New Page 3

£6.99

Part Two

“You cram these words into mine ears against the stomach of my sense.” – William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), “The Tempest”, Act 2 scene 1

So, this is death, I thought.

It felt remarkably like life. There was discomfort and pain. I was blinded by some wrapping around my head. My knees were under my chin with my wrists tied to my ankles. Rough surfaces chafed all around me. I seemed to have been crammed into a basket or container of some kind, that bucked and bumped in time to a ponderous, thudding beat. The air was hot and imbued with the stink of animal sweat and old, dry straw. I was not entirely immobile, but the restrictions of my confinement made any movement extremely limited. I struggled for a while but soon gave up. I was obviously in transit to some unknown destination, and travelling at some speed. Every now and then a gust of air, cold to my perspiring skin, whistled past me, and twice I heard a shriek, a cross between a wolf howl and, distressingly, a cat that is egesting a fur ball. The first came from very close, I guessed from the creature I assumed was bearing me; the other

Customer Reviews

could have been a response, still nearby, but not from the same source.
Clearly I had not died, and must therefore have been rescued, though not by my companions. Some other agency, for reasons of its’ own, had decided that my fate lay otherwise than as sustenance for the gelatinous monster. How that rescue had been engineered I could not guess but, though my present condition was less than comfortable, it was at least an improvement. The old saw of frying pans and fires came to mind, and I began to wonder if my future was, in reality, no less grim than before; but I rallied myself, and resorted to that other old adage: where there’s life…
I cannot say how long my journey took. It may have been an hour, but could easily have been longer. Quite often I dozed, though fitfully, and always in short spells, being woken by occasional changes to my transports’ direction, or a violent thud when something battered against the container during the passage.
Finally, when the ache in my head from the harshness of the journey was fast approaching intolerable, the pace slowed and eventually ceased altogether. I heard a great deal of movement, and voices calling and answering, though the words were muffled and unclear. Nothing happened for a long time, and I gradually became lulled by a deep but gentle movement, a rolling like the swell of the sea, and the sonorous breathing of a large beast standing placidly at rest. I must have drifted off again, for my next awareness was being jarred and battered as the container I was in crashed to the ground. I cried out, and again heard voices, very close. The words were totally unfamiliar to me, terse and alien. Then I was moving again, bumping heavily along as the container was dragged away, up three steps, eventually coming to a halt with a thud, as if fetched up sharply by a solid wall. Then, a swishing noise, followed by a clatter, and a whoosh of fresh, cool air bathed me. My clothes were grasped roughly and I was pulled out, groaning, onto a coarse, flat surface. There was more talking, hard words in a strong voice. The reply was in softer tones, still abrupt and stilted, but with much more refinement, and with a sense of command. My backpack and pouch belt were ripped off. With a snap I felt the ties around my wrists fall away. I managed to sit up and began to rub them. I heard footsteps retreating, and then a sound like a door being shut.
The air became still, and noise was just a background. Carefully I reached up and slowly pulled the wrappings from my head. I had to screw up my eyes and look out through my lashes against the sudden light. I quickly became acclimatised as the light was far from bright, though it was enough for me to see my surroundings, and take stock. I was quite alone.
I was in a… well, a large, rectangular wicker basket is as good a description as I can give. The walls were densely woven, of some tough, supple reed or wood. Standing, I could not extend my arms far enough to reach the top. The floor was manufactured from solid wooden planks, and was about thirty feet in length, twenty in width. The sagging ceiling was canvas-like, but may have been hide. It appeared to be made as a single piece. If an animal skin, I could not guess the size of the animal from which it came. It was supported on eighteen, slightly curving, rib-shaped pillars, thinner at the apex than the base, and a gap extended all the way round, through which shone a watery, evening sun. A wicker door was the only feature, except for the box in which I had been brought, which was of the same construction as the room. I pressed my weight against the door but, though it gave a little, must have been securely fastened from the outside.
I was exceedingly tired, and felt quite unwell – I had not eaten or drunk anything for several hours. Nevertheless I tried to scale one of the walls, to see if I could glimpse the world beyond. It was impossible. The weavings were tight, rounded smooth, and I could gain no purchase. I could shout, I thought, but what would be the point? The only attention that would attract would be from my captors – I realised that, where they might also have been my saviours, they were now, undoubtedly, gaolers to my imprisonment. Why they should bother to rescue me simply to have me incarcerated, though, was beyond my comprehension.
More time passed, and I turned my thoughts to what my captors might actually look like. My intuition inclined to their being human, or at least humanoid in shape. They used language, which suggested they had intellect and intelligence. Their language was verbal, so they must share vocal and audio senses with us. They must be dexterous, in order to construct things such as my current cell. They were physically at least as strong as we were, as demonstrated by the ease with which I had been pulled from the basket. The fact that I had been manoeuvred up steps further indicated that they might be bipedal. To have effected my rescue they must have better – or at least different – knowledge of this world, and particularly its’ life-forms. Where my companions had failed to overcome the… ‘Jelly’ thing – for want of a better word – they, my captors, had succeeded which indicated – if one discounts mere luck – familiarity and resourcefulness. Could they be the Arrow people? The technology of the bow would not, I considered, be too advanced for a race capable of manufacturing artefacts, such as the basket, or, indeed, the room. How far along, in anthropological terms, did that make them, in comparison to ourselves? Based on the little evidence seen thus far I could hazard a guess of several centuries behind Mankind. On the other hand, compared with humanity’s contingent, of whom I was a representative, it was we who would appear the backward ones.
