Chapter 8
The Incredible
“That’s simply amazing!” Mathew shouted as the top of a huge volcano, shaped like a dragon’s head, hove into view. “That would have to be the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen!” He reached for the ray gun.
“And how many dragons have you seen, then?” asked Zoë. Mathew didn’t answer.
“Please put that gun back where you found it, Mathew,” said the Doctor crossly. “And I’ve told you on more than one occasion that guns should be treated with a great deal of respect, they are not toys!”
“I wish you’d tell Basil that,” Mathew said and sulkily replaced the gun. “It’s a flipping wonder Basil hasn’t done himself or someone else a permanent injury by now; he’s a maniac when it comes to gun safety.”
The Doctor gave Mathew a look of despair and raised his eyebrows reproachfully. He knew only too well what Basil was capable of doing when it came to gun safety; he’d witnessed him slip a loaded pistol into his trouser belt on more than one occasion. The Doctor changed the subject back to the volcano.
“Truth be known;” he said with a down-to-earth honest expression on his face. “It was me who killed that famous historical dragon!”
“What dragon?” asked Zoë, chuckling. Mathew grinned and rolled his eyes yet again.
“Yes, children, it was me who killed the fire-breathing dragon not that no-hoper St. George. And furthermore, he was known throughout the district as Simple George before I came along!”
“But you told us before that time lords had to avoid any action that could change the course of history,” Zoë said.
The Doctor nodded. “Yes, you are absolutely correct, Zoë. The taking of life, any life, is prohibited under the instruments of the Time Lord Convention, unless it is in self-defence or in order to save another intelligent life form. Unfortunately, this was just such a case; the Dragon had to be destroyed in order to save Simple George’s life - the idiot was prodding the Dragon with a stick just to see what it would do!
The Dragon had been eating humans for many years and all previous attempts to destroy it had failed. So one day the local population banded together and gathered a huge pile of gold and offered it to me to kill the Dragon. I, of course, refused the money and agreed to do what the long-suffering people wanted. So next day I set off with the ray gun towards the dragon’s lair, and who do you think I found there?”
“Simple George!” shouted Zoë and Mathew; they doubled over laughing.
“Well yes, as it happens, it was Simple George; and what do you think he was doing, Mathew?”
“He was prodding the dragon with a stick just to see what it would do!”
The Doctor stifled a laugh and grinned instead. “Thank you, Mathew. So I killed the Dragon just as it was about to eat poor, Simple George.”
“What did he do when you killed the dragon?” Zoë asked.
The Doctor laughed. “Simple George screamed and ran away as fast as his long, thin legs would carry him. And he ran straight back to town and told everybody that he’d killed the horrible dragon with his bare hands; he later changed the story to a big stick, which later historians changed to a lance because it sounded a lot more romantic and up-market!”
“Why did the church raise him to a saint, then?” asked Zoë; there was a distinct chuckle in her voice.
The Doctor laughed again. “The fact of the matter is the church needed heroes to take the people’s attention away from such menial things like hunger, disease, pestilence, war, pain and suffering; and fat, rich priests who wallowed away their time in their big comfortable cathedrals.
The people needed a hero to take their mind off the drudgery of their everyday life, and having to work from the darkness of morning to the darkness of night to enrich and feed the fat priests and the fat land owners. They were also sick and tired of waiting for the Second Coming of God or the good life in a place called Heaven that the priests were always carping-on about. And nobody they knew ever visited Heaven on purpose and returned to tell their friends about the good life!”
“The people were convinced that it was all a huge joke, a confidence trick started by the church with the sole intention of keeping the population under its tight control.
And the church prohibited independent thought and study; that’s why we in
“So the church cooked up a scheme to change Simple George’s name to Saint George; they clapped a suit of armour on him, attached him to a horse, and shoved a lance under his arm; and to finish off the scene they had an artist knock-up an oil painting showing him skewering the unfortunate dragon to death!”
“The people were overjoyed and hurried off to church to make a big fat donation. The priests were extremely happy and beamed an awful lot as they counted out their money in the counting house.”
“Do you think you might have changed the course of history, Doctor?”
The Doctor had obviously thought about that question many times before. “Well, I hope not, Zoë” he said in a measured voice. “When Simple George ran for the town I examined the dragon; I found that it had been suffering from terminal congestive heart failure brought on by the breakdown of the right side of the heart; in particular a profound insufficiency of the Aortic valve. It was also suffering from multiple organ failure secondary to the catastrophic heart disease. In short, Zoë and Mathew, the dragon was near death when I killed it, so at the very least I saved it some suffering time.
“I felt so sorry for Simple George that I let him, and through him the church, take the credit for slaying the poor old dragon; and now history portrays St. George killing the dragon as a triumph of good over evil!” He sighed as if he carried a heavy load. “The church still has a firm hold on the people, I’m sorry to say.”
“If it wasn’t for you, Doctor,” said Mathew laughing, “his epitaph would probably now read George in the Dragon.” They all laughed.
“Probably just another Doctor story,” hummed Zoë. “But that volcano really does look like a dragon.”
The Doctor chuckled; he also thought the shape of the volcanic cinder cone was rather extraordinary; however, he was also well aware of the eroding effect that rain, wind, and tempest, combined with the ravages of time, would have even on the hardest rock. All of a sudden the air filled with the noise of an enormous explosion; it shook the volcano and everything close to it like an agitated jelly; and a plume of black pulverised basalt mixed with superheated steam, various gases, and vitrified sand blasted high into the sky; a mushroom cloud hung in the sky as testimony to the spectacular event.
Cave dwelling men, women, and children worshiped the volcano as the God of the Underworld. And every time it stirred, they’d scramble up its salient snout and toss a young girl or boy, screaming with fear, into its blazing mouth to satisfy God’s hunger for human flesh; at least that’s what the fat priests told them. The Doctor told the children that was once a common cultural and religious practice in some parts of the world.
***
The Doctor manoeuvred the airship away from the volcano and skimmed across the treetops towards their next adventure.
The adventurers gazed down upon trees heavily-laden with tropical fruit. A troop of macaque monkeys busily gathered the fruit; they also spent a lot of time arguing about something of no obvious significance to the explorers and then moved on, but not before hurling a few mangoes and handfuls of something disgusting at the low-flying airship.
Water buffalo with long tapering horns grazed contentedly in the grassy area between the trees; and gaily-coloured birds chased one another, squawking madly from tree to tree.
Beyond the trees was a vast, crystal-clear, lake; its glassy surface reflected the sky above; below the surface roiled huge shoals of multicoloured fish.
A flight of long-necked water birds suddenly appeared overhead and dived headlong into the swirling mass; again and again they repeated the exercise until they could eat no more. Some of the sated birds paddled ashore for an after dinner nap; while others sat on the beach or on some old tree trunk and busied themselves preening their feathers or drying their long extended wings in the sun.
“We’ll land on the beach,” said the Doctor gliding the airship towards a spot he’d chosen between the lake and the jungle; as he did the roar of the mighty engines was gradually replaced by a fading hum, and moments later they were down safely.
“The airship has landed!” he sang happily and switched off the engines. “This is one small step for a man but one gigantic leap for mankind!” He flung open the door and jumped out onto the brilliant crystalline sand.
“Stay close to me at all times!” he said without so much as a glance at Zoë and Mathew; he was far too excited about something else - a banded sea snake, one of the most poisonous snakes known to science, had just left the water and was slithering towards a sleeping water bird - it suddenly awakened as if by premonition and opened its beak but no sound came out; it stood there, scared stiff, and knowing full-well it was about to die. The huge serpent raised its head and readied for the strike. Moments later it slithered back into the lake; the bird had vanished, except for a few torn feathers scattered on the sand. But there was a bulge in the serpent’s belly.
“This is a very mysterious island indeed,” said the Doctor; he watched the reptile submerge into the depths of the lake. He then cast his eyes towards the jungle fringe and beyond that towards the cloud-topped mountains. “There are probably creatures living on this island that no other scientist has ever seen before,” he said with a mixture of excitement and apprehension in his voice.
The air was heavy with the scent of dazzling native flowers. Mathew stooped to examine a particularly beautiful iridescent purple flower that was in full bloom. He pulled it from the sand and examined it closely.
“These daisies are much nicer than those in Deep Wood,” he said, raising the bloom to his nose and taking a noisy sniff.
“What daisies are you talking about, Mathew?” asked Zoë.
