CHAPTER 6: RUNNERS UNDER STARLIGHT
The door burst open beneath Dirk’s shoulder, pain flaring from his injury as the door crashed back against the wall. Isabelle stood in her night-dress by a four-poster bed, pointing a purse-sized pistol at the floor-length window. Her mouth hung wide as she drew breath for another scream.
Dirk crossed to the window in four swift strides and gazed out into darkness.
“What happened?” he asked.
“There was a face.” Isabelle steadied herself on one of the bedposts. She looked surprisingly calm for a woman disturbed in her bedroom. “It appeared out of nowhere, just staring at me through the window.”
“What did he look like?” He couldn’t see any sign of a face, or much of anything else out there in the dark.
“Black, with pale eyes.” There was something in Isabelle’s face that Dirk couldn’t quite read, like she was more intent on his reaction than on the intruder.
Blaze-Simms dashed through the door, tie hanging loose, walking stick raised ready for action. A box hung in his other hand, gears and levers protruding from a hole in its case, a lead running from it to the walking stick. He saw Dirk, stern and bare-chested, and stopped.
“I say, what’s going on?” A gear fell from the gadget, started rolling across the floor and then changed direction, heading straight toward the lowered walking stick.
“One of the servants, maybe?” Dirk ignored him, still focused on Isabelle.
“Not that sort of black.” She shook her head. “Pitch black, with pale eyes.”
Dirk pushed the window open, stepped through it onto a balcony. No-one was there. He peered over the edge, saw no-one on the ground below or clinging to the rails. Further balconies to left and right were equally empty. He stared out over the grounds. Was that movement at the lawn’s edge? Looked like a couple of figures heading into the jungle.
He spun around, ready to dash back through the house. But something above the window drew his eye.
Caught by the light shining out of Isabelle’s room, a shadow clung to the wall. A frozen pool of midnight black, staring down at him through a pale slit around a pair of twinkling eyes.
“Holy...” Dirk reached into the space beneath his left arm, found neither holster nor gun. “Damn.”
The black figure skittered across the wall, human in shape but spider-like in agility, then dropped into the darkness around the base of the mansion. Cursing again, Dirk vaulted over the rail. The veranda roof sagged as he landed on it with a thump. Feet sliding out beneath him, he tumbled over the edge and onto the gravel drive. A painful tingling told him he’d scraped his arm on the rough boards.
Leaping to his feet, Dirk glanced around. A deeper darkness, almost invisible under starlight, was rushing across the night-blackened lawn. He dashed after it, over the rough crunch of gravel and then the soft spring of well-manicured grass. His foot caught in a croquet hoop and he launched it forwards with a flick of his leg. The spinning metal clipped the edge of the running shadow but it kept moving, leading Dirk into the jungle.
The darkness was deeper beneath the trees, grey patches of starlit ground broken by tall palms. Dirk halted, peering through the foliage. Fronds swayed in the night wind, the lungs of the jungle lifting as it breathed. He crept forward, straining to hear anything other than the rasp of crickets. The snap of a twig made him jump, whirling around before he realised it had come from beneath his feet. Shifting deeper into the shadows, he skulked like a predator through the foliage, looking for any clue that his prey had passed.
Something hissed through the air. Dirk dived and a glistening disk buried itself in the tree behind him. He scrambled for cover, more razor-edged circles spinning into the ground where he had been.
“Dynamo!” Blaze-Simms’s crystal tone cut through the night. “I say, Dynamo, are you in there?”
The Englishman was silhouetted against a break in the tree-line, his experimental rifle pointing into the deeper darkness.
“Dynamo?” he called out again.
Dirk leapt, grappling Blaze-Simms to the ground as something hissed past their heads. The gun went off with a loud whump and a crack of bullets hitting tree-trunks. Then silence.
“What was that?” Blaze-Simms whispered.
“Shuriken,” Dirk replied.
“Any more to come?” Blaze-Simms was wriggling beneath him, trying to peer out. “I left my Nocturnal Visual Stimulator back in Manchester.”
