Beneath Ceaseless Skies #88 Read online

  The two men approached each other carefully. Powell moved to the left and so did his opponent, and around they went slowly, steadily, their eyes flickering and intense, the muscles in their bodies taut. Powell kept hefting his knife from right to left hand and back again as he moved. His opponent held a steady grip, the tip of his chora moving as he moved to be always pointed at Powell’s throat.

  Aspley had his gun at the ready. In terms of an analytical assessment of the situation, the wisest and most logical path he knew was to shoot this lone rider while the man’s mind was otherwise engaged. Certainly, it was a not a noble course of action, but a noble course of action was not of his concern at the moment. However, the smile that Powell wore on his face told Aspley that the major was enjoying himself and that if he were to fire his gun and spoil the major’s fun, then he would live to rue that decision. Of course, he could just shoot Powell instead and be done with it. But the nomad was an unknown. Perhaps the best outcome, Aspley mused, would be for Powell to be killed and the nomad immediately shot afterwards. Two birds with one stone, and the expedition could retrace its steps as Aspley had fully intended when he drew his line in the sand.

  Powell and his opponent sprang at the same time. Their knives clashed in the air, flashed in the sun. Blow deflected blow. It was clear to Aspley that both men were skilled in close-fought combat. They turned into their landings, so that when their feet touched the ground they faced each other once more. Powell sprang again, swinging his ghurka in a big long-arm slash. The nomad hunched his back and sucked in his stomach. Powell’s knife came within a quarter-inch of cutting his flesh. But as Powell’s long wild stroke followed through, the nomad punched the hilt of his knife down upon Powell’s wrist. A shudder shot up Powell’s arm. His fingers spasmed. The ghurka fell from his grasp. Then, too fast for even Aspley to say how it happened, the point of the nomad’s chora was pressing into the soft flesh beneath Powell’s chin.

  Aspley sweated with his finger on the trigger of his revolver. Powell swallowed, then said, “Good lord, Anderson, am I never to best you? What in all heaven’s name are you doing here?

  “The same as you I presume. Simply following Her Majesty’s orders.”

  The man called Anderson removed his knife from Powell’s throat, slapped him upon the back, and laughed heartily. He motioned to the camels and said, “Thought you could do with some supplies.”

  Aspley returned his gun to its holster, his head swimming. He could make no sense of anything anymore, he decided.

  “Captain Aspley,” Powell said, turning to him. “I’d like you to meet Akaela. Allow me to introduce Major Patrick Anderson.”

  Aspley turned to jelly as he slid from his horse. His legs were shaky beneath him, but he tried to hide it as he took a few careful steps forward. Akaela! The Lone Wolf! The legend himself! He held out his hand, mumbled something. What, he was never really sure of, but he recalled it as, “It is a great honour to meet you.” But it might have been, “Dear god, I nearly shot you.”

  Anderson took his hand in a gentle grip and touched him on the shoulder. “Well met, Captain Aspley. Your gun was upon me all the time. I wondered if you would shoot, whether Powell had finally decided to best me by foul means not fair. I’m glad that was not the case. I congratulate you, Captain, on having the nerve to stay your gun until you had enough information to act upon.”

  “I...” Aspley said, lost for words, but Powell mercifully intervened.

  “Captain Aspley, please bring Sergeant McKenzie and his men up.”

  * * *

  The Journal of Captain Richard Aspley

  11th July

  Having brought up the men as instructed, I found Powell and the Lone Wolf deep in conversation. Following introductions all round, an exchange was made. The horses and the oxen were placed in Major Anderson’s charge. The camels and the supplies came to us. McKenzie and his men re-configured the dray and one of the camels was harnessed to it, and all of us in the next hour or so were taught to ride our own camel. It was not as easy as some may have imagined, nor as difficult as I myself thought. Whatever tension had existed seemed to be broken in that moment, as we all struggled to mount the beasts and bend their stubborn natures to our wills.

