Return to the Lost Level, page 6
“Camels and Christians accept their burdens kneeling. I shall accept mine on my feet. Lead on, Mr. Pace.”
“You’ll need some weapons.”
I handed him my dagger and its sheath, as well as the rusty box cutter I’d stored in my gear. He accepted both of them gratefully, and examined the latter with some curiosity. After a moment, he figured out how to operate it, extending the razor blade and then retracting it. He did this several times, obviously delighted.
I suggested to Kert and Tolia that they take a break and let some of our other trackers take over as point in the procession. Kert agreed, unable to hide the gratitude on his face. The young man was obviously tired. Tolia, however, refused, insisting that she was fine for the job. Rather than arguing with her, I agreed. But I did pull her aside before we departed.
“Don’t overdo it,” I cautioned. “Think of Apotic. He’s going to want his mother after we’ve rescued him.”
“I shall not fail my own son.”
“All the more reason not to overexert yourself. We’ll need you in fighting shape when we catch up with the Anunnaki.”
“I could fight them in my sleep.”
“I’d much rather you fight them on your feet, Tolia. Remember, some of our friends here are just farmers and seamstresses. Not all of them are warriors like you. We’re going to need you if we are to succeed in rescuing our loved ones.”
Nodding, Tolia touched my shoulder and squeezed. “I understand, Aaron. I promise to save most of my fight for the battle to come.”
“Fair enough.”
Tolia and Kert’s replacement—who turned out to be Shlak—headed out, back on the trail of the snake men. The rest of us followed along behind them. I asked Karenk to bring up the rear of the procession, hoping his considerable size and saber-tooth tiger-skull helmet would act as a deterrent to anything creeping up behind us. Well, perhaps not a full-grown Tyrannosaurus rex or a twenty-foot tall, laser-equipped death robot, but you get the idea.
But as it turned out, Karenk wasn’t the deterrent I’d hoped for, because as we made our way through the forest, something cried out behind us. The group turned, weapons drawn, as Ambrose’s baby triceratops burst from the foliage, half-chewed fern leaves still jutting from the corners of her mouth. Her little legs pumped as she hurried to catch up with us, mewling loudly. The tribe parted, clearing a path. Ignoring them, the dinosaur wobbled up to Ambrose and snorted, giving him kisses with her snout. Glistening trails of mucous covered his pants and shirt as she trilled happily. Sighing, Ambrose reached down and patted her head.
“I think you’ve made a friend,” I said, grinning.
“Indeed,” he replied.
“We’re not going to be able to sneak up on the Anunnaki with her squealing,” Trut warned.
“She only squeals when Ambrose gets too far away,” I pointed out, crouching down on my haunches to scratch the bony plate atop her head. Cooing, the dinosaur turned her attention away from Ambrose and tried to lick me instead. Her tongue was slimy and yet rough like sandpaper. Flies buzzed around her hindquarters, and black gook crusted the corners of her eyes. I reached out slowly with one hand, speaking soothingly, and cleaned some of it away. Then I stood up again.
“She’s going to need a name.”
Ambrose nodded. “Agreed, although I am hard pressed to come up with something suitable.”
“How about Squeaker?” Trut suggested.
I smiled. “How about Fern? You know, like from Charlotte’s Web? They seem to be her favorite food, after all.”
“Fern is an excellent choice,” Ambrose agreed. “Although I am not familiar with this Charlotte you mention.”
“I guess you wouldn’t be,” I admitted. “That came after your time. It was a book.”
“You can tell me all about it,” Ambrose suggested, “after you’ve explained to me where I am and what is happening.”
We began hiking again. Ambrose and I fell back to the rear, alongside Karenk, so that Fern could keep up. She trundled along at his side, grunting and cooing, apparently happy to be a part of the procession. And that was how our determined dozen became fourteen again.
Unfortunately, those numbers didn’t last long.
