growled and took a single step forward, standing astride the hole in the ground and preventing 105 escaping that way. It raked one clawed hand across his chest before the wrestler could move an inch. So quick, 105 thought. Too quick. But the time to retreat had come and gone; all that was left was to defend himself and hope that his many years of training would prove sufficient. The thumping upper-cut which lifted him from his feet answered that question. His head was ringing and he could barely see for stars. He tried to stand but his feet were unwilling to take his weight and he fell back down, hard.
‘Señor 105? Can you hear me?’ For the second time in as many minutes an unexpected voice spoke to him.
‘Mother Night?’ he whispered. It was obviously more than coincidence that the ladies should contact him now. Perhaps they had a plan – but if so he hoped it was one they could put into action immediately. As Pitch loomed over him, he concentrated on the demon’s face, praying that Night could see the threat he faced.
Pitch! Pitch has 105! Night recoiled from the malignant, animal fury in the red face which filled her thoughts, momentarily at a loss. She could use her powers to influence most things but at this distance she needed someone to voice her command and 105 was in no fit state to do so. She allowed his vision to occlude her own, so that she could see exactly what he could. He was obviously low down, looking up at his attacker – but there was something else...a dog! Allowing herself no time to baulk at the idea, she slipped her own mind over that of the animal and took control of it.
The dog’s brain was small and crudely formed, primarily taken up with thoughts of blood and meat. That very primitiveness would work to her advantage though. It had no vocal cords but it could make sounds, and the simplicity of its brain made it easy for Night to stretch those sounds into short, rudimentary words. Pitch! Freeze! Stand still!
105 blinked in confusion. A moment before he had been braced for a killing blow – and then the black dog at Pitch’s side had turned its head to one side, looking up at its master, for all the world as though preparing to ask a question. He could have sworn it had then barked – said - ‘Pitch! Freeze! Stand still!’
And Pitch had obeyed.
The demon crouched in front of him, its hand still raised. Its eyes flicked from side to side, but otherwise it was unmoving. 105 shuffled backwards in the snow, feeling every bruise and ache in his bones. He was safe for now, but already he thought he could see the slightest of quivering movement in Pitch’s legs. Whatever was holding it was not permanent.
‘Mother Night? I take it this is your work?’ He heard the yes as he levered himself to his feet. ‘Pitch is frozen. For now. Can you get me out of here?’
There was no reply. 105 swayed in the cold wind and watched as Pitch’s fingers began to curl and uncurl slowly.
The Mothers’ neat and tidy home was in complete disarray. Mother Courage sat surrounded by open books, each discarded in its turn as it proved worthless to her current requirements. She knew that she had once read a description of Jisa culture, but even though she had used her mind to pull volume after volume on ancient races from the shelves, the specific book continued to elude her. Night wasn’t helping, either. Hurry up! she complained, as though Courage were deliberately delaying, refusing to find the passage she needed to securely anchor the other side of the portal. She knew it was just Night’s way, to turn worry and fear into ill-tempered complaint, but still, it was less than useful.
‘Be quiet, in the name of—‘
There it was. A pencil sketch of a Jisa village above a long description of the pre-Cortez Mexican culture itself. ‘Here,’ she said, passing the book to Night. ‘This is where we want the portal to open. Now let me see wherever it is that 105 is just now so I can be sure that I don’t land the portal on top of his head.’
She wheeled herself out of the way as Night began to trace the hexagram with her finger. It would take all of her strength to send the portal to the Pole and she could do nothing to help with the summoning in any case. She just hoped they weren’t too late.
Pitch was smiling. 105 had looked for something to use as a weapon but the thick snow covered anything which might have been useful. The demon remained immobile but there could only be minutes until that ceased to be the case. He considered the helicopter, but there doubted that he could get it into the air in the storm which surrounded them. 105 prided himself that he never allowed himself to despair, but as he watched Pitch slowly shift first one foot, then the other, in the beginnings of a shambling walk, he could see no way out.