“These daisies!” he grunted and handed her the purple flower. Zoë smirked and the Doctor laughed quietly.
“Well, I must say Mathew, you were partly right; it is a flower. But I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on a finer point of botanical classification, they’re violets.”
“Well I knew that all the time,” said Mathew and screwed-on his know-all face; he was clearly in breach of the truth. “I just wanted to see if you knew that it was a violet.”
Still chuckling, Zoë armed herself with a magnifying glass, tweezers, and several specimen jars and padded-off through the soft sand towards the jungle fringe; she wanted to collect floral and faunal specimens for her school project.
“You should follow Zoë’s example, Mathew,” said the Doctor happily. “This is an excellent opportunity for you to gather specimens for school, and there are so many specimens here that rightly belong in
“I’ll do my best,” said Mathew and rolled his eyes.
The Doctor sighed. “That’s what I feared Mathew.” He decided to try another encouraging tack; he beamed at Mathew, who squinted back suspiciously. The Doctor flourished his arm towards the forest.
“This looks like the biblical land of milk and honey,” he said as he contemplated the many wonders that they’d already seen, and the many more that they were yet to see. Clouds of honeybees buzzed around them as he spoke; some of the bees were so heavily laden with pollen they bounced from flower to flower on their journey home.
“This is probably what Adam and Eve saw in the Garden of Eden!” he said happily and swam his eyes over the enchanting vista.
“Well, in that case we’d better be on our guard for apple trees and serpents!” said Mathew grinning. He’d armed himself with an authentic English longbow the Doctor found at Agincourt on October 26, 1415, the day after the titanic battle between Henry V of England and France; he also had a quiver full of armour-piercing bodkin-point arrows; and Basil’s revolver in his belt just in case.
“Thank you, Mathew,” said the Doctor jovially. “I knew that you would understand and appreciate the significance of what I just told you.”
“Yes, Doctor, I understood your message absolutely,” he said with a broad grin. “And I’ll definitely be on the lookout for apple trees and snakes too!” He pelted-off along the beach without as much as a by-your-leave.
The Doctor and Zoë watched his departure with a mounting sense of despair.
“He’ll never obey orders, Doctor,” said Zoë; she had resigned herself to the fact that Mathew is, and always will be, a free spirit. “He’s too much like Basil, I’m afraid.” The Doctor grinned and nodded; he already knew that.
“I’ll get you a jolly big fish for lunch!” shouted Mathew; he was a little figure standing at the edge of the great lake. He could see many fish off-shore from where he stood but he had to get closer if he was going to skewer one; he squinted against the reflected rays of the sun and waded into the warm water until it splashed against his waist. All of a sudden he noticed something that he hadn’t noticed before; it was a slow-moving dorsal fin, like that on a shark, cutting lazy circles through the surface not too far from where he stood, and it was getting closer! It was too late to get out of the water; he instantly raised the longbow and sent a well-aimed arrow spinning like a rifle bullet through the monster’s heart.
Mathew dragged the still-thrashing body from the water just as the Doctor and Zoë rushed to his side. The Doctor was going to scold him good and proper about the dangers of going into the lake alone, but decided that Mathew had already learned his lesson.
“What is it?” Zoë asked; she prodded at the carcase with a stout stick. “I’ve never seen a fish like this before, except in a book on the evolution of fishes in
The Doctor nodded. “You’re absolutely right, Zoë” he said. “This is a primitive freshwater shark, called Xenocanthus decheni by scientists; and it lived in British waterways and lakes about 300 million years ago. So what is it doing here in the twenty-first century?” The Doctor carefully measured, photographed and weighed the fish for scientific purposes; he jotted everything into his notebook before returning it to his pocket.
“We may as well have an early lunch then,” said Zoë. She was hungry and the shark, primitive or not, looked quite edible. Mathew grinned as he’d never grinned before; he was swollen with pride by his achievement and the fact that he was now the centre of attention, next to the fish that is.
The Doctor laughed quietly as he busied himself with setting-up the solar-reflector barbecue - another of his marvellous inventions that someone else got the credit for. And, within minutes of the shark being prepared for cooking, the mouth-watering feast of prehistoric fish steak was ready for eating. And what a meal they had; it was delicious! Zoë had stuffed the shark with mango, paw-paw, and banana, and had basted the outside with a combination of golden honey and crushed pineapple; the taste was sensational. A sweet fruit cocktail dripping with golden honey capped off the splendid meal.
“That was an absolutely outstanding meal Zoë,” said the Doctor, massaging his tummy; and his eyes sparkled extra-brightly. “You take after your grandmother and your mother; they’re both very good chefs.”
The Doctor hummed merrily to himself and drummed the tips of his fingers on his tummy; he yawned and fell into a deep, contented sleep. However, Zoë and Mathew were far too excited to rest. Zoë busied herself gathering more specimens while Mathew, armed with his longbow, went-off to explore the waterfall and the rainbow at the far end of the lake.
“Don’t go too far!” Zoë called after him. She watched his progress until he rounded a thick clump of jungle and vanished from view.
“I wonder if there really is gold at the end of the rainbow” said Mathew jokily; he laughed as he skipped into the rainbow and looked around; a strange rainbow-coloured waterfall poured from a cliff to the right of him and crashed onto a pile of partly-submerged rocks. A thick mist rolled upwards from the agitated water like a low-lying cumulus cloud and fell back into the lake as a fine drizzle of rain.
A twinkling of multi-coloured lights suddenly attracted Mathew’s attention; he immediately stopped what he was doing, rubbed his eyes, and his jaw flopped. What Mathew saw wasn’t gold but a swarm of brightly-dressed fairies just like the one’s he’d seen the day before in Prince David’s chamber. Mathew grinned as he watched the fairies play and dance merrily around and through the rainbow and then line up and take turns at sliding down its convex sides. They chattered and laughed cheerily in the same high-pitched squeak as before. Every time they wafted past Mathew they giggled like a group of English schoolgirls and waved at him happily. But that all changed in an instant; the fairies suddenly stopped their cheerful playing and, squealing in terror, took flight and disappeared into the seemingly impenetrable jungle.
Mathew stared into the billowing spray and as he did the hair on the back of his neck prickled like the bristles on a lavatory brush; a dark, wispy apparition, just like the one he’d seen the day before in Deep Wood, hung within the mist; and to his horror its featureless face was fixed on him!
An icy hand suddenly swept over Mathew’s body and he felt profoundly weak at the knees. He tried to run but he couldn’t move a muscle; he tried to scream but no sound left his mouth; he willed his hands to grasp the longbow, but they refused to obey him. Pale as a ghost, Mathew stared wide-eyed and unblinking at the phantom as it glided slowly towards him from out of the mist; moments later it stood before him in all its hideousness. The spectre looked down at Mathew and raised its right arm slowly, deliberately, and almost benevolently.
Scared stiff, Mathew gazed at the featureless fuzzy face devoid of flesh and bone and, even so, he felt rather than recognised who it was standing before him - it was Merlin the Magician! Merlin looked down at Mathew and touched him on the shoulder; but instead of fear Mathew felt pleasantly at ease, and an overwhelming sense of goodwill and friendship drew him irresistibly closer to his new spirit friend.
“Are you Merlin the Magician?” he asked. The spirit craned his head towards Mathew and spoke, even though it had no mouth, lips, or face.
“Yes. I am Merlin,” he said in Mathew’s mind. “And you, the Doctor and Zoë are my future, and I am your future!” Mathew didn’t know what to make of what Merlin had just said, but he reckoned all would be revealed in the fullness of time.
Merlin radiated an overpowering aura of calm and tranquillity as he pulled himself upright. “I shall watch over you and be at your side at all times!” He said in a trailing voice. “I am your guardian angel!” So saying he raised his arm in a salute and dissipated into the mist from which he’d come. Mathew felt surprisingly high-spirited and cheerful. A voice in the back of his head kept telling him to follow the fairies.
“All will be revealed, my boy!” he heard Merlin say from somewhere deep within his mind. Mathew smiled and dashed after the fairies.
The jungle was far too thick for Mathew to follow the fairies; he probed and slashed at the jungle with a stick but that was no good; all he managed to do was scatter a lot of leaves, a swarm of very unhappy wasps, several lizards, and a poisonous snake; then an idea flashed into his mind: If he couldn’t go through or over the jungle then he might just be able to crawl under it. Mathew dropped onto his knees, flung himself onto his stomach, and began to excavate a trench beneath the bushes like a desperate sea turtle digging a trench to lay her clutch of eggs.
