“If you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen?” he said, indicating that the officer should take cover. Everson and Hobson stepped back by the sandbagged traverse.
“Well, on guard, lad, on guard!” said Riley, noting Buckley’s less than enthusiastic posture.
Buckley took a step forward, taking a stance as if the lance were a rifle and bayonet. Riley tapped Buckley once on the shoulder and began to wind the magneto’s crank handle that now protruded from the clay pack. A quiet whirr built as the spindle inside the magneto revolved faster and faster. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing would happen. A nervous Buckley fidgeted as he gripped the lance.
Everson and Hobson exchanged concerned glances.
Riley gritted his teeth and wound the handle furiously a while longer. Then he let go and tapped Buckley on the shoulder. Twice. This time, a brilliant blue-white arc of energy blasted out across the fire bay, exploding against the far sandbag traverse. The sandbags erupted. Scorched, shredded hessian and dirt showered down on them.
When the dust settled, Buckley was still standing and the chatt device was still in one piece.
Riley turned and grinned. “Well, that went better than expected, eh?”
WHEN THE BATTLEPILLAR reached the edge of the forest, the driver would go no further. The Padre, Nurse Bell and Chandar dismounted and, under the chatt’s guidance, proceeded on foot. From here on in, they were on their own.
They walked for several hours through the forest until Chandar directed them to stop by a grove of trees. There they waited.
Several hours later, a patrol of chatt soldiers, scentirrii, led by none other than Rhengar, the Khungarrii general, appeared. Its antennae waved, sensing something.
Chandar stepped forward and greeted them, its arms open wide as it breathed its benediction over its fellow chatts.
“Where have you been?” wheezed Rhengar. “Was your undertaking a success? This One has waited here every spinning at the appointed time. This One had given up hopes of your return, Chandar.”
“GarSuleth has willed it, Rhengar.”
Rhengar and Chandar fell to speaking rapidly in their own language, with many glances toward the chaplain and the nurse. The Padre got the feeling that Rhengar didn’t approve of their presence. Eventually the two chatts reached some agreement and the party headed on into the forest, the scentirrii, their antennae twitching, escorting Padre Rand and Nurse Bell along a path only they could detect.
In a way, Padre Rand felt that he too followed such an invisible path, guided by a Divine hand; from his comfortable parish of St Chad’s in Broughtonthwaite, to the trenches of France, where he lost the trail, like a path petering out on featureless moors. It was only once he found himself here, on this world, that he found his path again. Here, where he thought himself lost from God’s sight, that still, small voice could be heard if he but listened, for the men of the Pennines were themselves God’s creations, even if nothing else in this world was. A spark of the Divine existed in each one of them, so even out here, in the shadow of death, there was a light to mark the way. He drew comfort and strength from that. Like Daniel in the lion’s den, he felt a calmness, as though he was at the centre of a storm. He walked erect and with a feeling of peace he hadn’t known for a long time. But he knew this was only a moment of clarity, for even Our Lord had His Gethsemane.
Nurse Bell walked close beside him, but whether out of fear or concern he couldn’t say. Maybe both. It wasn’t surprising. He had surprised himself by volunteering for this, just as she had surprised him by offering to accompany him. Her Christian charity touched and partly shamed him. In coming here, he had an ulterior motive. Bell could have none, other than his welfare at heart. He did wonder briefly whether that made her the better person.
Nevertheless, he offered up a silent prayer of thanks for her presence. At least now, he would be forced to go through with his plan. Alone, he might not have had the strength. His resolve might have failed as it had before. His faith was gaining the fervour he once held, but it still felt fragile.
“You are one of the Tohmii’s dhuyumirrii?” wheezed Rhengar, waving its mouth palps behind its mandibles.
“A priest, yes,” said the Padre.
“You do not worship GarSuleth.” There was no intonation in its voice. There never was with chatts. It took them enough effort to form the words in the first place. He wasn’t even sure if they had emotions as he experienced them.
“No. I do not.”
Rhengar fell silent, clicking its mandibles together in a thoughtful manner as it walked.
The Padre wondered whether he had gone too far, spoken out of turn and offended them.
Chandar caught up with them and limped alongside. “They are scentirrii,” it explained. “They are not bred to question.”
“Stop,” said Rhengar, coming to a sudden halt.
The group of scentirrii stopped with him. Rhengar turned towards the Padre and Nurse Bell. “You go no further,” it told them.
Nurse Bell stepped forward, affronted. “But you said–”
“You will be killed.” It signalled to the scentirrii guards. They turned and advanced towards them.
The Padre wheeled on Chandar in disbelief. “You told the Lieutenant that we would be safe.”
There was no time for the crippled chatt to reply. The scentirrii closed in about them. The Padre gathered Nurse Bell to him, putting his arms around her. She looked up into his eyes, and then turned to face the chatts with defiance as the Padre rattled out a hasty orison under his breath.
The gathered scentirrii opened their mandibles and hissed as one…
INTERLUDE 2
1st April 1917
My Dearest Flora,
Off to get the Boojum back tomorrow. Don’t worry, I know where we left it. Not only that, we get a ride there, too. Should be a cushy number, which would be a first for this place. Just a case of ‘there and back to see how far it is,’ as Dad says. Porgy’s happy and you know how workshy he is, so that bodes well. Pot Shot says it’s going to be like riding elephants from the Raj. Not sure what I think about that. I know Mam will worry about me getting airs and graces what with riding round like a maharajah, though. Perhaps I should get Pot Shot to send her one of his pamphlets about how all workers deserved to be treated like that! Not that I’m complaining. I may even get used to it. Gutsy’s not happy though. He’s never been a good traveller, unless it’s by Shanks’s pony.
The Padre is going to visit the locals, with whom we’ve been having a little difficulty. You could say it’s raised a bit of a stink. I thought the French could be a bit off, but this lot take the biscuit. Still, with a little bit of luck it might all be sorted out by the time we get back, and we’ll all come up smelling of roses.
CHAPTER SIX
EVERSON CALLED THE officers together for a briefing in the Command Post. They had to be ready for whatever might happen next and he was trying to prepare them as best as possible. Unfortunately, most of them were like Palmer, good solid officers who could take orders, but not the initiative. Tulliver, on the other hand, he felt had too much initiative.
“So you’ve let the chatt go?” said Palmer.