It has to be now, Night said with a grimace. I can only hold the other end of the portal in place for a little while. You need to send it to 105 now.
Courage nodded her understanding and placed a hand on either side of the frame of the device. She pictured the wrestler standing unsteadily in the snow, the demon advancing slowly, the dog growling at its feet. She could feel 105’s anxiety, Pitch’s glee and focused on the emotions as though they were solid rock. The portal began to vibrate against her palms, softly at first, like the wings of an insect, then stronger and with more violence, twisting in her grip like an angry cat, determined to be free. And then it was gone, disappearing between one breath and the next, her fingers closing together with a snap as the object they held blinked from existence.
As she slumped in her chair, she could hear Night speaking to 105.
If he’d had time to think, 105 wondered if he might not have taken his chances with Pitch there in the snow and wind. As it was, the portal Night had warned him about appeared from nowhere just as Pitch broke free of whatever power was holding him in place. It pinged into being in mid-air, a splash of orange and red and green in a cheap frame, as though someone was melting crayons in the air. For a few heartbeats all 105 was aware of was a confusion of moving colors against the white backdrop, as a tall red shape and smaller black one came towards him as one. He had time to register the blow coming but not enough to get himself completely out of the way.
The glancing strike caught his shoulder. He could feel a dull throb travel down one arm and threw a blind punch with his other, grimacing with his own pain as it reached its target. And then he was slipping on the wet surface and falling backwards toward the portal. He saw Pitch reach out for him just as the world slid sideways away from him. As he lost consciousness he had but a moment to wonder, had he escaped?
The Northern Andean Highlands, Peru, c. 500BC
The grass beneath his face was dry and yellow and gripped the ground low and hard as if it feared being ripped away. 105 blinked slowly and raised his head a little from the hard earth. He re-focused and the grass stems blurred into insignificance, revealing a nearby group of trees which, in turn, were replaced by a long stone step, the first of several leading up and beyond his current line of sight. He could hear insects somewhere nearby but other than that, everything was silent. Cautiously, he pressed his palms to the ground and tried to push himself up. Even before his right arm gave way, he felt his numb disconnection from the limb and, high on his shoulder, a sharp pain as the scab on a recently crusted cut split open.
There was no way he could stay here though. Whether Pitch had followed him through the portal or not, the small amount of information Night had been able to give him made him certain that whatever had happened to Nick, these Jisa were involved. He needed to find them and ascertain what that involvement consisted of. Time travel was not something he had a great deal of experience of, but he thought it unlikely that, Narnia-like, only minutes would pass in the present for years spent in the past.
Remembering his wrestling training, he rolled himself to one side and used that momentum to push himself, one armed, to his knees. Using a tree for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet and took in his surroundings.
The stone steps stretched up for some distance as one side of a pyramid, identical to ruins 105 had seen on an expedition a few years previously. This, however,
was – if not brand new – obviously a working building. Half way up the steps, but already shrunken to a finger’s size, he could see two figures making their way down, a wooden pole carried between them. It seemed as good a place as any to start. The steps were a foot or more high and as he surmounted each one, every cut and bruise on his body reminded him that he was not in the best possible condition. Fortunately, his quarry was making its way towards him, and not running in the opposite direction. He doubted he could even catch Sheila at the moment, never mind fleeing men.
The two men were about twenty steps away when they stopped dead. One pulled the wooden pole from the hands of the other, allowing the chicken corpses they carried to slip to the ground. He brandished it in front of him as the second man turned and began to run back up the steps. 105 held out his hands, palms forward, and – feeling a little foolish - said ‘I come in peace.’ He would have said more, but suddenly Pitch flashed past him, up the stairs towards the native man. Unexpectedly, the red demon was shouting the words to Edwin Starr’s anti-Vietnam song, ‘War’ and waving his arms above his head. It was almost comical, but the native