The Basingstoke Chronicles (10 page)

The arch led us into a stone corridor. Two gigantic double doors, about thirty feet high
and in the shape of a portcullis, barred our way ahead. On either hand, the enclosed passageway
followed the level's perimeter, turning sharply at each corner. Puma bade us stay put, before
disappearing round the left hand walkway. Five minutes went by, then ten. Finally, after fifteen
excruciating minutes of rocking on my heels, I decided enough was enough.

First I checked the passage Puma had taken. I found another ascending staircase. As it
appeared dark up there, I decided not to risk it. Both Pacal and Rodrigo barred my way to the
right, so I relented and joined them again, in silence. The deception worked a treat, and I bolted
for this more brightly lit of the two passages. The faint glow was not torchlight, however, and I
stood at the corner intrigued. Ahead, at the far end of the ziggurat, was daylight beyond a trail of
scattered leaves.

A gentle summer breeze felt sublime. I tried to tiptoe between the red leaves, but they
had spread as a crispy carpet across the stone, an effective alarm system rendered by the seasonal
purge of flora. However, an intoxicating scent teased me on. Sweet strawberry mixed with a rose
perfume. I turned to see Pacal march toward me along the corridor, and the disobedience
suddenly made me giddy. Was it the scent? The alarm bells crunched underfoot as I ground to a
halt in the palace garden.

Words can scarce do justice to the setting. The velvet lawn was bespangled with
sapphire-petal flowers. Four or five large trees lined the edge of the balcony. They were almost
bare. Their gnarled limbs and fingers swayed, as if in mourning, over a mighty drop to the valley
floor. And red leaves fidgeted about the garden, wanting of a place to rest, nudged hither and
thither by a probing breeze.

The balcony itself stretched the full width of the palace. As I walked to the edge, facing
east, I was treated to a miraculous view of Apterona. Enormous, precipitous mountains rose to
the north as far as I could see. One of the nearest, though still many miles away, reached so high
it dwarfed the rest. At one point, adjacent to this range, lay a slender avenue of grassland, a
bottle-neck created by the two perimeter forests converging, almost to an isthmus. Beyond, I saw
nothing through a wet mist masking the island from coast to coast.

I've got some exploring to do.

I noticed a still figure in the shade between two trees. At first I thought it was a statue,
as my footsteps would have been enough to call the entire ziggurat to arms. As I approached,
however, it came gently alive.

The figure sat upright, facing the edge of the balcony. A loose-fitting cloak, as grey as a
winter cloud before a heavy snowfall, draped it. Fresh gusts rippled that smooth material from
tail to hood. The figure's head tilted toward me, though not enough that I could make out a
face.

A beige parchment slid from the figure's lap. It rolled itself back into scroll form on the
lawn. The figure reached down immediately to retrieve it, but somehow managed to fumble about
where the parchment should have been had it not recoiled. The hands were small and dainty.

Pity tugged me inside, as I realized they belonged to a blind woman. I rushed over to
pick up the scroll.

Underneath the grey hood was the slender face of a woman. She might have been thirty
or fifty, I couldn't tell, for there was a deep sadness in her expression. Instead of wrinkles, her
skin had a firmness that rendered her somehow timeless. Her wide mouth had lips that seemed
never to have parted. Her wide brown eyes struck me still. Lighter-skinned than the other
Apteronians, she also appeared more cold and distant, as if she had been beautiful once and could
be again, were it not that the world had clouded her radiance from her.

That was my first impression of the woman I met in the garden of red leaves and blue
flowers. As I pressed the Braille-like scroll gently into her hand, I discerned a faint red flush on
her cheeks.

The next instant I was being manhandled from behind by a dozen strong arms, and
escorted inside through a shadowy corridor, where they bound my hands behind my back and
affixed me with a tight blindfold.

Led for what seemed miles inside the ziggurat, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect on
our imperturbable jaunt through time. I wondered where Ethel and Sam might be in 1979. Off on
some dangerous expedition in search of ancient human remains buried centuries before? Perhaps
those remains might be mine, I thought--a true anthropological anomaly to rival that of the
missing link. Though I somehow doubted if my skeleton would differ much from the everyday
Homo sapiens
, as I am hardly what one would deem physically distinctive.

