LotS/The Story/Music of the Spheres/Intro

Extract from Major Daniel Caruthers, A Gentleman's Forays into the Dark Continent (London: Wellsbury Publishing, 1874)

I decided that I'd quite like to shoot a hippopotamus.

This particular quarry recommended itself for several reasons, but two above all others. The first was that I'd never destroyed one of those creatures before, and like a bellicose Noah I rather fancied the idea of being able to declare, upon my return to England, that I had slain two of every animal I encountered. The second was that the creatures are large, powerful beasts, with a reputation for ferocity. Indeed, the natives seemed to fear them above even the large cats and other such predators with whom they shared their uncivilized land. Therefore I believed hunting and dispatching one might impress the pretty missionary woman.

Perhaps some of my readers will be aghast at the impropriety involved in my desire to win the admiration and indeed (I shall make no attempt to deceive) affection of a lady whose husband had but recently perished in the circumstances described in my prior chapter (alas, we never did find the savage responsible for throwing the spear which claimed his life that night). However, please remember that I hadn't lain with a civilised woman for many months. Given that state of affairs, her handsomeness was magnified many times over in my eye and heart, until she might have been Aphrodite herself. I simply had to try my hand and see if I could make her forget that tiresome prig whose wife she had been and widow newly become.

When I explained my intention to Judith Ashdown (by which I mean, of course, that of hunting the hippopotamus, not my amorous designs directed at her person), she expressed disapproval. She said that she and her late husband had chosen to accompany me in the hope of reaching native villages unmolested (naturally William's unfortunate demise left this hope well and truly dashed, though I was tactful enough not to mention this fact), not so she could witness my prowess as a sportsman. I must confess, when she spoke the word 'prowess', in that delightful accent of hers, it sent something of a tingle up and down my spine. Nor was the glint of annoyance in her eyes without its effect on her beauty and my infatuation. Nevertheless, I resolved to make peace. I concocted some laughable deception about how I needed to slaughter a hippopotamus so that I might report certain details of its physiognomy to a professor of biology at Cambridge, a fictitious fellow whom I claimed as an acquaintance. Furthermore, I vowed that after performing this most scientific endeavour I would take her to a village which was in particular need of Jesus and all his works.

Though she had demonstrated such a lack of enthusiasm for my proposed hunt, I didn't expect this demeanour to withstand the sight of me standing atop the animal's carcass with my rifle slung over my shoulder. I knew full well, from experience, what effect such images had on any decent Englishwoman. Who among them, then or now, could be expected to resist the glorious vision of the empire's fine and bold champions triumphing over the beasts of a barbarous continent? Therefore I was quite satisfied with myself when we went out in search of our quarry.

My native retainers assured me that they knew of a place where we'd be likely to find one of the animals. As I had beaten and whipped them all several times, and thus filled each and every one of them with an appropriate respect for the British race in general and my own personage in particular, I knew I could rely upon them to do as they promised.

Those readers whose schoolmasters hammered the tongues of Homer and Virgil into their heads (as mine did, until my rather ignominious departure from my particular seat of learning) will be aware that the word 'hippopotamus' means 'river horse'. Therefore it was with etymological inexactitude but gratification nonetheless that after a few hours' trek we found ourselves gazing at the desired creature near the edge of a rather filthy looking lake.

It was a huge and corpulent being, fleshy and fat. Seeing it lying at such close quarters (for prior to this I had only glimpsed them from a distance), I was filled with no great awe. Compared with the rippling muscles of the lion, it appeared to be quite poor sport indeed. However, as its girth was prodigious and the teeth within its yawning jaws imposing enough, I decided it was still worth killing.

I asked Mrs. Ashdown to ensconce herself at the top of a nearby hill, from which she could witness my deeds without exposing herself to danger. Once she had withdrawn there, I commanded three of the natives to place themselves between the hippopotamus and the lake, to cut off its route of escape. They screamed and protested in their absurd language, demonstrating such cowardice as would bring scorn to any plucky British lip. I struck one in the face with the butt of my rifle, and bloodied his nose. This quelled his insubordination. When I threatened to shoot the next man who disobeyed me, the others came to heel as well. I knew Judith would demand an explanation for the act of violence she must have observed from the hill behind me, but I also knew I could avert her wrath by saying I'd struck him for making lascivious remarks about her.