  “Ships of the desert,” Anderson said to us. “I am sure you will hear that expression tossed about often in the future, but remember you heard it from me first.”

  He winked at me then continued: “They hold water well, and these ones are well-wetted.” Then, having said this, he beckoned me to follow him as he led his lone camel, with our raggedy horses and oxen tethered behind, out into the desert.

  “Major Powell speaks highly of you, Captain Aspley. You are a credit to the Black Flag,” he said as we walked.

  His words surprised me. I felt that I had done nothing but foolishly challenge Powell and been proven wrong. I did not know what to say.

  “With hindsight, perhaps you were wrong on this occasion,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “but you did not know you were wrong and used all the intelligence that was at your command to make the decision that you did. It was your role to do that. There will come a time when Powell needs you more than he needs you now. You must make yourself present for him when that time comes. Will you promise me this?”

  I found it hard to believe that Powell would ever really need anyone, but this was Akaela to whom I spoke, and I assured him that I would be present for Powell when he needed me.

  Akaela looked at me with his deep grey eyes, and I knew then why he was called The Lone Wolf. They were full of sadness, yet full of joy as well. He said to me, “Give me your spectacles. Why do you wear them?”

  I hesitated for a moment. “I need them to see,” I said. But I took them off all the same and handed them to him. The bright harsh day before me turned into a murky blur of red and blue.

  Akaela took my spectacles, then spoke like a doctor to me. “Close your eyes for a moment. I will touch them only briefly. There will be no pain, just a slight heat, perhaps a little discomfort.”

  He placed his fingers on my eyes. I felt a firm pressure. A gentle warmth flowed from his fingertips. “Open your eyes,” he said.

  I opened my eyes to see him grinding my spectacles beneath his boot, saw it clearly, saw it sharper than I’d seen anything in many, many years. I somehow managed to mutter my thanks, then watched with these new bright and shiny eyes as he gave me the salute, mounted his camel, and rode into the desert.

  When I returned to camp, Powell said to me, “He’s a remarkable man, isn’t he?”

  It was the very first time I’d seen humility in Powell’s eyes. Lost for words, I merely nodded. Then Powell looked at me strangely. “You appear to have lost your spectacles, Captain.”

  “Not lost,” I said, “I gave them to Akaela.”

  Powell nodded his head, and I knew from the look in his eye he understood. “He saved my life once,” he said. “Remind me to tell you about it some time.”

  Here I have stated the facts of the matter as I witnessed them. My journal should end here for this day. I am conscious, however, that I have explained nothing about what happened; merely described it. I think that is the way it must be. There is no explanation that I can give. None of this can be true. I would have believed none of it, unless it had happened to me, and it would have been just another drunken myth the Black Flag boys talk about when they find themselves together in one of the far-flung watering holes of Her Majesty’s Empire. But I can see, oh yes, I can see, through natural eyes once more! The Lone Wolf is a remarkable man.

  17th July

  This afternoon we reached the ragged line of hills which had been spied yesterday and made our slow climb to the top. The camels had to be led carefully; they seem to have a natural fear of heights and displayed all the stubbornness of their brutish nature. As we approached the top-most portion of the ridge, spindly trees began to appear, then taller bolder trees with the undergrowth growing thicker, then once at the summit a line of magnifi
cent white gums demarcating some de facto border of nature.

  As it was before, so it is again. Behind us lay a red, hot desert stretching its great rusty flatness to the far horizon. Before us lay a green and plentiful land, almost a savannah of wild grass, bordered by high hills stretching off to east and west. And beyond those grasslands, through the telescope, perhaps a day and half’s journey away, a shimmering line of deep blue rose to meet the pale blue of the sky.

  It was a mirage. I almost managed to convince myself that it was, but I knew deep down that Powell was about to claim his prize.

  * * *

  Intermission: “Wind Sonnet” by Christopher Thackery Powell

  Come feel the wind, my dear fellow

  Doth fiery tempest scorch your brow?