“Your what?”
“Night vision monocle.”
“Oh.” Dirk shook his head. Blaze-Simms had brought his clockwork sheet straightener and a miniature steam turbine, but not a night vision monocle. They needed to have a talk later about packing for expeditions.
He grabbed a branch and waved it above his head. Nothing moved. A cricket, silenced by the sounds of violence, recommenced its rasping song.
“Reckon that’s it.” Dirk’s relief didn’t quite chase away the tension of their situation.
“Do you think I bagged the blighter?” There was an eagerness in Blaze-Simms’s voice.
“We’d have heard the body fall. Reckon he’s made his escape.”
“Shame.”
Dirk lay listening. Not the faintest footfall or rustle of foliage gave away the path of their assailant’s flight.
“Dirk, old chap?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind moving? The gun’s pressing somewhere rather delicate.”
Warily, Dirk rose to his feet, turning his head as he listened to the noises of the night. Their attacker walked as silent as a ghost, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any clues. The jungle was alive with nature, the rattling of insects, the shriek of bats, the rustle of leaves where other things stalked. But it was quieter in one direction than others, as if its inhabitants were hiding from an unfamiliar and menacing beast.
“This way,” Dirk whispered.
The jungle floor was soft beneath his bare feet, a mulch of moss and rotting leaves. Fronds brushed his skin, sensation heightened by the still darkness.
Creeping through the jungle with Blaze-Simms in tow was like going to a funeral with a small, well-intentioned child. He tried hard to blend in and not be heard, but he didn’t quite get it, and he couldn’t help but make some noise. If the tables had been turned, if they’d been the ones trying to evade the ninja’s pursuit, Dirk might as well have lain down on the ground and bared his neck for the blade. But a predator could afford to be less subtle than its prey.
Flanked by the slow sway of trees dancing in the warm Atlantic wind, they stalked a trail of silence. Insects chased each other through the night and Dirk felt the prickle of tiny legs against his bare chest. For all that he swatted away, more kept coming, colonising his skin with suckered feet and probing tongues.
Their path took them away from the house for an hour or more, until there was another change in the texture of the sound around them. Up ahead, the zone of silence they had been pursuing was replaced by a murmur of humanity, rising in volume as they approached. Fragments of amber light flickered between the trees, accompanied by voices arguing in the local dialect.
They crept closer to the noise, Dirk taking care to always keep tree trunks between them and the source of the light. At last they found themselves peering through a fat, rubber-leafed bush at the source of the noise.
A low bonfire of split logs cast a warm glow across a wide clearing. Dozens of locals sat cross-legged around it, listening to two of their number argue across the heart of the fire. Dirk recognised the statuesque form of Ubu Peter, his guide from earlier in the day, gesticulating wildly toward a younger, leaner man who was rubbing his head in exasperation as he spoke. At first they seemed wild and furious. But after a few minutes Dirk saw a rhythm to the back and forth, a pattern like an old familiar dance. One man offered a swift stab of query, the other a lengthy, audience-pleasing response, and then the roles reversed, the questioner now the questioned, his focus not on reasoning with his opponent but on swaying t
he crowd, who were clearly enjoying the spectacle, signalling approval or approbation with the movement of their heads. Every so often they pounded the ground in applause at a point well made.
“I say,” Timothy whispered, “I haven’t seen such a jolly debate since Eton.”
There were several familiar faces in the crowd, servants from the party, more relaxed now without tailcoats and bow ties.
Across the clearing, Dirk saw a shadow shift, the silhouette of a tree trunk blowing the opposite way from its neighbours. The ninja was also watching their hosts at play.
At length the discussion ended amid much applause. Ubu Peter bowed at his opponent, who raised his hands in acknowledgement of victory. They both received pats on the back and praise as they sat down. Then a third figure raised a withered arm, and silence fell.