The three coloured fellows skirted around the lazy, wallowing thing, giving it a wide berth, then stationed themselves where I'd instructed. There they raised their spears, and formed a rather poor line of battle.

The hippopotamus moved with far greater speed than I would have imagined possible given its stature. It was as if the sight of the natives roused it to battle. It charged them as a rhinoceros might have, and caused horrendous carnage. One of them met his death at the creature's jaws. Another was trampled. The third, who had perhaps gained some small measure of bravery through his time in my service and his exposure to English courage, thrust his spear into the animal's eye before he was smashed aside.

I fired my elephant gun at the creature, and scored a tremendous hit. I had no doubt that the wound would prove mortal, but to ensure the beast's destruction I ordered the rest of my retainers to the attack, hastening them into the fray with kicks and cuffs.

The bellowing, raging hippopotamus performed laudably given its injuries. It killed three more before it succumbed to the jabbing spears and a few more shots from my rifle. I clipped a fourth native in the course of my shooting, when the poor fool put himself in my line of fire. Luck was on my side, however. The creature's girth hid his demise from Judith's sight, and after his body was trampled all evidence of my part in his death was hidden.

In all, seven of my servants were slain by the time the hippopotamus flopped onto its side and was duly finished off. An eighth lay wounded, and pleaded with me to take him back to town so that he could be treated. However, as I had no intention of so inconveniencing myself and the good lady, and as his body seemed broken beyond mending, I instead put him out of his misery. It transpired that one of the other coloured fellows was his brother. He waved his spear at me and became quite belligerent, so I was forced to dispatch him as well. Mrs. Ashdown was fortunately descending the further side of the hill, where footing was surer, and didn't witness these deeds.

I had lost nine of my retinue. However, as natives were in plentiful supply, I knew I could replace them easily enough. What was far more vexing was that Judith, when she approached the scene and saw me striking my most heroic pose atop the creature's carcass, gave me no words of praise or encouragement. Nor did she swoon into my arms, as perhaps I'd hoped. Indeed, she seemed more concerned with the loss of life among the servants (though she didn't notice that three of them bore bullet wounds). For some absurd reason she held me responsible for this, as though they wouldn't have met their deaths soon enough, likely as not, in that dark and dangerous part of the world. Women can be such foolish and illogical creatures.

Judith Ashdown's manner was frosty that night in camp. She persisted in reading from her Bible rather than engaging in conversation which I might have used to soften her heart and make her more amenable to a romantic tryst. So I resolved to be rid of her as soon as possible. Being a man of my word, this first meant taking her to those damnable villages so she could spread the Gospel, and seeing that she wasn't thrown into their cooking pots or else sold as a slave -- although in my less charitable moments, as I lay alone in my tent, I rather grinned at the thought of these potential occurrences.

In the morning we embarked for a village where, some months earlier, I'd been treated as an honoured guest. My rifle had helped subjugate a neighbouring settlement, the women of which were claimed as chattel by the victors. In return for this assistance, the chieftain had placed a splendid feast before me, and thrown one of the captives into my lap. Therefore I knew I could rely on him to endure Mrs. Ashdown's preaching, and perhaps even feign enough interest to take the fine edge off her missionary zeal.

I had one of the retainers run ahead of us, to make inquiries at the village and discover whether that chieftain still reigned. Much like our own politicians at home, African tribes often underwent changes of governance, albeit through spears and clubs rather than elections. It wouldn't have done to blunder into the place, only to find a new man in charge and ourselves regarded as foes to be slain rather than guests to be entertained.