Chapter 5
That’s Some Pig
In school, I had learned that Ambrose Bierce had a sardonic, sarcastic view of human nature and that his motto had been “Nothing Matters.” I found the real-life incarnation of him to be very similar to what I had been taught. While perhaps not a complete nihilist, he certainly had no use for religion, occultism, or mysticism. And yet, despite that, he listened with interest and respect as I explained everything to him—the Labyrinth, the Lost Level, the details of my arrival here and what I had learned and experienced since. He didn’t interrupt me or ridicule my account. Instead, he listened with rapt, professional attention. I could tell by his facial expressions that his keen mind was analyzing everything I said, weighing it against his own experiences thus far and on the evidence around him. The telling took a long while, and I was exhausted by the time I finished.
“So,” I asked, “what do you think?”
He was silent for a long moment, and I began to wonder if he was going to answer me at all. Then Ambrose cleared his throat and swept his hand from side to side, indicating the forest surrounding us.
“The last thing I remember before waking here was falling asleep. Thus, it would be easy for me to believe that this is all a dream, but I’ve never known dreams—even the most vivid ones—to be this detailed. I can smell the shit on Fern’s flanks, feel the breeze on my skin, and hear my chest rumble with this damned asthma. Every injury I’ve ever received pains me right now. Mind you, I’m not referring to phantom pains or twinges. I can feel the ache deep in my bones. That doesn’t happen in dreams. One doesn’t feel pain in dreams, nor does one smell shit. So, I do not believe I am dreaming.”
“Then, what do you believe?”
“I believe in myself. I believe that I am an intelligent man. In our civilization, and under our republican form of government—or at least the civilization and government that existed in my time—intelligence is so highly honored that it is rewarded by exemption from the cares of office. That is why I have never held office and never will. History is an account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools. So, when you tell me that this strange land I’ve found myself in is full of artifacts from history—both the past and the future, and not just from our world—I trust my intelligence. It is in my nature to treat all things divine or supernatural with marked respect, in that I prefer to not have anything to do with them. And yet, nothing else seems to account for my being here. I never believe anything without evidence, but the evidence is all around me. Some of the trees are familiar. Others are unlike anything I have ever seen before. Indeed, I am hard pressed to imagine that some of them could have ever flourished on Earth. I’ve noted the sun’s position in the time we’ve walked, and it hasn’t moved. And then there’s this.”
He reached down and patted the baby triceratops. She cooed, almost lovingly.
“Fern certainly didn’t exist in my time,” he continued. “Therefore, I am inclined to believe you, Aaron. Understand, that is a difficult thing for me to do, and perhaps even more difficult to admit out loud. Trust in my fellow man is not something that comes easily to me. As a rule, I do not trust humanity without collateral security. I’ve found that it hurts no one to be treated as an enemy entitled to respect until he shall prove himself a friend worthy of affection. And yet, I sense no animosity or trickery in your words, nor in the actions of your fellow men and women. Indeed, judging by the demeanor of … what was her name?”
“Tolia?”
He nodded. “Yes, Tolia. I dare say she has the look and tone not just of a woman anxious for revenge, but of a mother desperate to save her child. And that desperation extends to the rest of your party, as well. They all have that same haunted demeanor. I have seen it many times before, on many different battlefields. As loathe as I am to admit it, and as fantastical as some of your story sounds, I choose to believe it. All of it. Though I still do not understand how I came to be here.”
“I don’t either,” I admitted.
“Perhaps when I next sleep, I’ll wake up back in Mexico.”
“Maybe … but I don’t think it works like that. At least, it hasn’t for me.”
We talked more as we walked. One thing I was curious about was whether or not this Ambrose Bierce was from my level—my Earth—or some alternate reality version. I asked him questions about his life to help me determine that. He’d been born into poverty in 1842 (he joked that his parents were poor because they were honest) in a log cabin in the backwoods of Ohio. He had thirteen brothers and sisters, all of whom had names beginning with the letter A—Abigail, Amelia, Ann, Addison, Aurelius, Augustus, Almeda, Andrew, Albert, and so on. He’d left home at the age of fifteen and found work at a small Ohio newspaper. As a member of the Union Army’s 9th Indiana Regiment during the Civil War, he’d fought in the battles of Western Virginia, Philippi, Rich Mountain, and Shiloh. It was the latter that had inspired several of his short stories. He’d also suffered a serious head wound during the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, which he illustrated to me by pulling his hair back and showing me a horrific scar. After the war, he had worked primarily as a journalist and writer, but had also briefly tried his hand at mining in the Dakota Territory.