An important point of further interest was social structure. Again, with little interaction between ‘us’ and ‘them’, any hypothesis I came up with would be moot at best. However, I had definitely heard two distinct voices, and one had certainly sounded more… intelligent? Refined? Superior? Could this indicate a hierarchy, possibly some form of class system? If that was the case then it was probable that cognitive reasoning had value in their society. If so, and if I could demonstrate my own intellect, I might be able to persuade them that I should be accorded appropriate treatment.
I heard the sound of steps being trodden by heavy feet. My heart fluttered as the door to my prison swung outward, and for the first time I could see the form of my captors with more than just imagination.
In the doorway stood a man. He took a few paces into my prison. There could be no doubt that he was human, at least in outward appearance. He was tall and powerfully built, bigger than Keith Rivers in every way. His complexion was tanned, and weathered by the elements. His features were reminiscent of the Plains Indians of North America. He had eyes so deep set I could not see their colour, a clean strong jaw and a large, flat nose. His un-braided hair was raven black and long, like Jai Li’s. It was held from his face by a band of calico. He wore a shirt that was little more than a series of interlaced strips of dark fabric across his torso, and similarly hue'd leggings. These were belted at the waist, and wound about to the knees by weathered, leather straps supporting a pair of sandals. The belt was tied to the side in a complicated knot, rather than buckled, such that long, red sashes hung down one leg. A naked blade that looked of similar manufacture to the arrowhead was slung from a loop off the belt. One arm was decorated with a faded tattoo that looked a bit like a serpent, or a back-to-front question mark. An enormous hand held a weighty baton, the business end of which was a convex cone, rimmed with vicious serrations, like the blade of a saw. If these people had a caste society then here, surely, was a premium example of the Warrior; a blend of romantic Saxon and noble Native American, but with more than a twist of barbarian thrown in.
Imposing as he was, nevertheless I found a degree of relief in that I was not faced by something… bizarre. My earlier, suppositional guesses had been, in part, an attempt to negate the potential of an active imagination, and I was gratified that they had not been disproved. But now came the immediate test. Facing this handsome, imposing man across a dozen or so feet of coarse, wooden floor I was conscious of my own appearance – bearded, dirty, unkempt, and smelling of my experiences. How was I to impress upon him that I should be treated other than as an animal? For long seconds we looked at one another, my shallow, nervous breaths contrasting hugely with his own measured, self-assured respiration. I decided to attempt to break the impasse, and slowly extended a hand, open palm held upwards in what I had to believe was a universal symbol of friendship: see, I have no weapon in my hand. See, I am therefore your friend. I found no response.
Our stand-off continued. I was being scrutinised. I felt quite naked before his gaze. Then he spoke.
“Gaar-az! ”
The voice, I was sure, was one of those I had heard earlier. I had no idea what the word meant, but the disdainful tone suggested it was not a compliment. He advanced towards me, stopping close enough for us to smell each others’ breath. His was a rich mixture of curious spices, but there was another smell also, strong, and animalistic. It was similar to one of the many odours I had detected on my journey, and reminded me of a bundle of hay, wet from a spring shower. With his free hand he reached out and grasped my cheeks firmly, turning my head from side to side. He sniffed the air then sharply pulled back his head. He covered my face with his hand and pushed me away. My feet reacted well enough to prevent me from falling completely, but still I stumbled back several steps. Such easy strength he had exhibited! With no further comment the brute turned and left, and I was alone again with my thoughts. I reached a hand out to one of the walls, and guided myself down to the floor, where I sat, arms clasped in front of my shins, knees tucked under my chin. All I could do, for now, was wait.
My solitude was not for long. Once more the door was opened and two people entered my cell. They were dressed in similar fashion to my earlier visitor, and each bore the same strange tattoo. Though less muscular, they nevertheless shared many of his physical attributes. They were tanned, tall, black-haired and clean-shaven. They even had the same – presumably racial – characteristic of a wide, squat nose. I quickly learned they also shared at least some of his strength, as they grasped my arms firmly, lifting me to my feet. Even had I been fully rested and fed I could not have broken free. They held me tightly while a third person crossed the threshold of my prison, stooping low to make the transition. With the exception of gender and skin-tone, his only immediate similarity with the others was in height, and even here, there was marked difference.