“This is dead easy!” he said as he powered his way through the sand; and a short time later he’d succeeded in excavating a shallow trench beneath the jungle. But Mathew’s progress wasn’t going to be that easy for very much longer. The air had become very hot and humid and it wasn’t long before he was experiencing serious respiratory discomfort. His chest heaved as he frantically gasped for a lungful of air. Mathew was completely exhausted and sweat covered his face and back. He knew only too well he was in mortal danger from heat exhaustion and dehydration; and if he didn’t get out of there straight away he’d surely die! He was beginning to panic; he felt as if he was trapped in a hot oven - but fate had something even more horrible in store for him!
Mathew struggled to worm his way out of the broiling heat; but he was far too weak – his life was at an end; and with a last gasp he released his body and soul into the outstretched arms the Grim Reaper, Old Father Death! Mathew’s head flopped onto the scorching sand; he wheezed and coughed as the fine sand and dust entered his lungs; and his life flashed before his eyes like a distant mirage shimmering above a hot bitumen road. Would his remains ever be found? He felt sorry for the pain and suffering that his death would cause his sister Zoë, his parents, the Doctor, and grandmother Violet.
Mathew knew that he was dying; he was too tired to weep and then he felt his body move. He struggled to raise his head and what he saw frightened him even closer to death! The bushes were moving away from him! At that moment Mathew realised the terrible truth: He was being sucked down a slippery sand funnel; like an unfortunate insect into the jaws of a voracious ant lion; there was nothing that he could do then everything went blank – he’d fainted.
Mathew didn’t know how long he lay unconscious on the ledge at the bottom of the chasm but miraculously he was still alive although badly bruised and very sore. He cautiously moved his arms and legs and finally his head; satisfied there were no broken bones he gently raised himself to the sitting position and squinted into the darkness. He sensed he was not alone; someone or something was standing next to him; he cautiously extended his hand and to his utter amazement something semi-solid between a solid and a ghostly vapour wrapped itself around his hand and gently squeezed it; moments later it dissipated like an aerosol mist. Mathew smiled; his guardian angel was watching over him. “Thank you, Merlin,” he whispered.
Mathew made a great effort to piece together what had happened to him since being swallowed by the sand; he recalled his head going beneath the surface and the feeling of terror at being unable to breathe; he also remembered himself falling as if in a bad dream; and being lifted into the air - nothing else after that.
Mathew sat on the ledge and took stock of his situation. He was now faced with a stark reality: Escape the way he’d come was impossible. But why hadn’t Merlin lifted him out of the chasm? There was only one logical reason: Merlin wanted him to follow the fairies. Anyway, the sides of the chasm were far too steep and water-worn to climb to the surface; and there was no other way out except one: He had to follow the shallow stream that rippled along at the bottom of the chasm to its end - be that a river or the
In the dull blue light produced by millions of glow worms Mathew began to gather some of the bushes that had fallen into the chasm with him. He sweated freely in the hot, steamy, conditions as he worked; he knew that if he didn’t get out of there soon he’d be in serious trouble yet again. He tangled and weaved the branches together with snake vines and satisfied with his work, hauled himself onto the small raft and set off into the unknown. Forward and onward he drifted and with each passing minute the rapidity of the stream increased until he found himself hanging onto the branches for dear life; the little raft skipped, swirled, and twisted its way over the surface of what had become a treacherous stretch of white water.
The journey along the underground river was like a trip on an amusement park roller coaster; the raft turned unexpectedly and flashed though sheets of sticky spider webs; and water poured from the darkness above. Although Mathew didn’t know it, the raft was hurtling through the barrel of an ancient volcanic pipe - to fall off meant certain death! The roar of the water echoed through the tunnel like an express train as it dashed through the London Underground; Mathew hung on desperately and prayed the raft wouldn’t fall apart as it shot through the darkness like a dart in a blowpipe; there was just enough space above him to avoid his head being pulverised against the low ceiling - Mathew gripped the raft and buried his head in the branches.
The river was becoming more turbulent as time went on and curling waves began to wash over Mathew and threatened to drown him. He hung on for dear life as the raft tore around the next bend and smashed into the wall, ricocheted violently and sailed through the air as a pebble skimming across a placid lake. In the ghostly light Mathew saw his future; but he was beyond fear; he’d accepted his fate as many soldiers had done when faced with the endless futility of war, suffering, pain, and death.
The river, Mathew, and the raft suddenly plunged into the abyss! Mathew braced himself for the inevitable: being dashed to pieces against rocks at the bottom of the waterfall.
The raft struck the rocks and angry water with such force it was instantly reduced to splinters. Mathew, however, had been miraculously lifted from the raft just moments before it struck the rocks; he found himself in the turbulent water being sucked under by the strong undertow; he desperately clawed the water, but it was like trying to swim inside a gigantic industrial washing machine - he was thrown about helplessly.
Mathew gulped for air only to swallow water; he was drowning and he knew it; he stopped struggling and accepted the inevitable - just as he’d already done several times. He felt his body bounce off the bottom; his eardrums burst under the pressure and his lungs filled with water. There was no more panic and no more pain; even the roar of the water was now gone. Mathew felt himself floating out of his body, the effect of cerebral hypoxia. A feeling of euphoria enveloped him. He grinned subconsciously; Mathew had drowned!
As Mathew’s immortal soul departed his body an amazing thing happened. He felt himself, or was it his soul, being raised from the water and being carried upwards; he was in a tunnel of white light and racing towards what appeared to be the entrance to another world; but his path was blocked by a pair of colossal wrought-iron gates and someone was standing before the gates, someone strangely familiar to him!
Mathew slowly regained consciousness; he was lying on a heap of ancient water-rounded rocks; he raised his arm to shield his eyes against the glare; shafts of brilliant sunlight blasted through a myriad of large and small holes that peppered the basalt roof like a colander; a veil of spidery tree roots grew profusely in the oppressive atmosphere and swept the water as it rushed past.
Mathew cautiously slid into the water and waded off with the stream. But he’d only taken a few steps before the hair on the back of his neck stood rigid yet again - he’d definitely upset someone big-time in a former life!
An ear-splitting whistle, like that issued by a racing locomotive as it hurtled by, suddenly filled the tunnel behind him and a strong wind barrelled at him with such force he lost his footing; he desperately tried to run through the water but only managed a few paces before slipping beneath the surface; that event was fortuitous because it probably saved his life. The whistling noise was a prelude to a scorching blast of super-heated steam that had originated deep within the earth’s mantle.
Mathew raised his head for a breath of air and immediately plunged back into the water; the heat in the tunnel had become unbearable, so-much-so the exposed skin on the back of his neck blistered in seconds. Mathew swam under water with the current for as long as he could; he surfaced only long enough to gulp a lungful of hot air and plunge back into the cool, life-giving water. Although Mathew didn’t realise it Merlin had saved his life yet again; and if it hadn’t been for his swift action he would be dead. Mathew carried on in the manner of a dolphin for some time before conditions improved sufficiently for him to pull himself from the stream and onto a pile of basalt rocks that had fallen from the roof sometime in prehistory. A cool, refreshing rain of condensing steam had begun to fall within the tunnel. But the elements hadn’t finished with Mathew just yet; this was definitely a holiday that he’d never forget!
Blood-sucking vampire bats suddenly poured into the tunnel through a huge rip in the roof and, shrieking deafeningly, made straight for him with their sharp, pointed fangs chattering like machine guns. Mathew had no defence against the bats; and if he didn’t take cover immediately they would suck his body dry of blood in minutes! His only hope was the stream again; he dived into the water and swam for his life underwater; the voracious bats shrieked, screeched and massed hungrily above the spot where he’d entered the water.
The tunnel became very dark once more and lightning flashed through the length and breadth of the chasm like flashbulbs; tremendous claps of thunder followed the lightning; the whole world seemed to be trembling under the fury of the tempest raging outside. The bats vanished as swiftly as they had first appeared. Mathew stood in the waist-deep stream and watched in horror as water poured into the tunnel through the cracks in the roof. And it was getting worse! The stream began to rise at an alarming speed and within minutes it had reached his chest. Mathew swam for his life!
