement was ever wrong. And what other purpose might I serve in my capacity as intelligence officer but to challenge Powell when his leadership has proven to be nothing but folly. My duty henceforth is to return the men to safety, so that they may, with the knowledge and experience they have gained, better serve Her Majesty’s Empire in the future.

  10th July

  Night brings a great coolness that is so welcome after the intolerable heat of the day, yet I could not sleep; too much the thoughts of what is before me were on my mind—the decision must soon be made. I left my tent and gazed upon the great starry sky. Perhaps fate has cast me here for this one thing, to gaze upon this sky at night, to be privy to all those wondrous suns in savage bloom. Do they have planets like ours circling in orbit? Do they have people on them such as I looking up at this sky, the huge immensity of it, at this very moment?

  Then out of the darkness, Powell was there. So quiet, with such stealth, I did not hear his tread. He put his arm around my shoulders and drew me to him. “Dear Aspley,” he said, “you were my chosen one. Give me a kiss upon the cheek before I sleep.”

  And such was the power in his voice, I reached my head up to plant a kiss, with cracked and swollen lips, upon his sunburnt cheek.

  “All will be revealed,” he said, “all will be revealed.” And as he said this, he clasped me in his arms and hugged me to his breast, and I felt in that moment without a care or worry in the world. Like I was a child and my father had told me that there was no challenge that I would not be able to overcome because I was the one to do it. One of the chosen ones.

  So I imagined it, but I fear it is a silly dream I have had and nothing more. Go to sleep now I tell myself. Go to sleep, dear Aspley, there is much work to be done on the ‘morrow.

  * * *

  A Line in the Sand

  Captain Aspley rose shortly before dawn, saddled his skinny mare that was not quite yet a bag of skin and bones, and moved ahead of the rest of the party. He had not slept a wink the night before, but the air was chill and held a pleasant breeze that revived him a little as he rode.

  Aspley did not go far, perhaps three miles or so from the camp. He dismounted, pulled the saddle from his horse to ease her burden, patted her and whispered softly to her, knowing that she was in dire need of water. He watched the sunrise but found no glory in it. Too soon it would begin its dramatic charge to its noonday zenith, there to beat mercilessly upon them once more.

  When enough light was available, Aspley set his telescope upon his tripod and surveyed the horizon. Nothing and more nothing. It was what he’d expected, but still he had hoped that something different might be revealed out there, something that would lift the burden
from his shoulders. The great dome of the sky enclosed him overhead, so much fullness that even in these wide-open spaces he felt the claustrophobic pressure of it. So unlike the night sky that promised the riches of heaven and so many wonders out there, if they could but be reached. The daytime sky was different. Here is where you belong, it said, and here you shall remain. It reduced everything beneath it to complete and utter insignificance. There is nothing to be sought and, if you seek, nothing to be gained.

  So be it, Aspley thought, and walked twenty paces back towards the direction of the camp. With the toe of his boot, he gouged the dry cracked earth until he had formed a line in the sand. This was the point of no return. The point beyond which the provisions that remained could not guarantee their safety.

  So he stood there, on that line, waiting for Powell and the others to rouse themselves and break camp.

  Aspley was without sleep. He had been seduced by the stars and other silly thoughts and so perhaps he nodded off a while as he waited on his line. But still he heard the singing as it came to him on the morning breeze. The words were meaningless, as so often happens when words are sung in song, more for the value of the voice as an instrument rather than any meaning that the words are meant to convey, but still the melody was there. Sung so sweetly, with a lilting edge to it. It was a song that Aspley swore he knew, but yet could put no name to. He closed his eyes as it entered his ears...

  ...then found himself falling from his horse, wondering when he had re-mounted. He hit the ground with a dusty thump. He climbed to his feet, felt his arms and legs, found them all in working order. Taking the reins of his horse, he led it to the fountain in the forecourt. As the horse bent its neck to drink, Aspley thrust his head into cool water and sucked it into his mouth. Such blessed relief washed down his parched throat. It was a moment of pure physical joy. The thought crossed his mind that should he die just then he would be happy.

  Aspley raised his head, pushed his wet hair back from his face and his spectacles back up his nose. He looked up at the heavy wooden doors that were locked between two great sandstone pillars and the steep steps that led to them. Now he heard the singing again and found his feet taking him across the courtyard and up the old worn steps. When he reached the top, the doors swung open before him. Inside was a quiet darkness that nurtured row upon rows of dusty bookcases. Aspley felt a thrill of excitement surge through him. Here surely lay all the information, all the secrets and intelligence that he would ever need.

  A woman, draped in white robes, her face covered in a veil, glided like a ghost from between two bookcases. “I believe, Captain, this is what you seek.”

  In her hands she held a book. She beckoned to him with one long hand to come see what she was reading. Aspley moved forward, took the book from her hands, opened it. There was no title page, just a lithograph that showed himself in the action of taking the book from the shrouded woman’s hands. The next page showed him standing next to the woman and opening it. The next showed him turning a page. The next was blank and the one after that, every page blank right to the end of the book.

  “The future is always unwritten,” the woman said. She took the book from him and returned it to the shelves. Then she turned to him. Her fingers reached out to stroke his cracked lips. “Let me take you on a journey over the sands...”

  Aspley felt the soft touch of her hand, smelt the sweet fragrance of so many flowers: honeysuckle, roses, frangipani... felt the longing that was sweeter than anything he had ever known. He looked through the veil into in her dark mysterious eyes. They were green, Aspley thought, green like the sea. “Aspley!”

  Aspley startled, shook himself from his reverie. Powell on his horse towered over him. The leer on his face was a dangerous one.

  “What is this?” Powell demanded.