  That remembers yet a breeze more mellow

  A force of nature; Aye, it blows its damnedest now!

  But rest assured, the wind is not our foe

  Indeed, methinks, it is the best of friends

  Think ‘what if’? the wind, it failed to blow

  The lives we live, would reach their bitter ends!

  Now, on that frosty day when you were born

  The angels, their heavenly wisdom not remiss,

  Blew your first sweet breath that very morn

  Such fresh and sacred wind; Oh, fragrant, fragrant bliss!

  The wind thus now, it knows your name

  Calls to you, ‘Come, dear fellow, let’s play the Game!’

  * * *

  Part II: The Burden of the Sea

  Major Christopher Powell stood on a red sandy beach, gazing out upon a vast blue sea. His Adams was out of its holster, and he took occasional pot-shots at a flock of seagulls that swirled above the shore.

  A short distance away lay the latest addition to the expedition: a small boat, barely large enough for two men and a week’s worth of provisions. McKenzie and the men had spent the last four days building it, crafting its beams from the forest of gums that covered the plains beyond the shore. Given the circumstances, it was roughly hewn, but Powell had deemed it seaworthy enough. Aspley believed that the truth of that remained to be tested. Next to the boat were the mast and sails that had been faithfully carried in the bottom of the dray these past four weeks.

  Captain Aspley had his eye glued to the telescope. It was trained on a distant speck across the waters. He rubbed his eyes. “It appears to be a small island with a building upon it. Of course, it cannot be. It is merely some rock that is naturally fashioned so.”

  “So it cannot be a building,” Powell said, “because that would be an aberration, would it not? The colony we have left behind is the standard by which we measure our reality in this dominion? I challenge you, Captain Aspley, to think again and reorientate your thoughts. Think of the length and breadth of Her Majesty’s dominions. Think of the wonders that we have found in all the so-called heathen lands. Should this one be any different? Some ancient stronghold perhaps, long-forgotten and stored with treasure? Who knows what wonders await us.”

  Yes, there were wonders, Aspley thought, as his hand moved to adjust the spectacles that were no longer there, but he could only continue to play his part in this game as best he knew how: a straight bat down the wicket.

  “It would seem unlikely, sir,” he said. “We have seen no evidence of an ancient civilisation so far. All available indications suggest that this land has lain in isolation for a very long time, the growth of all the great civilisations passing it completely by. Still it is worth exploring, sir; we can only increase our knowledge by doing so.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you agree, Captain,” Powell said. Turning quickly and taking aim, he fired a single shot from the Adams and reduced a circling seagull to a puff of feathers. “I have in mind to discover a treasure before I leave this place. So I prefer to remain optimistic. Besides, does it not strike you as strange that this sea is ringed by a desert that should not be crossed? And the sea itself rings yonder edifice? There is a treasure out there, Aspley, that does not wish to be found. But we shall find it. Sergeant McKenzie and his men shall explore the coastline while you and I take a little voyage.

  “Call the sergeant up, please, and arrange for the boat to be loaded.”

  * * *

  The Journal of Captain Richard Aspley

  21st July

  There was disappointment in McKenzie’s eyes as he received his orders. He would have gladly traded places with myself, I’m certain. I confess I felt some reluctance at that moment. McKenzie had supported me, as he had supported Powell, and I wondered what Powell and I would do with each other without McKenzie around. But I remembered the Lone Wolf’s words and I would be true to them, be present for Powell when he needed me.

  Before McKenzie and the men departed, Powell produced a bag of gold nuggets and spilled them on the beach. “It is never a successful mission unless you return with some loot, is it now? For you and the men, Sergeant. Explore the coastline for a week and then return to this point. Should we not be back, cross the sands once more and return to the Colony. You’ll be successful gold-diggers returning from the fields. Make sure you enjoy yourselves. Women and drink, and plenty of it. It’s all yours to spend, as you wish.”