A stiff wind barrelled through the tunnel towards Mathew; it howled like a wounded, wild, beast; and was replaced moments later by an almighty hair-raising roar! Wide-eyed with terror Mathew looked over his shoulder and saw death - it was so horrible and frightening his blood froze in an instant; his eyes bulged and his jaw gaped as a semi-solid mass of billowing water mixed with mud, boulders and trees hurled itself at him - then silence!
Mathew regained consciousness with a start; he could hear the sound of the furious river somewhere far below; but he was dry. He anxiously pulled himself to the sitting position and looked around; he was on a wide basalt ledge; but he definitely wasn’t prepared for what he saw next: two burning torches, one on either side of a large, rust-covered,
“Hallelujah!” He shouted and, as if in some fantastic delirium, threw himself at the gate and tore it open and staggered into a new and even more terrifying adventure!
***
“They’re Mathew’s footprints; over here Doctor!” Zoë shouted urgently and waved excitedly to attract the Doctor’s attention. He hurried over and examined the footprints; and a smile appeared on his worried face.
“Thank heavens for that!” he said with a sigh, as if a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders; “these are definitely Mathew’s footprints.”
“So he shouldn’t be too far away, then?” said Zoë; her spirit heightened somewhat. The Doctor nodded; he pulled himself to his feet and followed the footprints towards the jungle.
“I wonder why Mathew would want to crawl under the jungle?” he said in a mystified tone of voice; he craned his arm under the foliage and retrieved a piece of cloth – it came from Mathew’s shirt.
Zoë flopped onto the sand and examined the trench left by Mathew. “I don’t know,” she said; “but it must’ve been very compelling; why else would he want to dig this trench?” The Doctor nodded.
“Mathew!” he shouted at the top of his voice; there was no reply.
“I’ll check the trench for a short distance,” said Zoë; she peered beneath the bushes. “He must still be in there, somewhere; he certainly didn’t come out this way!”
The Doctor’s eyebrows knitted with concentration; he was very worried for Mathew’s safety; and also Zoë’s if she persisted with her intention to follow Mathew. The Doctor, however, admired her courage and strength of mind to find her brother.
“The jungle must be teeming with poisonous snakes, spiders and scorpions and, most dangerous of all, pools of carbon monoxide gas - and if you breathe it you’d be dead before you knew you were dying: it’s odourless, colourless and tasteless; and it binds irreversibly with your blood; there’s no antidote except a blood transfusion and oxygen therapy.
Zoë thought about what the Doctor said; she was very scared, not only for Mathew’s well-being but for her own life. But she also realised that Mathew might be lying just up ahead, injured or dead; she had to find out.
“I’ll follow the trench for no more than fifty yards!” she insisted, “and if I don’t find him I’ll return immediately and that’s a promise.” But she hadn’t gone more than half that distance before the unbearably oppressive heat and humidity began to take its toll on her as it had on Mathew. Perspiration poured down her face but she wriggled on stoically until forced to stop by the enormous sinkhole that swallowed Mathew. She cautiously slithered to the edge and peered into the darkness, and her heart sank; nothing living could survive the torrent that raged beneath her. Zoë wriggled back as fast as she could to tell the Doctor.
“You think Mathew might have fallen into the chasm?” he said uneasily; this time the veins on his forehead throbbed. “If that’s the case there’s no time to lose!” So saying he rushed off towards the airship. He returned a short time later armed with a coil of nylon rope, a knapsack containing rations and water, and the laser gun.
“Put these glasses on!” he said handing Zoë a pair of dark glasses to protect her eyes from the laser flash. The Doctor gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger - the jungle instantly vaporised; they rushed over and peered into the void.
“Nothing could survive that river!” he said with a sinking heart.
“But he might be clinging to a ledge or something?” pleaded Zoë; she wasn’t prepared to accept Mathew’s fate that easily. The Doctor forced a partial smile and continued to stare at the raging torrent, as if mesmerized by what he saw.
“We’ll continue the search until we find Mathew,” he said gravely. “And I promise you, Zoë, we’ll find him even if I have to destroy the whole island to do so.”
The Doctor raised the laser gun to his shoulder and vaporised a path through the jungle; every now and then he directed the beam towards the ground and he and Zoë would drop to their knees and look for signs that Mathew had been there; they called his name – but there was no reply, except echoes; in this way they followed the course of the tunnel.
“The chasm’s split - there are two rivers now!” said the Doctor as he peered into the latest hole. “The right branch disappears into a vertical shaft; I think it’s a volcanic geyser; and the water’s boiling in it!” His heart skipped a beat as he contemplated Mathew’s fate had he taken that branch.
“Doctor, look over here!” Zoë shouted excitedly. The Doctor spun around and his eyes bulged. “My God!” he shouted as his eyes fixed on a rusty gate – it was open! Two burning torches illuminated the entrance to a tunnel.
The Doctor hurried over to where he judged the gate to be and vaporised a hole, big enough to accommodate his body, through the basalt rock. His aim was very good indeed and as the smoke and debris cleared he and Zoë prepared to lower themselves into the tunnel.
***
Mathew crept along the tunnel in a half crouch; he stopped on a regular basis and took note of his surroundings. It was obvious the tunnel had been developed by an intelligent life form: the walls were smooth and expertly tiled and grouted, and the air was fresh and cool. In the distance he could hear the constant swish of gigantic ventilator blades as they cut through the air like blades on a
Mathew had no doubt the race of people that built this marvellous structure must have been very clever and highly educated. A task of this size and magnitude would have required an army of engineers, architects, scientists, and others to build. Would such a gifted race be a threat to him? He had to be sure; one false move or a bad judgement could spell disaster.
Mathew raised himself and crept forward cautiously. Incredibly, given all that he had been through so far, he still had his revolver. Nervous sweat blossomed on his forehead and rolled into his eyes and down his cheeks. He shivered; the tunnel seemed to stretch into infinity; he could see no end to it, only a pinpoint of white light - just like he’d seen when he died the first time; surely he couldn’t be dead again? He pinched himself, it hurt.
Icy needles raked his back as he sloped onwards, until forced to make his first major decision since entering the tunnel: another tunnel, just as elaborate as the first but smaller in diameter, veered off to his left at a sharp angle; a stiff wind blew from within. He crept in for a look.
“This must be a ventilator shaft!” he said under his breath and grinned; he reasoned that for air to be coming in there must be another shaft linking the complex to the outside world and safety.
Mathew suddenly sensed he wasn’t alone; the hair on the back of his neck stood erect and a frosty tingle flashed down his spine; he immediately dropped to the floor and, with his revolver grasped firmly in both hands, braced himself against the wall. He looked around, the tunnel was empty.
“I must be imagining things.” He said quietly and a reassuring half smile crept across his face. Whoever built the tunnel complex had gone to an awful lot of expense and effort to do so; but for what reason?
Mathew raised himself on his feet and crept back towards the main-tunnel; he picked up from where he’d left off; his journey towards the distant pinpoint of light. Side-tunnels sprung-off from the main-tunnel every hundred yards or so. Curiously, some of the tunnels like the one he’d just explored were rather small but sufficiently high for a man to walk through; others, however, were big enough for a minivan to pass through comfortably. He pressed on; he was accompanied by a shadow, but it was not his own.
Mathew knew that his best chance for escape or rescue was to keep to the main-tunnel; he hoped it would lead him to an intelligent life form - but what type of life form was it? Mathew would, unfortunately, soon find out.
Screams, horrifying, gut-wrenching shrieks of pain and anguish, echoed from a large side-tunnel just ahead. Mathew’s blood froze in an instant and he instinctively threw himself to the floor and the hair on the back of his neck jumped to attention. He held his breath and listened; he knew he had to see what was going on; his life depended on it!
Grasping his revolver Mathew stealthily crept into the tunnel and carefully made his way towards what appeared to be the entrance to an enormous chamber; he wriggled the last few yards and gazed into the biggest hollow space he’d ever seen or could have imagined; it covered an area of at least five acres. A magnificent domed ceiling covered the enormity. A flight of stairs, chiselled directly into the sandstone wall, connected the tunnel to the complex of structures and buildings far below.
In the centre of the chamber stood at least fifty iron cages, twenty-five on either side of a path wide enough for two tractors to drive down side by side with room to spare. A trough abutted each of the cages; the troughs were being filled with food and water as Mathew watched. It was clearly a purpose-built enterprise and run with a high degree of precision and discipline. The cages were also electrified and crackled and sparked continuously.