“Friends, you all practised your good arguing.” Omalara was the first speaker to use English. She leaned on a younger woman for support. “Done your rhetoric like the lesson plan says, even though we out of the big house and practising in the night on account of our guests. And now’s time for English lesson. Ain’t in the plan, Omalara knows, but we got our public face here, and he don’t talk our tongue good as we talk his. So you listen to him first, then you show how well you learn.”
Omalara turned to her left and Governor Cullen stepped forward into the firelight, his usually smiling face crumpled in a frown. Bekoe-Kumi stood beside him, a muscular pillar of support, and Cullen leaned in towards her with an easy intimacy unusual in any Englishman. When he stumbled and leaned on her bandaged arm she showed no pain, but instead concern for him. They made a strange pair, a heavily bandaged white man publicly supported by an African woman. Their audience did not seem to mind, smiling warmly at them both.
“Friends.” Cullen’s voice sounded harsh after the smooth lilt of the Africans. “Honoured council. Thank you for taking the time to listen to your humble servant.
“We face a difficult decision. As you know, we currently have three guests staying at the mansion. It now appears that they are some sort of investigators. Whether they came to investigate our situation, the wreck off Reinhart’s Spur, or something else entirely I don’t know, but their suspicions about us have been roused. Through an act of foolishness earlier today, we have let them get hold of the body of the bear.”
“Act of foolishness?” The young man who had been debating with Ubu Peter was on his feet. “You the one who took them hunting.”
“Well you’re the one who let that blasted experiment out, Felipe.” Cullen’s face crumpled in fury. “You could have picked any animal in the enclosures, but no, you had to pick the most malformed, over-developed specimen in the whole growth project.”
“You just angry ’cause you was too slow to get outta the way.” Felipe grinned with cruel amusement.
“Too slow? That thing’s a monster!”
“Monster you helped make. Jus’ like all th’other craziness.”
“The difference being, I’ve kept our guests away from the other craziness.” Cullen waved a finger at him, like a teacher telling off a rowdy pupil. “They have not been near the laboratory, the pens, even the palm groves. The closest they’ve been to a super-guano growth is a giant carrot the cooks chopped up extra small to put in their dinner. Then you go and let the bear out!”
“Hush now.” Ubu Peter was on his feet, a placating presence between Felipe and Cullen. “Friend Felipe, friend Reginald, be calm. So they’ve seen the bear. What does it matter? What we have here is not about those things. We can explain them away, be rid of them if need be. We will still have what we are about. Our way of life is secure.”
Astonished wonder brought a smile to Dirk’s face. This island was no mere colony, with a governing elite oppressing the working masses. It was an experiment in equality, socialism secreted behind the veil of empire. Twenty years since Europe had last tried to throw off the shackles of its old elite, a century since his own country had set itself free, and yet this was the most radical movement he had ever seen. He wished he could share this moment with the small boy he’d once been, kept down by fists and tradition, longing for a fairer world.
Not just that, but these people had created the extraordinary jungle in which they thrived, were finding ways to make their world a better place. If he hadn’t been worried at how they’d react to being spied on, Dirk would have leapt from the bushes and praised them all as humanity’s best hope.
“It’s not that simple.” Cullen shook his head. “Blaze-Simms is a noted scientist. Dynamo’s a private investigator. They won’t stop with the bear, they’ll want to know what’s behind it. Whether they dig around now or just go home and tell their friends what they’ve seen, they’ll draw attention to the island. We have enough trouble hiding our way of life from Braithwaite and his merchant pals. How do you think we’ll cope with London’s scientific establishment breathing down our necks? And how do you think they’ll view all this? A crown possession taken over by native servants. The governor in league with local revolutionaries. An enclave of African socialists on British soil, growing strong on wild science and British commerce. This place will be overrun with redcoats before you can say Bonaparte. We’ll be lucky if we’re only hanged, and then what happens to the great dream of self-rule? Where goes your new Africa then? We’ll go from a seed of rebirth to a damp squib in the footnotes of history. All for the sake of that blasted bear.”
There was a flutter of noise around the clearing as the more able English speakers translated Cullen’s words for their neighbours. Hands were waving in agitation, some of them clutching knives and sticks.
