“It’s a bloody tank,” said Atkins. “They’re trying to copy the tank. A lean-to either side, like sponsons? The lengths of leaves, like tracks? They’ve turned the hut into a mock tank.”
“It’s a form of sympathetic magic,” said Prof. “They think they can capture the power of the tank within their enclave, make themselves strong again by doing what the tank does.”
“Napoo, what do you make of this?”
The urman nodded in approval. “Strong magic. Not yet, but it will be.”
“So you approve?”
“They do what is necessary for the survival of the clan.”
The Chieftain appeared at the door of the hut and beckoned Atkins.
“’Ullo, you’ve been summonsed,” said Gutsy.
Atkins strode over towards the hut. As he passed between the burning posts, he took off his cap and ran a hand over his hair.
“Mathas, high priest of Boojum, grants you audience,” said the chieftain with a bright, welcoming smile.
Oh, does he indeed, thought Atkins. He ducked his head and stepped into the dark cloying space beyond. It was like stepping into a dugout. It took his eyes a moment or two to adjust to the gloom, the interior lit only by a small fire beneath a large shallow plate that held a liquid slowly vaporising with the heat. The fumes caught in the back of Atkins’ throat and he coughed. He recognised the taste. Petrol fruit.
“Lieutenant Mathers, sir?”
In the dark, he heard the sound of laboured breathing. As his eyes grew used to the light, he could make out the figure of a man slumped back on a pile of furs and skins, as if on a throne. The chain links of the splash mask he wore caught the light from the flame and glittered. The guttering flame also highlighted one or two of the runes painted on the man’s rain cape. Either side of him sat an attentive urman woman, but in the dim light, he could make out no more than that.
The apparition on the fur throne spoke. “What do you want?” The voice was slow, each word carefully enunciated, as if speech was an effort.
Atkins snapped a salute. “Lance Corporal Atkins. 1 Section, 2 Platoon, C Company—”
The man waved the introduction away. “Yes, yes, I know where you’re from.”
Atkins fished about in his jacket, pulled out a slip of folded paper, and stepped forward.
“Lieutenant Everson asked me to give you this if we found you, sir.”
Mathers sighed and gestured to one of the waiting women, who leant forwards and took it from Atkins’ hand. She handed it to Mathers. He opened it and held it by the incense burner. “Leave us!” he told them. The women nodded and silently left the hut.
Once they had gone, Mathers took off his leather ‘turtle shell’ helmet and removed his mask. “Can’t see a damned thing in that.” He held the paper towards the flame and squinted at the writing, drew his head back and tried to focus on it.
“Can’t read it. You’ll have to do the honours.” He handed the paper back. As he did so, Atkins saw his face.
“Blood and sand!”
“Corporal?”
“Your eyes!”
Mathers’ eyes were as black as coal with refracted iridescent rainbow swirls constantly drifting, moving lazily over their surfaces to some unknown imperative, like oil on water. Atkins was reminded of his own hallucinogenic episode shortly after they’d first arrived here. Mercy had built an illegal still and used some alien fruit to make alcohol.
“Can you see?”
Mathers learned forward, sharing a confidence. “More than you know. More than you’d want to know.”
“It’s the fuel isn’t it, sir? The petrol fruit?”
Mathers sank back languorously into the furs. “Yes. The way it heightens one’s senses. It’s marvellous.”
“Marvellous? It bloody near killed me and blinded several others.”
Mathers sat forwards keenly. “That was you?”
“Yes, and I was bloody lucky.”
“Then you’ll know? You have some inkling of what I can see? The enormity of it.”
“Oh, aye, and I’ll tell you another thing. I never want to see it again. It’s enough to send a man mad.”
“Only if you can’t comprehend it. But it’s beginning to make sense to me.” Mathers took a slug from a hip flask. A small sigh of relief escaped his lips.
“What, you’re drinking it now?”
“It’s the only way to numb the pain.”
“Pain? What pain?”
“In my guts. They seem to churn more frequently now, and I long to feel the wind upon my face. In the tank, I can see the noise. I can see your words tumbling from your mouth, warm and soft and inviting but tinged with sharp reds and treacherous oranges. And your khaki uniform sounds shrill and discordant. It does not fit here.”
“Sir,” said Atkins, holding out the orders again. “Lieutenant Everson orders you and the Ivanhoe back to the encampment, effective immediately.”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“Holding on to your paltry trenches, the last few square yards of Earth. You’re clinging to the rock as the tide comes in. Do you really think you’ll ever get home? You’re deluding yourself. Look to the future. This is it. Here. We were promised our reward not in this world but in the next world. This is the Next World. Can’t you see? There is so much more here. What were you? Before the war, I mean?”
“Shop assistant, sir, but—”
“Shop assistant. We can be so much more here. Join me. You can be a lord, Corporal; a baron, if you wish. You’ve seen these people, these urmen. They can be ruled. They want to be ruled — by us. And those chatts. We can defeat them; enslave them as they have enslaved mankind here. They’re good at digging, at building. They’re insects. Ants. They can mine for us. Gold, diamonds, silver, rubies. We can stake our claims. We can all be rich as Croesus here, every last one of us. There is enough world for us all. Imagine. A British colony among the stars. A new British Empire where we can all be kings. Think of it, man.”
Atkins listened to Mathers. All the riches of this world were as bitter ashes in his mouth if he couldn’t be with Flora. That was all that mattered.
But the fumes began to pervade his senses, warping them gently, slowly. He had to get out of there. He shook his head, as much to clear it as to signify his rejection of the proposal before the drug seduced him.
“So you’re disobeying a direct order, sir?” he asked as bluntly as he could.
“Order? I don’t recognise Everson’s authority here, Corporal. As Commander of the HMLS Ivanhoe, when we’ve gone dis from Battalion I have the authority to act as I see fit.”
“But, sir, without the tank the battalion can only hold out for so long.”
Mathers waved him away, no longer interested.
“Sir, you if you think about it, you don’t have a choice.”
“Is that a threat, Corporal?”
“No sir, but you will have to return to refuel. You’re at the limit of your range now. Your current supply will just get you home, otherwise you’re stranded.”
Mathers took another swig from his flask and nodded to show he’d heard. “I will think on it overnight, but now I need to… rest. My head hurts.”
Atkins’ couldn’t hide the disappointment and bitterness in his voice. “Sir.” The word dripped with resentment. He turned on his heel and stepped out from the claustrophobic confines of the hut.
INTERLUDE THREE
19th March 1917
My Dearest Flora,