The first, and biggest, of the cages was filled with several hundred human-looking men, women and children; they were in the process of being sorted into groups according to their gender, age, and health.
Healthy men were being herded into the strongest of the cages, and healthy boys into less-well-fortified enclosures; the old, the sick, and the infirm were being forced into a big room excavated from the wall. Mathew couldn’t see into the room, however, a huge silver skull with crossed bones glared down from above the massive portal. With a heavy heart Mathew realised what was happening: the non-productive people were going to their death!
The women were treated in a similar fashion to the men; the healthy young women and girls were placed in one cage, and the old, the pregnant, the sick, and the infirm were forced into the same room as the men - the one bearing the Death’s Head.
Family members were deeply distressed by the sorting process; they desperately clung to each other as their family life was torn asunder. Some children hid in the folds of their mother’s dresses; they were found, beaten, and sorted. And who were these evil overlords? Mathew was soon to find out.
Mathew rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing; he’d read about something like this happening during World War II, in history books at school; even then, as he read, he found it hard to believe that an advanced technological country, let alone one so deeply steeped in tradition, culture, art, and science, could reduce itself to such a low level of depravity and inhumanity.
What Mathew saw was a version of the twentieth century national insanity: jack-booted, black-uniformed, peak-capped, swastika-sleeved ape-men – Wartlock! They snarled, cursed, whipped, and kicked the pale-skinned Eloi mercilessly.
Mathew was suddenly overwhelmed by an irrepressible sense of anger, outrage and hatred; he glared at the enemy, for that is what he now took the Wartlock to be and planned his next move.
Mathew clenched his fists till his knuckles shone bloodless; he was determined to wage war on the oppressors of the civilised people and to return natural justice to all people. He, like all members of the noble order of Englishmen, wanted a world in which people of all nations and races could live together in peace and harmony and direct all of their God-given ability and talent towards the advancement of societies everywhere by improving the economy; and providing free education and places for worship; and investing in science and technology so that humanity may live in peace and happiness in a world free of tyrants, crime, disease, aging, and hunger. But first of all the tyrants of the world had to be removed with extreme prejudice.
But Mathew certainly didn’t expect what happened next. A pair of stumpy, hairy hands suddenly grasped the back of his neck and lifted him bodily off the floor and gave him such a thoroughly good shaking that Mathew felt his bones rattle. The Wartlock let out a sadistic, triumphant growl and held his trophy up for his mate’s amusement; he gave Mathew a ritual punch in the stomach and laughed as he struggled for breath.
Mathew collapsed in a state of semi-consciousness; he recalled being manhandled roughly and a coarse rope being placed around his neck and pulled tight; Mathew couldn’t breathe; he struggled desperately to remove the offending noose, but his efforts were in vain; he got weaker and weaker and, with his face turning blue and his eyes bulging, he fell into a deep state of unconsciousness. The wartlocks laughed and kicked Mathew’s limp body mercilessly and, having finished with their sport, they proudly patted the dust from their Nazi uniform. English men, women and children fought and died so that this type of tyranny should never blight English soil and yet here it was albeit at a different moment in time and space!
Coming-to, Mathew kicked out furiously, striking the closest of the wartlocks square between the legs; he instantly crumpled to the floor like a wet paper bag and squirmed around and around in a state of extreme mental and physical anguish. Mathew lashed out again with his other foot, this time he struck home on the second wartlock’s shin. He let out a blood-curdling shriek and hopped about cursing and screaming; he was really hopping mad. The third wartlock laughed so much he wet himself. Other Wartlock, attracted to the scene by the commotion, rushed over and gave Mathew a thoroughly good thrashing; they needed the exercise and besides, it made them feel jolly good. He was then dragged down stairs and thrown into a cage no bigger than an average English allotment toilet.
Mathew didn’t know how long he’d been in the cage but as he regained consciousness he heard a girl’s voice calling him from somewhere in his cerebral haze. The voice spoke again, this time a little louder than before and much closer. He raised himself to the sitting position and looked around; he rubbed his bloodshot eyes in an effort to clear away some of the fog. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” the voice asked; it sounded concerned and nervous. Mathew managed a feeble moan. This time the hand shook his shoulder more vigorously than before. He squinted at the voice. “Yes, thanks,” he stammered as his eyes regained their near-normal vision. The voice belonged to a girl roughly his age and she looked human, but something about her was a little different; he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
It didn’t take Mathew long to confirm he was a prisoner of the Wartlock, they stood in front of his cage and poked him with long sticks and laughed cruelly at his reactions. Mathew bravely told them to get well and truly stuffed. The Wartlock eventually tired of poking Mathew – he kept breaking their best whacking sticks. Muttering darkly they went off to have a nice cup of sweet tea and console one another at having their best sticks broken by that hooligan.
“Where are we?” Mathew whispered through the corner of his mouth; he didn’t want to attract the attention of the Wartlock guards. The girl stared at him as if he was on day release from a lunatic asylum.
“We’re prisoners of the Wartlock!” she said in a stressed voice. “Where are you from?” She could see he wasn’t an Eloi, so who or what was he? The Second Coming of God flashed through her mind - the priests were always carping-on about it. Mathew grinned haughtily and adjusted his school tie; he always wore it with pride.
“I’m an English man, from
“I’ve never heard of
“
The girl’s jaw dropped; the stranger talked of heaven; was he God after all? “Are you God?” she said directly; there was no time for casual banter, the wartlocks were hanging about and looking rather surly. Mathew laughed so loud the guards looked over at him before dismissing him as a complete nincompoop.
“Well, my dear,” he said in a suave, sophisticated voice, “I’m the next best thing to that - I’m a member of the Church of England, God’s church you know. And he visits me every Sunday.” Mathew sat back against the bars of his cage and grinned pompously. He then repeated the story of Genesis and exaggerated his close relationship to God no end. Mathew was an appalling show-off, especially when he had the ear of a pretty girl. She eventually stopped laughing and resigned herself to the fact that the Second Coming of God was still in the Coming stage.
“I’ve never seen the sun, sky, forest, and ocean, as you describe them,” she said longingly. “Our Kingdom is here, within the earth; and we were taught the atmosphere on the surface was poisonous!”
“And who told you that load of garbage?”
“The Wartlock did!”
“Well the buggers fibbed to buggery. So your Kingdom lies beneath the Earth, does it? I don’t suppose you know a twit by the name of Prince David, do you?”
The girl stared at Mathew; her demeanour had soured a lot since they first met. “My name’s Princess Saffron!” she snapped self-importantly. “And I’m a Princess of the Royal Family of Kingdom.” She elevated her pointed toffee nose as though she’d just encountered an exceptionally bad smell. She rounded on Mathew snootily. “And you will address me as Princess, Princess Saffron, or your Majesty - Got it? And the twit you refer to is my brother - Prince David!” She hissed like a cornered viper. “Where is he?”
A number of Wartlock quickly gathered around Mathew’s cage, minus sticks; they also wanted to know where Prince David was.
“Prince David was at the Castle, in Deep Wood, last time I saw him.”
The Wartlock couldn’t believe their ears and jumped on the spot like a bunch of overly-excited Chimpanzees; and hooting ever so loudly they rushed off to spread the news they had captured the Royal Princess; and Prince David was hiding in the Castle.
***
“Out of there, you miserable insect!” roared the Wartlock sergeant major and kicked the cell door so hard it flew off its hinges and crashed against the other side of the cage with a resounding metallic clang. Mathew skilfully avoided the flying door and instinctively drew back from the ugly face that followed it; the face had been hideously distorted by many years of scowling at prisoners.
“One step closer and I’ll knock your nuts off!” Mathew threatened; he gripped the remains of a broken whacking stick in both hands. The wartlock halted in full stride and gazed down at Mathew with an amused expression on his face; he then flung his head back and howled with laughter.
“Come on you hairy monkey. Come and get me if you dare!” Mathew growled and waved the wartlock forward. Thoroughly humiliated, the Wartlock immediately stopped laughing and glared fiercely at Mathew. The Eloi in the adjoining cages instantly stopped their chatter and looked on; they expected to see Mathew torn limb from limb at any moment. A squad of Wartlock suddenly appeared; they were armed with ropes, poles, and a stack of new whacking sticks. The sergeant major waved them to stop; he evidently had other ideas for their amusement.