Of all the theories that jostled in my mind, I could not shake that idea of the missing link
being in some way connected to time travel. After all, the technology exists. It would only
require a brazen fellow from the future to skip back to any point in time and, with a canny use of
technology, advance the human species significantly beyond its merits.

Hell, maybe one day I'll go back and do it. Or perhaps I am yet to, but already have.

The paradox pinged around my head like a pinball, and would not sink. I quickly
realized I was way out of my depth, never likely to understand time and time travel, no matter
what wild designs I could invent.

After negotiating countless staircases and corridors, we stopped, and I was positioned
carefully by two muscular arms. The air was warm, but we could, quite literally, have been
anywhere. All I knew was that the ground was solid and that my captors had me at their mercy.
Just then, a deep voice echoed all around.

I was overjoyed to hear Rodrigo speaking an English translation from a few yards behind
me.

"All right, Baz, according to our host you're in here, too, blindfolded the same as me. I'm
to translate as best I can, so bear with me, OK? And seeing as he doesn't understand a word of
English, before we start I'd like to say a big
up yours!
to the Kamachej."

"I'll double that sentiment," I replied, at which I felt the tip of something sharp prick my
ribs.

"It's good to hear you, Baz. I forgot to mention, though, you're not allowed to
speak."

"Terrific," I mumbled.

The booming voice restarted. This time, it didn't cease for many minutes. I felt for
Rodrigo. How he was expected to translate that much gobbledygook while he was still getting to
grips with the language, I could not comprehend. He later told me how he convinced them he was
more or less fluent--a feasible way to guarantee his playing an active role in my audience with the
Kamachej. I have to say, though, the way he set about delivering the translation makes me think
he had not over-sold his linguistic skills at all.

"Right, I think I caught most of that," he said. "It appears you're to be given some kind of
lie detector test, and you're to do it standing where you are. His highness' name is Vichama
Supay, and his wife is Chasca Quilla. He has a son, who's in attendance, and he's suspicious of
your motives for being in his kingdom, the color of your skin, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. He also
wants you to know that he doesn't mean you any harm. If you're completely honest with your
answers, he says, we'll both go free today. I could probably do this for you, Baz, but we'd better
play along, right?"

Didn't anything faze this Cuban? I, for one, was dreading the mysterious test. Rodrigo
touted it all as a game. I half wondered whether or not this was for my benefit, an act to keep me
loose and my spirits up, to prevent me from succumbing to fear, a fear that might place both our
lives in jeopardy. In any event, I was glad beyond measure to have him by my side.

The blindfold inquisition began, an experience I will never forget. Vichama Supay's
bellowed instructions were offset each time by Rodrigo's calm translation. My knees shook, so I
shifted weight from one to the other. I was sure any display of nervousness on my part would be
interpreted as deception.

"If you're completely honest, we'll both go free" was the promise, but if there is one
thing history has taught us, it is that where religion is concerned, expediency saves a man's hide.
But without knowing anything about the Kamachej's beliefs, how could I placate him? How far
might his patience stretch if I so much as intimated at time travel?

"Right, Baz, now's the time to concentrate," said Rodrigo. "From now on, I'm going to
try and translate verbatim, as he's giving the instructions a sentence at a time. He says you're
standing on the first square of a stone bridge. After each answer you give, you're to take a single
pace in the direction your honest instinct compels you: either forward, back, left or right. The
only stipulations are that you can't start with a backward step, you can't re-tread a step, and you
mustn't use your hands or feet to
feel
your route, as that is akin to deception.

"Legend has it that only a person of honest bearings can find the sequence to take him
across these stepping stones. The bridge was built centuries ago across a great chasm, under
divine influence, to root out traitors and heretics. It's called the Tongue of Deceit, and I have to
say, Baz, I don't like where this is going. Keep your wits about you.