Dirk tensed in the darkness, hand reaching once again for the gun that wasn’t there. Scanning the jungle around him, he looked for any sign of perimeter guards or late-comers. He didn’t want to be these people’s enemy, but right now that was how they saw him. If someone stumbled across him and Blaze-Simms now they were as good as dead.
“Quiet.” Ubu Peter raised his hands and the commotion died down. “What do you suggest, friend Reginald? You have been our cunning and cover before. How do we avoid this?”
Cullen looked around circle. Some of his audience eyed him with respect, others with wariness. What none of them showed was the deference of a native population to its colonial governor.
“Talk to them.” His look was defiant. “Explain the situation. They might be sympathetic. Dynamo’s a socialist, the others seem reasonable, we might-”
His words were lost amid a rising wave of outrage. If anyone agreed with him they were keeping their views well hidden. Dirk suffered the terrible sinking feeling of watching an opportunity slip out of his grasp. These folks didn’t want his praise. Half of them wanted his head.
Omalara raised a withered hand and silence fell again across the clearing.
“This island is governed by reason, not braying jackals.” She glared around her. “You listen to Omalara, and you listen to friend Reginald. Then you want to disagree, you do it like civilised men.
“So, who gonna be a civilised man?”
Felipe stepped forward and was acknowledged by the elder.
“Those people get back to England, who knows what they do.” His expression was one of deadly calm. “Maybe they keep quiet and we keep safe. Or maybe they run tell the government and soldiers come put us in our place. Or maybe they go tell the guano men, and they come steal what we been learning. Or maybe a hundred other things, none them good.
“But it is not just about that. They came for the wreck. You think they go home without seeing that? These are white men. They will not listen when we say no.”
There were murmurs of outrage around the circle now, the audience’s faces creasing into angry frowns. This was how mobs started, and Dirk knew all too well how little three adventurers could do against a whole mob.
“We could at least try,” Cullen said. “Ask them not to disturb the wreck. Explain our situation to them. They might not just keep quiet. They might be of help.
Imagine how useful it would be to have friends in the outside world.”
For a moment hope rose in Dirk, but then he saw Felipe’s face, and that hope vanished like sparks rising from the fire into the night.
“We got friends in th’outside world.” Felipe pointed at Bekoe-Kumi, who stiffened but stood silent. “You forget you own friends from Dahomey? You don’ mean friends of th’island, you mean friends in Europe.”
“Well, yes, alright,” Cullen blustered. “And is that bad?”
“Is Europe bad?” Felipe held up his hands, wrists together as if bound in manacles. “Remember the chains of our ancestors! Remember why the wreck is sacred!”
“That’s not what I...” Cullen clutched his head. “I just mean that...”
“We know what you mean. You mean it different now you people in danger.”
“I don’t...” Even by the warm glow of the fire, Cullen looked pale and worn. He shook his head as if trying to fend off a cloud of invisible flies. An end of bandage came loose, trailing down his face.
“We understand.” Ubu Peter again stepped forward, hands spread wide, gesturing for calm. “It would be sad to hurt these people who have done us no harm. They do not seem cruel or wicked. One of them saved your life. But Felipe is right. They are not likely to listen to us. They will go to the wreck and disturb the spirits of the lost. If they go home they will tell the English what they have seen here. For the good of the island, they cannot leave.”
“How are you going to stop them?” From somewhere inside, Cullen found one last burst of strength, trembling with pain and passion as he spoke. “Steal their boat? They’ll get passage on a guano ship. Persuade them that they’d like to spend the rest of their lives in Hakon? These people have jobs, families, friends, they won’t want to stay on this god-forsaken cluster of rocks. Lock them up in the cellar? I don’t believe for a minute that you can bear to see other people in chains.”
“For your sake we will talk to them first, governor.” There was an edge to the way Ubu Peter said that final word, a deliberate reminder of Cullen’s status. “But if that does not work, you know what we must do.”
He turned solemnly to speak to the whole gathered group.
“For all our sakes, these people will die.”