  The gold glittered so prettily on those red sands. Thousands of pounds worth, I am sure. It was returned to its bag quickly.

  Sergeant McKenzie saluted and he and his men departed. A strange moment passed as I watched them ride off. I thought it was a foolish thing Powell had done. It was beyond doubt that McKenzie could be trusted to do his job. Benson and O’Neill though, the look in their eyes; they knew what the gold was worth and they had never known such money in their life.

  Then, before I had time to think anymore, Powell said, “They deserve a reward. They have it now, and a goal in sight. McKenzie would not have picked them unless he could trust them. And if they cannot be trusted, then he falls on his own sword. Besides, he’ll have a word with them. Let them know this is Black Flag business, and if they can keep their mouths closed when they need to they might have a certain future.

  “Now, Aspley are you with me, dear chap?”

  I assured him that I was, but I wondered what treasure he hoped to find that was beyond the gold already in his possession.

  “Ever sailed before, Aspley?” Powell asked.

  I confessed I had not.

  “Take rudder then,” he said, “I suspect steering will come naturally to you.”

  * * *

  The Future is Unwritten

  The journey started pleasantly enough. With the wind in their hair and smell of sea salt in their nostrils, there was once more the feeling of a grand adventure commenced. Their small craft glided over a flat and calm sea. Powell worked the sails skilfully to capture the angle of the wind to their advantage, and with such little swell in the waves, Aspley found the steering of the craft as easy as Powell had suggested. Overhead, fluffy white clouds stretched themselves into fantastic shapes, and the sun, which had scorched them in the desert, seemed to have lost some of the fierceness of its heat.

  Aspley had estimated it would take them perhaps a full day’s sailing to reach the island, provided the wind did not drop and leave them wallowing in the doldrums. But by midday, it was clear that a storm was coming in. The clouds had massed together and grown steadily darker as the day had worn on. At the same time, their destination appeared no closer than it had upon the beach. It was an optical illusion, Aspley decided, perhaps to do with leaving the land behind and all points of reference now being from the level of the sea, in a similar way that the moon always looked much larger when it was closer to the horizon.

  Soon the wind began to blow more strongly, and Aspley found himself battling with the rudder as the swell rose. “Perhaps it would be wise to lower the sails until the storm has blown over,” he said, but found his words whipped away by the wind. A lightening strike ripped the sky apart. The air shook with the quick thunder that followed. Then the rain plummeted down in great greas
y drops that hit the boat and the two of them with the force of stones.

  The swell surged, lifting the boat high into the air, ten feet at least, and Aspley felt his stomach turn with the sudden ascent. “Hold fast, hold fast!” Powell cried. For a moment they teetered on the peak of the wave, then they were down the other side, sliding into the deep trough below. Like some great green beast the sea twisted and churned around them. Aspley gripped the rudder tightly. Powell clung to the mast. The boat rolled in the swirl, first one way, then another. The thought crossed Aspley’s mind that everything was relative in life and perhaps a slow death in the desert beneath the midday sun was preferable to sudden drawing of a lungful of seawater. It was as he thought this that he heard the singing again. It was the same song that he’d heard when he stood his ground upon the line.

  But now Powell heard it too. “You hear that, Aspley,” he cried. “You hear that, don’t you? Who is it that sings to us so sweetly? Sings songs that can be heard above this tempest and challenges us with this storm?”

  Aspley did not answer. He saw the monstrous wave that rose behind Powell, Powell who stood there with that wild look in his eye, his pupils gleaming with a golden fire. “Dear god,” Aspley cried as the sea rose beneath them and they were lifted towards the heavens. How high, Aspley wondered, how high, then found himself looking at the bottom of the wave so very far below. The boat slipped from the crest, fell through the air and hit with such a mighty crash that its timbers splintered with the impact. The seawater rushed over them, swirling and sucking at them, pulling them under.