"One false reply and the lie will haunt you forever, as your misstep will tumble you into
an infinite abyss, in which your life will play out as an eternal purgatory of lies. Everything you
hold dear will be twisted, and everything you've ever loved will become shadow."

Let's hope these boot-laces are good and tight,
I thought, trying to keep myself
from swallowing too much of this hokum. Nonetheless, I was in a sticky spot. Every twentieth
century impulse told me it was hogwash, but when the lights go out, every man is superstitious.
And
what if
is a powerful notion.

I decided to clear my mind of all diplomacy and speak nothing but the truth, so help me
God. As the saying goes, there are no atheists in foxholes.

"Stranger, what is your name?"

I replied straight away, "Lord Henry Basingstoke."

The mysterious Kamachej then adopted a more patient tone.

"Take your first step," he said, as per Rodrigo's translation, "let your instincts guide
you."

Naturally, I hesitated. As I've said before, intuition isn't among my strongest assets. A
loaded roulette wheel suddenly sprang to mind. My heart jack-hammered. I concentrated hard on
keeping balance...on the edge of a fathomless drop. Realizing how such a lengthy pause would
be perceived, I took a deep breath, held it, and picked a direction.
Left!
A quick sidestep
and it was over. My left foot planted itself firmly on the second stone flag.

One small step for man, one giant leap for an agnostic!

My mind painted a thousand portraits of the bridge over the abyss, the Tongue of Deceit.
It was the one time in my life I felt truly cursed to have been given an imagination.

"What is the name of your companion?"

"Rodrigo Quintas," I shouted, before taking a haughty forward step. Again, I touched
stone.
Right, Henry, that's it. Honesty is the only policy. Think of that and nothing else, and
you will get through this.

"Where have you come from?"

And there it was! Exactly what I had hoped to be spared--the one question I knew would
give me pause. Where did we come from? The future? One would be committed to an asylum in
1979 for peddling
that
truth. I imagined an enormous hand reaching up from the chasm,
its black fingers clasping around me, when suddenly I remembered my bedroom window at
home, and my view over the darkening, wintry grounds of Basingstoke Manor.

"England!" I cried.

A queer sensation gripped me. I knew my next step ought to be instinctive, but my legs
would not move. I could not pick a direction!

Oh, hell.

Obviously a half truth was not good enough for this inexplicable, supernatural device of
lie detection. Saliva collected in my mouth. I was about to swallow when, suddenly, an idea
occurred.

I leaned forward as if to take a step, but paused just before lifting my foot. I guessed my
head was now over the next stepping stone, if forward was the correct choice. Discreetly, I
opened my lips to let a dribble of spit fall. I froze. More attuned to the frequency of silence than
at any other time in my life, I listened. I hoped. I waited for the softest sound in the world, the
gentle pat of saliva on stone.

There was nothing. Either the spit had been insufficient to make enough noise or there
was nothing ahead of me but an endless drop. Either way, my life was back at three to one odds.
A bead of sweat tickled down my cheek and rested on the cleft of my chin. Another followed the
same path. I wiggled my nose. The two drops merged, dangled as one, and then fell. The next
moment, I heard the slightest tap.

That was enough for me. Best foot forward, I quickly placed myself on the third step of
the bridge. What a lengthy ordeal it seemed. In fact, it was over in just a few seconds. I often
wondered, after, what Einstein would make of that disparity--time and relativity taken to absurd
psychological extremes.

And the test was far from over.

I chewed my lower lip until the booming voice resumed.

"And where does this England lie?"

"A great distance to the east, across the ocean."

Sweating profusely, I focused on the problem at hand. Here is what I formulated to
deceive the Tongue of Deceit. Firstly, and most crucial, was the now frequent patter of sweat
hitting the step at my feet. I set about using this perspiration to hedge my bets. Without moving
my feet, I swiveled my body to the right, leaning my head over just enough to take a sounding. If
the patter ceased, snake eyes; if not, I had it made. In a different sequence of directions each time,
forward, right or left, I repeated this either once or twice. I knew that after two negatives, the only
possibilities remaining were back from where I had come, which was forbidden, or the correct
step.