“You’re nothing more than an overgrown chimpanzee!” Mathew shouted defiantly and faced the Wartlock with arms akimbo. The wartlock’s massive jaw dropped; being compared to a monkey was bad enough, but to be compared to a chimpanzee was the ultimate insult to a Wartlock! Screaming like a really enraged Wartlock who’d just been compared to a chimpanzee he leapt into the cage hell-bent on outright unmitigated assault, battery, and wilful murder. As strange as it may seem to the casual reader that’s exactly what Mathew wanted the Wartlock to do, as far as leaping into the cage that is; it was part of his very cunning plan.
Mathew flung himself onto his back and kicked upward with the enthusiasm of a champion, premier league, soccer player standing before an open goal; and what he did was definitely a Red Card offence! The effect was dramatic; the Wartlock crumpled to the floor and a fountain of tears gushed from his squinted eyes. Moments later he was on his feet again; and with fire raging in his big brown eyes and screaming like a deranged banshee he threw himself body and soul at Mathew.
“That’s a bit ambitious!” Mathew yelled as he jumped to one side at the last moment and kicked the wartlock up the arse as he flew past; the Wartlock farted like a clap of thunder and fell to the floor with a loud thud. He instantly sprang to his feet and hurled a bucket-load of the foulest obscenities imaginable at Mathew.
“I’ll tear you limb from limb, and rip your bloody guts out for good measure!” he yelled most threateningly and tried to sweep Mathew’s feet out from under him with a swish of his leg. But Mathew was far too quick for the lumbering, muscle-bound Wartlock and easily avoided his jackboot.
The Wartlock rounded on Mathew again but immediately checked his advance; he stared at him, unsure of what to do next. Something was wrong; Mathew looked terrified, and whatever it was that terrified Mathew was behind him! A grin crept across the wartlock’s face; he’d used the same trick many times before. But the sound of his mates shrieking as they pelted-off made him think again.
The serpent raised its head and looked down at the grinning Wartlock; he looked over his shoulder just in time to see his death; he was too terrified to scream or run, or do anything that could save his life. As swift as a mongoose the snake launched itself and sank its finger-length fangs into the wartlock’s throat - he appeared to scream but no sound left his mouth; moments later he slumped to his knees and rattled his last frothy breath. The snake continued to hiss; it turned its hideous head towards Mathew and coiled itself into the air once more. Mathew was riveted to where he stood; he was terrified. He closed his eyes tightly and waited for the snake to strike.
The wartlock’s rushed back armed to the teeth; one trailed a cannon. They approached the cage cautiously; their section leader was sprawled out on the floor; he was as lifeless as a dead Wartlock. Now it was the turn of the boy to die! The sight of blood and death was what the Wartlock enjoyed most of all in life, just like the sophisticated citizens of ancient
The cobra coiled itself into the air and fixed its vertical pupils on Mathew, and like an arrow released from a bow it lunged at Mathew’s face; but he was ready and whacked it to one side with the butt of the musket the sergeant major dropped in his excitement to come to grips with Mathew. The cobra, hissing like a steam engine, righted itself and lunged again. Again Mathew was ready; he flung himself to one side at the last moment and narrowly avoided its strike. The cobra recoiled and with fire in its eyes glared down at Mathew; there was no escape on this occasion - he was cornered!
Mathew prayed the musket was loaded. The cobra sensed Mathew’s fear and exposed its huge, curved fangs; yellow poison dripped from the needle-sharp points. Then, with the speed of a lightning bolt, it flashed towards him. There was no time to aim; Mathew discharged both barrels instinctively and, God be praised, luck was on his side. The serpent instantly recoiled and slid to the floor where it twisted and coiled in its death-throws; blood spurted from a huge hole in the back of its skull.
Clutching the dead wartlock’s ammunition belt, Mathew leapt from the cage and ran as fast as he could towards the stairs, all the while ducking and weaving as a barrage of hostile bullets whizzed past him like a swarm of angry hornets; he dashed up the stairs and flung himself into the tunnel; he wriggled around and beheld the commotion below. A group of Wartlock were laying into the dead cobra with their whacking sticks; they shrieked like chimpanzees as they went about their grizzly task - they were really peeved about something the snake did or did not do. Other Wartlock had secured ropes to their fallen comrade’s ankles and hauled him from the cage towards a stretcher; blood burped from his mouth with every bump. A Wartlock officer appeared in their midst; he was dressed in a smart black Nazi uniform complete with calf-length black leather boots and an elegant peaked cap bearing the silver Death’s Head motif.
Mathew gently eased the musket over the balustrade and took careful aim; the officer lit a cigarette and sucked in a mouthful of aromatic smoke; he held his breath for a moment and then exhaled with a satisfied look on his face. Mathew pulled the trigger - just as he moved!
The Nazi dropped his cigarette and yelled orders as if there was no tomorrow; he frothed at the mouth with excitement. The Wartlock immediately dropped their dead colleague and formed themselves into two groups: one rushed towards the stairs under a hail of withering fire from Mathew, and the other busied itself with bringing to bear what appeared to be a multiple barrel machinegun. Mad as a Mad Hatter on a particularly bad day and seething with rage the officer yelled the order to fire! The air immediately came alive with the sound of bullets - they whizzed, buzzed, and whined past Mathew like a swarm of angry wasps being pursued by a cloud of really annoyed hornets.
Mathew jumped to his feet and pelted toward the main-tunnel just as the leading Wartlock reached the top of the stairs. He halted before the entrance and cautiously inspected the tunnel. The odds against Mathew’s survival were very slim indeed; there was one of him and hundreds of them. He could already hear their shouts and curses getting louder. Mathew jumped to his feet and launched himself down the main-tunnel; his legs moved with the speed of a drum roll. But he hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before his blood froze in terror yet again. The main-tunnel, up ahead of him, was now full of Wartlock! And more Wartlock were pouring in from side-tunnels! The Wartlock were now in front of him as well as behind him – what was he to do?
The Wartlock cursed most vilely as they trundled after him. Mathew dived into a side-tunnel to his left and ran for all his worth towards the heavy swishing sound; he felt a churning knot in the pit of his stomach; he knew only too well what the sound meant. With a sinking heart he gazed up at the mega-ventilator. It was set high up in a vertical shaft; it linked the tunnel with the outside world and freedom. Four huge helicopter-like blades, only much broader and curved in the fashion of a ship’s propeller, whirled monotonously within the shaft; a gale-force wind blasted down from it. Mathew braced himself against the wall; he had to work fast. The Wartlock, moving from opposite ends of the tunnel, were bound to meet each other head-on at any moment and his hiding place would be revealed. Mathew’s only hope was the ventilator shaft!
Mathew scrambled up the narrow ladder fixed to the wall and scurried towards the whirling propeller; but the gap between the blades and the wall was too tight for him to squeeze through! His only chance was to disable the electric motor somehow; the alternative was too horrible to imagine!
Mathew ran his hand over a smooth metal panel set flush into the wall next to his head; miraculously, it opened; it enclosed an array of circuit breakers. Mathew couldn’t read the strange writing below each switch so he flipped them all; the engine slowed and ground to a stop. He immediately pulled himself over the blades.
The electric motor was held in place by dozens of tight spokes, like those on a bicycle wheel; these in their turn were attached to the shaft wall. A ladder, the same as that below the propeller was attached the wall above the propeller. Mathew stood on one of the huge blades and contemplated his next move. He had to restart the propeller if he wanted to escape. The wartlocks weren’t stupid; they’d follow him if they saw the ventilator blades had stopped revolving – he had to restart the motor!
Mathew leaned through the gap in the blades and prepared to throw the switch; he knew he had less than two seconds to flip the switch and leap onto the ladder, could he do it? Impossible! He thought with a depressing sigh, but he had to try; he took a deep breath and threw the switch - the motor began to revolve instantly!
Mathew didn’t have time to raise himself fully and leapt for the ladder in a clumsy, half crouch; he missed the ladder by a long margin and bounced off the wall; he felt himself falling, as if in slow motion, back first, towards the rapidly rapidly-rotating blades; he braced himself not so much against the fear of death but of being chopped into little pieces before he died. He held his breath; his eyes were wide with terror; he couldn’t scream. He twisted his head and looked down; he was still alive and floating just above the whirling blades! Then the most miraculous event of all came to pass; he felt himself being lifted towards the light. Trembling like an oak leaf in a strong wind he gazed at his rescuer; he was cradled in the arms of a faceless ghostly figure, a wisp neither living nor dead.