He mentioned having been married, and that he’d had three children, but Ambrose refused to say more about them—instead falling into a rant about the insects in the forest—and I decided not to press him about them. Clearly, he didn’t wish to discuss his family, and I suspected why. On my world, Ambrose Bierce and his wife, Mollie, got divorced after he found evidence of adultery in the form of compromising letters to her from an admirer. She’d died not long after. Both of his sons had died, as well. The youngest, Leigh, had died from complications of pneumonia related to alcoholism. The oldest son, Day, had committed suicide after being spurned by a lover.
I gently turned the conversation to his written works. The bibliography he recited seemed to match up with what I remembered from school—The Devil’s Dictionary, weird fiction stories like “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” “The Death of Halpin Frayser,” and “The Damned Thing,” and of course his war stories like “The Boarded Window,” “Chickamauga,” and “Killed at Resaca.”
Eventually, I was fairly certain that he had indeed come from my Earth, and yet, having originated in a time nearly a hundred years before my birth, he had arrived here after me. This was similar to a previous encounter I’d had in the Lost Level when Bloop and I had come across an Old West cowboy from an alternate reality. In his case, I’d known for sure it was an alternate reality, rather than my world, because he’d spoken of a zombie pandemic that had infected the country. In Ambrose’s case, everything seemed to match up to what I knew of him from a historical perspective. The only thing I was uncertain about was that he mentioned a friendship with the poet and writer Stephen Crane. I was aware of Crane, certainly. We’d read the obligatory The Red Badge of Courage in school, but more than that, his poem “In the Desert” was a personal favorite of mine. Still, I couldn’t remember ever having heard of a friendship between the two men in my reality.
Our conversation returned to me again, or more specifically, my time with the tribe and my relationship with Kasheena. I told him about how we’d met and of all the times she had saved my life. Oblivious to the other tribe members within earshot, I found myself confiding in him about my hopes with her for the future—and my fear that the Anunnaki had taken that future away from us. My voice choked with emotion, and before I could stop myself, I began to weep. Warm tears, born out of anger and hatred and fear coursed down my face. I wiped my eyes and nose with the back of my hand, took a deep breath, and muttered an apology.
“I cried for my parents.” Karenk clapped his big hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“He is correct,” Ambrose agreed. “I’ve always felt that, for myself at least, love is nothing more than a temporary insanity that is curable by marriage. But it is clearly evident you love this woman. Don’t be ashamed. You have nothing to apologize for. And besides, it’s a known fact that women in love are less ashamed than men. They have less to be ashamed of.”
Nodding, I thanked them both. We walked on in silence for a while. Ambrose wheezed frequently, but other than that, he seemed capable of continuing the hike. Fern grunted at the old man’s side, occasionally pausing to root at the ground with her snout, and then galloping along to catch back up with him again. Karenk remained quiet, keeping his attention focused on the terrain, alert for any possible threats.
Further ahead, the rest of the party remained quiet, as well. Only the younger rescuers—Martek, Flik, and Sleeth—showed any sign of frivolity. While everyone else was serious and dour, those three remained relatively upbeat and energetic, if somewhat tired. I also noticed that both Flik and Sleeth seemed to be attracted to Martek. The hapless youth was apparently oblivious to the attentions of both, treating them as friends.
Of us all, it was Karune who seemed the most desperate. She plodded along at the head of the procession, following the trail blazed by Tolia and Shlak. It was clear to me that the young mother was exhausted, but—anxious to save her child and sister—she asked for no rest, and maintained a steady, almost punishing pace.