The native scout returned to say that Piss-pot (as I rendered his ghastly name) was indeed still in charge of the place. Moreover, he was overjoyed to hear I was approaching, and implored me to come with all haste. I took this to mean he either intended to engage in a spot of pillaging or feared a stronger rival might come and do likewise. In either event, my marksmanship would have proven useful to him and no doubt rewarding to me (though I did wonder what Judith Ashdown might have said if I enjoyed the night in the company of another concubine). However, my assumptions proved unfounded, and the truth far more remarkable.

When we got near to the place, we heard the din of stamping feet and a babble of voices screeching in their click-clack lingo. Smoke was rising up over the village in a big grey pillar.

"What's happening?" Mrs. Ashdown asked.

"It's a ritual," I said. "Nothing to worry about."

She sniffed, with a good Christian woman's outrage for the native religions she'd come to do away with. I held them in no higher regard, of course, and at another time I might have tried to use our mutual disdain to win her good opinion. I was perturbed, however. The first of my statements to her had been veracious, the second a falsehood. Even then, before I knew what it all meant, there seemed to be something wrong. There had been a ritual dance as part of the victory celebrations I'd spoken of earlier. The native priests, Mrs. Ashdown's rivals in the matter of securing the salvation or damnation of souls, had worn their silly tassels and danced around a fire, shouting and chanting as if they were trying to breach the walls of Jericho. The screeching we heard then was something quite different. There was a franticness about it that was troubling enough to make me ready my rifle.

Piss-pot was waiting for us at the edge of the village. We could see the priests dancing behind him, around a big blazing fire. One of them cut a goat's throat and splashed its blood into the conflagration. Judith was horrified at the pagan spectacle, and if it hadn't been for the desperation in the chieftain's eyes I would have taken the opportunity to comfort her in my arms.

"What's going on here?" I asked, using his language.

"Evil spirits!" he said. He pointed at the priests. "You must help!"

I thought the fellow had taken leave of his senses, and expected me to pot those 'evil spirits' of his with my rifle like they were savages or game. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards a hut, his eyes so wild I came near to shooting him out of fear of what he might intend. Then he stopped and pointed at the shabby little dwelling.

"Listen!" he said. "Listen!"

It was damned hard to hear anything over the priests, but I just made it out. A little girl's voice was coming from inside, and it was speaking English.

"You devil!" I exclaimed. "You've taken a white girl prisoner?"

I pulled away from him and pointed my rifle between his eyes. His men and mine all raised their spears, and there were a lot more spear points aimed at me than at him. Piss-pot waved his warriors back, however.

"No! She's my daughter!" he said. "She is possessed! The evil spirit makes her speak the language of the white man!"

This seemed the most absurd and ridiculous falsehood, another of the childish and easily perceived lies I had heard from the Dark Continent's primitive denizens during my time there. Yet the man's face held genuine terror, and I saw no mendacity in his eyes. I went into the hut to ascertain the truth of the matter, keeping my rifle at the ready lest there be tribesmen lying in ambush within. There was only one person inside, however. A young child whose skin was as black as coal lay on a bed of furs, her eyes open but distant and unfocussed. A steam of nonsense came from her thick, dark lips. The meaningless phrases were all jumbled together, but in English that could have passed for a Briton's. I'd seen all forms of charlatanry in Africa, and come to regard their superstitions as a load of old rot. Yet I knew that no one in Piss-pot's village had learned our language, least of all this little slip of a girl.

Piss-pot and Judith came into the hut as well. Mrs. Ashdown's fingers were pale on her Bible, and she held the book out in front of her as if it were a talisman.

"She's speaking in tongues!" Judith said.

The little girl's head turned to her, perhaps drawn by the sound of another speaking the same language. The babble ended, and for a long, long moment the only noises were the chanting, shrieking, and stamping from outside. Then the child spoke a single word, an incomprehensible string of syllables which she intoned as if each were of incalculable importance.

"Cal-ak-see-a."

"Kalaxia!"

"KALAXIA!"

Grandmistress Emera Tresc intoned the name first, cast it forth as a simultaneous utterance of mouth and mind. It returned through the same channels in a chorus, repeated by the others around the table -- those who were present in the flesh, and those whose holographic heads floated disembodied above their chairs. The replies borne of sound reached her ears. The rest slipped into her consciousness without such crude biological intermediaries, tentacles of thought entangling and embracing her own, uniting in an instant of shared piety which a non-psionic could never have fathomed.