“Merlin?” he cried out; minutes later they departed the shaft and descended onto a grassy knoll; his body was wet with the coldest perspiration he’d ever felt. Mathew had been close to death several times already, but never this close, or this frightening. Merlin raised his arm and handed Mathew his revolver and vanished without a sound. Mathew slumped onto the grass, shivering, listening, and desperately tired.
***
The Wartlock officer stormed into the tunnel flanked by a sergeant on his right and a corporal on his left. Behind them came a phalanx of soldiers. They goose-stepped the full length of the tunnel, sure in the knowledge they had Mathew trapped. They halted beneath the ventilator; the officer examined the whirling blades.
“Sergeant!” the officer yelled even though they stood next to each other.
“Yes sir!” ejaculated his subordinate and popped a haemorrhoid.
“Have all the tunnels been checked, sergeant?”
“Corporal!” roared the sergeant and popped the other haemorrhoid.
“Yes sergeant!” he shouted back and clicked his heels with the sound of a pistol shot.
“Have all the tunnels been checked, corporal?”
“No sergeant!” The sergeant touched noses with the corporal. “Explain yourself, corporal!”
“All the tunnels have not been checked, sergeant!”
“Sergeant!” roared the officer without looking at him.
“Yes sir!”
”Have all the tunnels been checked?!”
The sergeant rounded on the corporal. “What tunnels have not been checked, corporal?” he shouted with a touch of brilliance; he now had a sore throat and a sore bum.
“Most of the tunnels haven’t been checked, sergeant!”
The Wartlock officer growled; he was livid; despite all his best efforts to capture Mathew he’d escaped. Now it was up to him to tell the Fuhrer the bad news, and he would not be amused one little bit! He gathered his men around him and marched off to meet their leader.
“My Fuhrer!” he said and gave the stiff-armed Nazi salute. “We’ve searched every tunnel and ventilator!” he lied, “and the Doctor’s boy cannot be found!” The Fuhrer didn’t look surprised at all by the news.
“Post sentries right away!” he said almost nonchalantly and turned his attention on the fortune teller.
The Court fortune teller sat behind his large, smoky, crystal ball. He stroked his hairy chin and craned his head closer to the orb. A picture was taking shape in the mist. He continued to stare and his jaw gaped.
“My Leader!” he shouted and hurled himself before the Fuhrer. “The Doctor’s airship is here - it’s at
“Where’s the Doctor?” yelled the Fuhrer in a pique of rage; he jumped from the throne with the agility of a monkey and shook the fortune teller so vigorously his eyes rolled about in his head and his dentures fell out.
“My Lord!” the fortune teller gasped; “I can only tell you what I see, and nothing more!” The Fuhrer released his grip; the fortune teller was far too valuable to exterminate, at least for the time being. He narrowed his eyes dangerously; the fortune teller screeched like a deranged parrot and legged-it from the room as fast as he could; he didn’t need a crystal ball to tell him his future.
“General Left-Right!” the Fuhrer bellowed. The nervous general instantly bounced before him and saluted crisply. The Fuhrer sloped towards a large map of
The fortune teller was dragged back and thrown unceremoniously at the Fuhrer’s feet. “Where’d you get to?” he shouted at the squirming fortune teller; he was too frightened to answer. “I have a job for you, and if you don’t give me the right answer I’ll have you flogged and maybe even executed!” The Fuhrer laughed and gave the fortune teller a swift kick in the ribs. “I want you to find the Doctor’s exact location!” he said. “And if you don’t tell me where he is in ten minutes I’ll shove that crystal ball so far up your bum your eyes will pop out! Do I make myself understood!?” He gave the fortune teller another complimentary kick just in case he didn’t fully appreciate the first one.
The Fuhrer was getting a little tired; he nestled himself into his chair and turned his thoughts to more pleasant things: like the best way to achieve world domination on the cheap and without really trying too hard. And so he fell into a deep sleep; his lips rippled in time with his snores. His followers darted anxious glances at each other and wondered what would happen next. They didn’t have to wait long.
General Patton peeked through the door and grinned; he laughed quietly to himself and ran his hand over the silver Death’s Head attached to the pummel of his silver dagger; he’d have to order a bigger chair. But first things first; he had to arrange for his rival, General Regan, to meet with a most unfortunate accident; he’d even shed a tear or two at his funeral. He cackled under his breath and wrung his hands together with anticipation.
***
General Regan sat in conference with his military associates. They spoke in hushed tones. Heavily-armed Inner and Outer Guards stood in place to ensure they weren’t disturbed; they were plotting the death of the Fuhrer; but first things first; they had to get rid of that bastard General Patton!
Mathew took stock of his situation; he peered down the shaft he’d just left; the fan was still rotating so he wasn’t being followed. But he was uneasy about something, and that something was the fate of the Eloi; he had to save them from the clutches of the Wartlock - even if that meant placing his own life in jeopardy.
Mathew walked around the grassy knoll and found what he was looking for, the entrance to the horizontal ventilator shafts; these connected the main shafts throughout the length and breadth of Kingdom. He pulled himself into the labyrinth; he could hear softly-spoken voices; he wormed closer to the sound and peered through the ventilator grill. Below him, clustered around a table sat a group of wartlocks; they were highly-ranked Nazi officers. He didn’t know what they were doing or planning, but their sneaky glances and hushed tones told him in no uncertain terms they were up to no good. Having finished their meeting they got to their feet, saluted their leader and trickled from the room to avoid arousing suspicion. Two officers remained in the room.
“General Regan,” said the colonel; he looked around to make sure they were alone. “I have some deep reservations about our plan.” He removed his peaked hat and mopped the inner lining with his handkerchief. “Too many people are involved in our venture; how can we ensure secrecy?” Regan studied his fellow conspirator’s face then nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course, Colonel Nager,” he said with a lot of conviction in his voice; he sucked in a deep, worried breath; he knew that if their plot failed they’d all be tortured to death. “It’s a big risk, I know; and I’ve spent many sleepless nights waiting for the Secret Police to kick my door in and drag me off for execution. But only we few, you and I, and the most senior and trustworthy officers know of our plot to kill the Fuhrer. The lower-ranked officers and men know nothing of our plan.
“Do we have any information on the Fuhrer’s movements and his security?” the colonel asked. The general laughed.
“We know the Fuhrer’s exact movements for the next week!” he replied with a chuckle. “We have a mole in the Ministry for War - he’s the Minister himself!” The general and the colonel laughed like the traitors they were and gave each other a congratulatory slap on the back.
“Time is to our advantage,” said Regan, still chortling. “And the explosives have already been set. And furthermore, the Fuhrer’s scheduled to be at the Dragon’s Lair tomorrow morning at precisely
“Gunpowder, treason and plot!” it was blatantly obvious to Mathew that an attempt was being hatched on the Fuhrer’s life. Maybe the Fuhrer’s death would mean a return to democracy, and peace and harmony for all peoples. He’d have to wait and see. He was wrong on both counts; and furthermore, something was approaching him from the darkness of the shaft in front of him, it was preceded by a sound like air escaping from a punctured tyre; it came closer. Mathew pricked his ears and listened and as he did the hair on the back of his neck prickled; whatever it was, it was definitely inside the ventilator shaft with him! He pulled out his revolver and pointed it into the darkness and waited.
Two red eyes suddenly appeared; they swayed from side to side; the creature hissed and something flickered from its mouth and disappeared - it was a king cobra! In a panic Mathew twisted around like a circus performer and scooted back the way he’d come as fast as he could; he stopped moments later, frozen to the spot, and gaped in terror: wartlocks were in the ventilator shaft as well! Mathew didn’t know what to do; if he went forward, he’d be killed by the snake; and if he went back the way he’d come, he would be captured, tortured and killed by the wartlocks. Which type of death would be worse? He had to make a quick decision; he chose the cobra; there was only one snake but many wartlocks, judging from the noise they made.
Holding his revolver at the ready, Mathew turned back; he could see the evil red eyes; he pointed the revolver at an imaginary spot between the eyes and pulled the trigger; there was an enormous flash of fire as the bullet exploded from the barrel and thudded into something solid; the cobra vanished. Mathew slithered forward; he was definitely not prepared for what happened next: the cobra was still alive - he’d missed it! And to add to his distress, the wartlocks were now scrambling towards him with shouts of hurrah and heaps of really dreadful curses.