This visitor was beyond tall. I stand a little short of six feet but this man must have approached seven, had he stood erect! As it was, his back was bent while he rested his weight on a staff. Where my guards were athletic and muscular, he was thin, a stick by comparison, with features starkly gaunt, almost as a victim of starvation. The exception was his nose, which was flatter and even wider the others. Handsome was not a suitable epithet, though to call him ugly would have been unjust. No. Distinguished, thoughtful – these were more apposite words. His thin, unbound hip-length hair was grey, but marked with two irregular bands of deep maroon colouring. His chin bore long wisps of silver, Mandarin-style, that almost brushed the floor at his feet. His skin, somewhat pale in comparison to the guards, bore the marks of age with many creases and lines, and on the cheeks, and also the nose, were intricate traceries of veins. The hand that grasped the staff was bony, and long fingered, and also marked with protruding veins. I could not see his other hand. It was lost somewhere in the folds of the robes he wore, complex swathes of faded ochre cloth that wound about him in the style of a toga, reaching full length to the ground. His feet were also hidden from me. Finally, he wore a long, dark cloak, fastened over his left breast with a simple toggle, perhaps of bone.
If I had need to picture a wise man, learned in mystic lore, then this was surely the vision I would perceive. In my minds’ eye I could imagine him casting dark spells, or scrying the future from dripping entrails. These were black thoughts, and I forced myself down a different path. The tall man’s eyes were rheumy, the whites giving ground to the yellow of encroaching years, but they yet carried the spark of keen intellect. Surely this must be a tribal elder, a sage whose counsel was sought and reverentially heeded by his people. In spite – or perhaps because – of his age there was a real aura of authority about him. This was the person, I instinctively realised, to whom I must appeal if I were to attain any measure of freedom.
He approached, stopping a few feet away, and bent down even further so that our faces were parallel. Again I caught the smell of wet hay, and beneath that the whiff of spices on his breath, but this was almost masked by a powerful scent that reminded me of pine forests in the spring. Perhaps he had been advised by my first visitor to protect his nose in this way from the malodorous stench of their captive!
He scrutinised my features for several minutes. Then he retreated a few steps, before resuming his study. Eventually his other hand appeared and he made a signal to my captors. I was gratified to note there was no hesitation in their acquiescence to his command, for they released me immediately and stepped back – though, I noted, remaining well within an arms' reach. The old man made a second motion, downward, with his hand, but this time it was to me. I took it to indicate that I should sit, and I did so gratefully. He did likewise, placing the staff carefully across his folded knees, and together we sat, each the representative of a different race, separated by far more than a few feet of dusty floor. Then the door opened again.
It was a woman. Her hair was as black as the men’s, but cut severely short, and she was barefoot. Bereft of any colour or jewellery, she was clad in loose leggings that reached below her knees, and a pale, shapeless smock that offered nothing in the way of compliment. She bore a tray which, kneeling, she placed between us. Her head remained bowed throughout. The tray had a blob of wax centred on it, providing a candle flame that caused her skin to seem to glow. Also on the tray were two plates displaying items of food, and two bowls containing a colourless liquid. These she distributed to each of us, before standing and leaving as silently as she had come. My ‘host’ released me from his gaze, took hold of his bowl and circled it a few times around the candle, before bringing it to his mouth, his lips puckering and his cheeks forming distinct hollows as he sipped, noisily. He did not drain the bowl, but laid it once more on the ground. Then he took a morsel of food from the plate, dipped it into the remaining liquid, and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed, and, in a most human gesture, dabbed at his mouth with his beard. Looking up he spread his hands out in a wide sweep, indicating that I was at liberty to eat and drink with him. I was thirsty, certainly, and though the tension I felt, due to my predicament, had currently robbed me of hunger, I knew also that I should take any opportunity to eat that came my way. I considered briefly the possibility that the sustenance before me might contain some poison, or drug – but this seemed unlikely. What benefit would my captors gain by killing me with poison now? I could think of none. As to drugs, well… Mentally I shrugged. I would take the chance.
I took hold of my bowl and, following the old man’s lead, passed it inexpertly across the flame. The liquid was – as near as I could tell – simply water, slightly warm, but untainted. It tasted good but, in the hope that restraint on my part would persuade my host that I was worthy of humanitarian treatment, I resisted draining it. Carefully I put the now half-empty vessel down. The food on my plate consisted of two sausage-like tubes, plus a small mound that seemed a congealed mix of various ingredients. Some had the appearance and colour of long-grain rice, others reminded me of mange tout, though their green colour was deep enough to appear black at first glance. I found no familiarity in any of the other elements, but it all looked inviting enough. I took hold of a sausage. It was cold, but I nevertheless dipped it in my bowl, following the grey-beard’s example.
At this the old man gave a chuckle. It was a remarkable sound, beginning as a high wheeze and ending as a long breath, like someone blowing across a hot bowl of porridge. This injection of humour was wonderfully gratifying to hear in so stressful a situation.
“Î! Istî åretîzåt’nî sîqozha. U istazé is-soonam-o?” The strange words issued from the old man's' lips with a hiss of gentle laughter. Though I made no sense of them, I could hear my guards responding with little sniggers of their own. Yet there was no obvious rancour or disdain, so I allowed my hand, which had paused in mid-air, to complete its’ journey to my mouth. I had some concern as to what I might find when I first bit into the sausage, but the taste, beneath some gentle flavourings, was surely pigly.