But the euphoria was short-lived

"Well?"

The grandmistress winced. That laconic question and accusation came from the projection of an ancient female face, a desiccated visage that was almost skeletal -- as though someone had draped thin, rough cloth over a fleshless skull and pulled it taut. Two cyan gemstones stared at Emera Tresc from lidless sockets, suffused with an inner glow which lent a blue-green tinge to the surrounding whiteness of the old woman's hair.

"Two of our people were killed on-" Emera began.

"I know that! Do you think we grope around in the dark until you see fit to speak to us?"

Emera's glance flicked to the other side of the table, where a solitary place was empty. She cursed herself inwardly in the next moment. Lady Victoria would see the breaking of eye contact (if those multifaceted monstrosities could even be called eyes) as a sign of weakness. Where was he, damn it?

"Who was responsible?"

The cyan gemstones accentuated the question with a searing flash, and the backs of the grandmistress' eyeballs itched as though thousands of miniscule mandibles were nibbling away at them. She thanked the wyrm-mother that her interlocutor was many millions of miles distant. Emera had met her in person only once. The sensation of the woman's old, slithering mind still festered in her memories.

"I..."

Every gaze was on her. Only Lady Victoria's was cold and challenging, but there was disquiet among many of the others. Al-Husam's left hand was under the table, and would be fiddling with his weapon's pommel as it always did when something perturbed him. Bonderbrand's big holographic jowls shook like those of a bulldog ready to chomp and tear. Multheru's inhuman eyes were inscrutable, his mind sealed. But the appendages above his maw twitched and curled in sequence like drumming fingers. Everyone was waiting.

Emera Tresc glanced at the empty place again. He'd said he would...

The hologram's appearance was sudden, an instantaneous manifestation as though she'd willed it into existence by the force of her desperation. She couldn't stop a small gasp escaping her lips. But it didn't matter. No one was watching her now. Bonderbrand, Al-Husam, Multheru, and all the others were staring at the newcomer as the grandmistress was. Emera shot a quick look at Lady Victoria, just long enough for a burst of satisfaction. The impatience and haughtiness were gone from the woman's skeletal face.

Noir's void-colored mask stared back at them, a smooth, featureless visage marred by a narrow peak which ran down its center, by a pair of eye slits that each shone with an azure glow, and by a splash of crimson. The latter was all the reassurance the grandmistress needed. It was fresh, still trickling down the blackness in half a dozen little rivulets.

"I was delayed." The words were soft, well-spoken, shaped by a strange and elegant accent. Yet there was another sound which underlay them. A second voice that was almost a growl. "He did not wish to speak. But in the end he screamed the truth."

"Who?" Emera asked.

She suppressed a shudder when Noir's azure slits turned to her.

"A man of no consequence. A detective who learned of things through chance and carelessness. But he gave the information to Arthur Lupin. The names of two of our initiates."

"Lupin?" Lady Victoria said. "The man's a pilferer. What would he want with our brothers' identities?"

"[Player Name] is his ally."

A murmur rippled around the table.

"You think [Player Name] killed them?" Bonderbrand asked. His jowls quivered and his teeth clacked.

"Yes."

[Player Name]... A series of overlapping images filled Emera Tresc's mind, one spawned by her memories and the others thrown into her thoughts by psionic voices from around the table. The gruesome death of the Sian Emperor, broadcast across human space in all its gore, played before her inner eye.

"Kasan..."

"Then she knows of us," the grandmistress said.

A fresh image appeared now. There was a room, filled with worshippers' corpses. Mistress Ornathe's body lay among them, one of her legs bent at a sickening angle, blood snaking from each of her ears in crusted, dried-up streams. So someone spoke before they died... Said enough for [Player Name] to know who her enemies were...

"We have been careless," Noir said. The azure slits flashed. "After so long as the hunters and searchers, we have forgotten what it is to have a strong adversary. One truly worthy of my attentions."