The cobra recoiled and, open-mouthed, lunged at Mathew’s face; he ducked instinctively and fired at point-blank range; he flung himself against the grate. The next thing he knew was tumbling through the air like a trapeze artist and landing on General Regan’s head – he screamed and slumped to the floor. The guards immediately burst into the room and pounced on Mathew; he was bound hand and foot.
“A spy!” roared the Sergeant of the Guard furiously and shook Mathew so briskly he thought his head would come off. “What did you hear?” he demanded angrily. “And who sent you?” To encourage Mathew to answer the wartlocks took turns at thumping him black and blue; the interrogation was cut short by a high-pitched scream and the body of a Wartlock fell from the ventilator shaft and landed on General Regan who was just regaining consciousness after the first assault; he coughed, jumped to his feet and kicked the stuffing out of the wartlock. He rounded on Mathew and sloped towards him with clenched fists and the look of cold-blooded murder in his eyes.
“A conspiracy!” he yelled furiously. “What’s the meaning of this outrage on my person?” He removed his pistol from its holster and shoved it up Mathew’s nose to show he meant business. “If you don’t speak right now, I’ll introduce you to Satan!”
“On speaking terms with him, are you?” asked Mathew with a stiff upper lip - like an Englishman about to die.
The general staggered back; he wasn’t accustomed to such blatant defiance from anyone! He decided to kill Mathew as soon as he told him everything he knew about the plot. The general also knew that humans were very different from the Eloi and all other creatures: they were clever, scheming, deceitful, tricky, and devious. He liked that; and he knew a lot about the Doctor.
“Sir,” said his adjutant urgently, “this boy’s not an Eloi and he’s definitely not from Kingdom!”
“I know that, you fool!” the general growled back and bent over for a closer look; he belched vodka and beer fumes over Mathew and scratched his bottom energetically. Mathew leaned towards the general; only a few inches separated them; he grinned coyly, like the sweet boy that he was: “If I’m not mistaken,” he said in a sugary voice, “and please tell me if I am mistaken; you have reservations about the political situation in Kingdom; perhaps we could help each other?” A grin flickered across Regan’s face.
“If I find that you lie to me I’ll shoot you, no matter where no matter when. Just make one wrong move!” He growled. “Where do you come from, boy?”
“I come from
“Oh, I see,” said the general with a touch of humour in his voice. “You mean the greatest empire since Kingdom, of course, don’t you?” His eyes squinted, intimidating. Mathew grinned like an American senator after a course of botulinum toxin’.
“No,
The squad marched proudly towards the Chancellery building with their valuable prize in tow. General Regan goose-stepped conspicuously in the lead and farted in-time with the bass drum. Escape was impossible; heavily-armed wartlocks surrounded Mathew, and a squad followed up the rear - Regan was taking no chances with his prize.
***
“General Regan approaches my Fuhrer!” announced his adjutant; he followed Regan’s progress with suspicion. “And he has a lean and hungry look on his face. And beware of Greeks bearing gifts, my Fuhrer!”
The Fuhrer turned on the adjutant with a puzzled expression. “What’s a Greek?”
The adjutant looked stunned. “Buggered if I know what a Greek is my Fuhrer.”
“Then what this side of Hell are you on about?” he growled. “Greeks bearing gifts - they can give me all the fecking gifts they bloody-well like!”
“As your lordship pleases,” he said with a sigh and rolled his eyes despairingly.
The general, his squad, and Mathew in toe halted before the Fuhrer.
“General Regan. What an unexpected surprise,” said the Fuhrer and a malevolent grin stretched across his face; he leaned towards his uninvited visitor. “And how’s your health, General? And how is Colonel Nager these days?” The pupils in his eyes shrunk to accusing pin-pricks. Regan felt his knees tremble; the Fuhrer was clearly onto his little game. But how much did he know? The Fuhrer continued: “Have you seen General Patton lately?” he asked. Regan felt beads of sweat blossom on his forehead and roll down his ample cheeks.
“My health is well, my beloved Fuhrer and King. But I’m afraid General Patton met with an unfortunate accident this morning - he’s dead, My Fuhrer!” The Fuhrer looked fiercely at Regan. “I’m told he broke his neck and fell on his dagger three times – backwards! That was very careless of him wouldn’t you say?” Regan’s jaw flapped but he said nothing.
“I wonder which came first, the broken neck or the dagger the back” said the Fuhrer without taking his eyes from Regan. The adjutant chuckled under his breath – he loved to organise executions.
Regan grovelled like a senior civil servant seeking promotion, his life depended on it. “I come bearing gifts, my Fuhrer!” The Fuhrer gave Mathew a passing glance and fixed his beady eyes on Regan again; he rapped his fingers rhythmically on the throne.
“Have you heard the expression ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts’?”
Regan’s mouth fell open. “No my Fuhrer; I’ve never heard that expression before; and what’s a Greek anyway?”
The Fuhrer answered Regan’s question with a question. “Are you a Greek, General Regan?”
General Regan mopped his broad, battle-scarred face. “My Fuhrer,” he said with a tremble in his voice, “you have nothing to fear from this Greek, err, me!” A self-conscious part smile rippled across his lips. “And I expect no reward for my gift, err, duty!” He swept his eyes over the smirking faces next to the Fuhrer; he’d deal with them later.
The Fuhrer moved his eyes back to Mathew. He’d met humans before. “Who are you, boy?” he barked. Mathew stared at the silver-haired Wartlock - he was dressed in a tight-fitting black Nazi uniform magnificently decorated with medals and gold braid. He also balanced a gold-rimmed monocle against his right eyeball.
“Who are you?” exploded the Fuhrer once more - just in case Mathew hadn’t heard him the first time; he looked very angry indeed. “I know all about the Doctor and your airship!” He growled menacingly. “And the airship is now the property of Kingdom! And as for the Doctor, well I’m sure we can make him see reason sooner or later.”
“What’s happened to the Doctor?” demanded Mathew; he elbowed his way closer to the Fuhrer.
“The Doctor is helping us with our ongoing enquires.” He said with a snigger and wrung his hands together passionately. His followers also smirked and wrung their hands with even more passion.
“Are you related to the prophet Lord Simian?” The Fuhrer asked casually. Mathew didn’t know what to say. He looked at the leering faces before him. If he answered yes, the wartlocks would probably treat him lavishly; but if he answered no, he’d almost certainly be tortured for information and then killed. They obviously hadn’t captured the Doctor or Zoë. Mathew decided to tell the truth.
“Better than that Fuhrer; I’m the Son of God! Mathew ignored the High Priest standing next to the Fuhrer - he’d fainted under the weight of countless mortal sins. Mathew plunged into a sermon.
The Fuhrer shook with laughter. “You’ve just saved your life boy. I haven’t laughed so much in years!” His attendants looked disappointed; there’d be no execution that day.
The Fuhrer came clean with Mathew. “My agents in Deep Wood have already told me you’re the Doctor’s grandson, and that he’s built an experimental airship; in fact the one in which you came to Kingdom.” He grinned at Mathew’s surprised look. “And we know Prince David’s in the Castle; and what’s more, Princess Saffron is our guest.”
“Where’s the princess?” Mathew pretended not to care one-way or the other.
“What’s it to you?”
“Absolutely nothing; except The Doctor would consider it a personal outrage if you harm the princess, Prince David, me, or any member of his family.”
The King grinned. “What say you, General Regan?”
Regan grabbed Mathew by his scruff and shook him so vigorously his bones rattled. “I recommend we string him up by his balls and skin him alive!”
“Treason!” Mathew coughed under his breath, but loud enough for Regan to get his meaning - the effect was immediate. Regan dropped Mathew like a hot potato. Mathew had it in his power to destroy all that Regan and his fellow conspirators had worked for; all he had to do was open his mouth - Mathew had to die, and as soon as possible!
The King laughed. “You heard what General Regan recommended?”
“Well I for one have your welfare at heart; and I’ll protect you from the likes of him; don’t forget to mention it to the Doctor! And tonight you’ll dine with me; we’ll have a pleasant little after-dinner chat.” He darted his eyes at Regan who gulped and looked very pale.
“In the meantime, while I make the necessary arrangements, I’ll pop you back into your nice, cosy little cell.” He smiled at General Regan but his countenance was frosty.
“The bastard knows!” Regan hissed under his breath; he goose-stepped off, followed by his Wartlock guard. The Fuhrer’s assassination had to be brought forward.
No comments:
Post a Comment