Eventually, the forest began to thin. The trees grew farther apart, allowing more sunlight to filter down through their boughs. In turn, the undergrowth began to thicken, slowing our progress as we picked our way around thorn bushes and vines. We saw a patch of razor grass—a deadly plant that grew plentifully in most of the Lost Level’s climes—but Tolia and Shlak had marked it and our group easily avoided it, skirting the edges. In the center of the patch lay the partial skeleton of some hapless animal, the mottled bones gray and white against the deep green.
Ambrose’s asthma grew worse. Tomkin stumbled, caught himself, and brushed off Kert when the younger man reached out to help him. A few minutes later, it was Kert’s turn to lose his footing. Soon after, I heard Karenk stifling a yawn behind me. As for myself, my feet ached and my eyes were beginning to burn. Realizing that we needed rest, no matter what, I began looking for a suitable place to make camp. When we came to another clearing, I decided it was as good a spot as any.
“Okay,” I said, raising my voice so they’d all hear me. “Let’s stop here. Karune, can you run ahead and let Tolia and Shlak know?”
Nodding, she darted down the trail, disappearing into the trees. When she returned with them a few minutes later, it was clear from Shlak’s expression that he was grateful for the break. Tolia and Karune, on the other hand, seemed pensive and impatient, despite their obvious fatigue. I motioned at everyone to join me in the center of the clearing. One by one, they gathered around, huddling in the grass, except Fern, who found something interesting to eat.
“I know what some of you are thinking,” I said. “That we shouldn’t stop. That we should press on and catch up to our loved ones. Believe me, there’s a big part of me that would like to do the same. But the fact of the matter is we’re all tired. We’ve been on the move since the village was attacked—hiking and running and fighting without many breaks. If we don’t get some rest, we won’t be any good to our loved ones when we do eventually catch up with them.”
Tolia shook her head. “With respect, Aaron, we may not catch up with them at all if we don’t quicken our pace.”
“Have you seen signs that we’re getting closer?”
She hesitated, her eyes darting to Kert and Shlak. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. The snake men have to sleep sometime, too. And even if they don’t, their captives will need to. They didn’t go through all this trouble of attacking our village and kidnapping our loved ones just to let them die during a forced march. And remember, they probably think we all got killed in that ambush back at the start of the forest. I’m betting they’ll rest soon, too. We’ll each get a short amount of sleep—just enough that we’re not falling over on our faces— and then we’ll continue on. Any objections?”
There were none, so I gave orders for some of them to gather dead wood and build a campfire, and others to prepare some food. I posted four guards, one on each side of the clearing. Those who didn’t have a task were given the job of caring for our gear and weapons—sharpening blades, making sure arrows were still threaded, and the like. They bustled about, content to have a task to focus on. I was impressed to see Ambrose pitching in to help, carrying armfuls of kindling back to the center of the clearing. His wrinkled old brow glistened with sweat, but he didn’t complain. Indeed, he seemed happy to help.
We kept the fire small—enough to cook our meal and ward off potential predators, but not enough to signal the Anunnaki that we were nearby. The tribe members had been clever enough to gather wood that gave off relatively little smoke when burned. We sat around it, eating together, and I had portions taken to the guards. The kindling popped and crackled, and the heat seeped into my feet, and then my legs, and then throughout my body. Yawning, I blinked my eyes.
“It’s strange,” Ambrose mused, peering up at the sun and shading his eyes with one gnarled hand. “My body tells me it’s after midnight, yet the sun is still at high noon. I fear I’ll never sleep again under these conditions.”
I shrugged. “You’ll get used to it”
“I hope you are right.”
At the insistence of the others, I stayed awake long enough to tell them an abbreviated version of the story of Charlotte’s Web. It was easy enough to edit the story for the tribe. I just changed the details to things they’d understand—the county fair became a harvest festival, and instead of a rat, Templeton became a Slukick. By the time I was finished, half the party had fallen asleep. I had four of them replace the guards, and told them to wake another shift of replacements when they got tired.