  “A line in the sand, sir,” Aspley said, willing confidence into his sleep-soaked voice. “It is the point of no return. If we cross it and continue, we perish. We have barely enough supplies to get us back to the hills.”

  Major Powell dismounted, swinging quickly out of his saddle. “Aspley,” he said, “you are a fool. A splendid fool, I grant you. But, if you persist with this nonsense, you will cause me to do things that I would rather not do. The expedition shall move on and cross your line. We are too close now to give up the chase.”

  “The provisions can not carry us further and guarantee the safety of the men,” Aspley said. “If we return now and use our beasts as we go I am certain that we shall survive. To live to fight another day for Her Majesty’s Empire.”

  “And lose the prize,” Powell said.

  “I pray that you look here, through the telescope,” Aspley said. “There is nothing out there. There is no prize. The desert beckons us to our deaths, nothing more.”

  “Sergeant McKenzie, instruct your men to proceed across Captain Aspley’s line,” Major Powell said.

  “Sergeant McKenzie, that order is withdrawn,” Captain Aspley said.

  Sergeant McKenzie did not move, or at least not fast enough, for Powell in quick strides was by McKenzie’s horse. He seized the reins and levelled his Adams revolver at the Sergeant’s head. “Should I blast the sergeant’s brains to Kingdom Come? You know me, Aspley. I will do it. Sergeant McKenzie, you have your orders. Instruct you men to cross Captain Aspley’s line.”

  Sergeant McKenzie did not flinch, nor choose to look at Powell. This clearly was not the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him. He stared dead ahead, locking his eyes on the horizon.

  Bensen and O’Neill, high on the dray, grabbed their rifles and levelled them at Powell, waiting to see what the sergeant would do. Aspley sensed it, knew in that moment that he had only to give the command and Bensen would fire. O’Neill perhaps not. But he could issue that order and it would be over, done with and no one would blame him for saving Sergeant MacKenzie’s life. It had been witnessed by all that Powell was beyond all reasoning.

  Aspley wavered for one second, maybe two, and then it seemed that the moment for giving the order had passed.

  Mackenzie said in a steady voice, “Major, I will order the men to cross the line, but I first I ask a favour. Perhaps you would grant Captain Aspley the honour of gazing through his telescope, as he requested.”

  Powell seemed to hesitate for a moment, then moved his head slightly, effortlessly, a barely perceptible nod. He holstered his gun, turned, and walked to the telescope. He bent himself to it and looked but for a moment; then he rose and there was nothing to hide the look of delight upon his face.

  “Well spotted, Sergeant,” he said in an excited voice. “Captain Aspley and I would have done well to remain mounted. Clearly, the perspective is better from up there. Sergeant McKenzie, please do me the honour of leading the expedition across Captain Aspley’s line.”

  Aspley stood there on his line. He understood little but that the world seemed to have shifted around him. Everything had changed and so he must too, but just for the moment he could not move; did not wish to move; did not even care what Sergeant McKenzie had suddenly spied nor what lay through the eye of the telescope. He wished to be other than where he was. He wished to hear the song again that had been sung to him in his standing sleep, to smell that sweet womanly skin that smelt of such fragrant flowers.

  Major Powell came and put his arm around his shoulder. “It was well-played, Aspley, well-played indeed. And I thank you for that. Indeed, I will admit to you and myself as well, that within another day or two, I would have supported your decision to turn back. And admit too that you would have been the one to make it, and force me to agree. I, of course, would have tried to bluff my way and failed, but...”

  “The world has turned,” Aspley said.

  “For the better,” Powell said, slapping Aspley on the back. “Come with me. Please take my hand.”

  Powell’s hand was stretched out before him now. Aspley took it—they shook in a firm dignified manner—then he turned as if in a dream and walked to the telescope. Through it he sa
w another expedition, a train of half-a-dozen camels, heavily laden, with a lone rider on the lead beast, looking for all the world like some nomad who had ridden out of another desert entirely. It could not be, Aspley thought. But it was.

  * * *

  The Lone Rider

  A shot rang out, splitting the air apart. Aspley heard the whiz of the bullet as it passed, saw a little puff of dust and debris kick up into the air where it cut a neat slash across the epaulette of Major Powell’s khaki jacket. He imagined how many yards further the bullet would travel before losing its momentum and dropping to the earth. Powell waved his hand in the air, bringing the party to a halt, and instructed his men to hold their fire. Then he spurred his horse and charged towards the lone nomad at a fast gallop.

  He was either mad or had the luck of the gods on his side, Aspley thought, pulling his pistol from his holster and giving chase. No further shots were fired and Powell reared his horse up, perhaps fifty feet from where the camel train and its mysterious rider stood their ground.

  Powell slipped from his saddle. He pulled his shirt from his body quickly to reveal a scarred and muscular torso beneath. Taking his ghurka from its sheath, he turned to the nomad and waved it in the air. The challenge was issued, and the grin on Powell’s face told Aspley that he relished the moment. Single-combat. A military man with a skirmish before him. Aspley could understand the sense of being that it gave Powell, and Powell being Powell would be convinced that he could not lose.

  The nomad tapped his camel gently on the shoulder. The beast eased itself to its knees to allow its rider to dismount. The stranger pulled the desert scarf from his head to reveal a face tanned and freshly shaven and a pair of deep grey eyes. His features marked him as a racial brother of Powell’s. Either that or a Pakthun warrior, Aspley thought. The nomad removed his loose white shirt. His torso was as lean and muscular as Powell’s, yet without a single blemish. He stood there for a moment, studying Powell; then, seeming to make a decision, he went to his camel and drew a long-bladed knife from his saddle bag. It was a chora, Aspley knew. A Pakthun weapon, almost two foot of deadly steel.