“You see, Atkins? Mother Dreamer has told me I won’t die. I won’t die.”
Atkins shook his head in exasperation.
The chief spoke. “The spirit haunts the thalpa groves evewards,” he told them, pointing towards the direction in which the sun set.
Atkins stood close behind Mathers. Now that he had found the tank crew well and the tank operational, his anger at being dragged out on a wild goose chase needlessly festered and bordered on insolence. “All right, that’s enough, sir,” he hissed. “Let’s go and get this thing done.”
A breeze blew across the compound, rustling the huge leaves above. Mathers stood still and turned to face into the wind with a heartfelt sigh.
Frank turned to Reggie. “Give us a hand with the Sub. He’ll be as right as rain once we get him into the tank.”
The clan watched as the tank crew escorted Mathers to the waiting Ivanhoe. A great ululation rose up from a small group of young women as the tank’s engine roared into life. The tank lurched off in the direction indicated by the chief and 1 Section fell in behind it.
“Why the hell are we going along with this devil hunt of theirs, Only? It’s not our fight,” asked Pot Shot.
“Well, it is now. For better or worse, the tankers have won these urmen over. If they don’t deliver, it’s our reputation on the line as well. If the story gets out that we don’t protect our own, or keep our word, then the urmen will desert us; and we need allies here, so Lieutenant Everson tells me. But I’m still not sure if I bloody trust them.”
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS of slow progress through the jungle they had seen nothing but trees, and the trees, to Atkins’ mind, were the colour of old blood on army issue shirts, their barks blackened and rough like scabbing, but the men of 1 Section were getting tense and jumpy and eyed the armoured leviathan in front of them enviously.
Atkins, aware of Everson’s order to press the chatt for information, dropped back to where Gutsy was walking along with Chandar and Napoo. Chandar’s feeler stumps were waggling furiously as if trying to detect something despite its disability.
“Is something wrong?”Atkins asked it. “You seem nervous.”
The Chatt gulped in a mouthful of air and indicated the jungle around them. “Zohtakarii burri. You should not be here. Khungarrii should not be here. Our scents will carry. Ones do not enter the burri of other Ones.”
Napoo grunted in agreement. “It is true. If Chandar is found in Zohtakarrii burri, it will be killed. As will we.”
“This just gets better,” said Atkins with a sigh. “We’re being attacked by the Khungarrii. These Zohtakarrii will kill us if they find us and we’re off hunting something that’s probably stalking us, with a tank crew that would sooner we just dropped dead.” He shook his head. “The Pennines up to their necks again. So, this thing. Any ideas what we’re up against. Napoo?”
“The Gilderra clan says dulgur, a bad spirit.”
“Load of codswallop,” Pot Shot said. “If it’s taking people then it ain’t no ghost, which, as I’m sure Gazette will tell you, means it can be killed.”
Gazette clicked his tongue, winked, and patted the stock of his Enfield.
“Maybe Bantar,” admitted the urman.
“A bantar?”
“A four armed, fur covered urman-like creature that dwells in the trees, but perhaps twice our size.”
Chandar chattered, as if it disagreed.
“This One does not know, but this One fears what this dulgur might be.” Chandar struggled to gulp a mouthful of air again but, as it tried to speak, nothing came out from its mouthparts but an empty belch. It tried again in its own tongue, a long sibilant sound combined with glottal stops and mandible clicks that meant nothing to Atkins but clearly meant a great deal to Chandar. The chatt seemed to shrink down on its legs into a submissive posture before swallowing more air. It regurgitated it and hastened to form words with its mouth palps. “This One means that perhaps this One was mistaken. Maybe Sirigar’s prophecy of the Great Corruption was not so wrong after all,” it said, looking round at the Tommies.
“What, that we’re some great evil come to blight your land? Look mate, we don’t even want to be here,” challenged Atkins.
“Jeffries did. Jeffries was searching for something dark and forbidden. He sought knowledge of an ancient heresy. I think perhaps he may have found it.”
“Found what?”
“Croatoan,” it hissed.
ALFIE WIPED HIS brow. The engine shifted into the blues, and the noise tasted of tart rhubarb as he shifted his gear lever in response to Wally’s hand signal.
He felt the wary, sullen gaze of young Cecil on him. The lad was staring at him with undisguised distrust. Cecil always had an unswerving loyalty to the Ivanhoe and its crew and had more than once got into a fight defending it against some imagined slur or slight. Alfie always knew the lad was trouble. Until they’d come here it looked like Jack had calmed him down after taking him under his wing, but maybe leopards couldn’t change their spots.
“If you’ve got anything to say, say it!” said Alfie.
“I saw you talking with them Tommies. They want us to go back to the camp. They’ll put us on a charge for mutiny. You’re supposed to be one of us but that bint has turned your head. You don’t know where your loyalties lie anymore!”
He launched himself at Alfie, who had nowhere to go, crammed as he was in the corner of the compartment by the shell racks. He fell back and cracked his head on the bulkhead. Cecil was on him, saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth as he screamed obscenities over the engine noise, hands at Alfie’s throat, trying to choke him.
Several things happened at once.
Jack Tanner grabbed Cecil under the armpits and pulled him off. “But you all say it,” protested Cecil. “You all say it about him behind his back. None of you trust him.” Still snarling at Alfie, he lashed out with his foot. His boot caught Alfie on the cheek, sending his head into a shell base. Alfie slumped on the gangway planking, heaving in gulps of air down his raw, crushed throat.
Wally Clegg signalled for a right turn from the driver’s cabin.
Alfie was still struggling to get up and reach the starboard track gear lever when a shuddering vibration, and a loud grating noise from under the tank, filled the compartment. It was a noise Alfie knew. The bottom of the tank had risen off the ground over some obstacle and the tracks could no longer gain traction. They had bellied. The tracks clacked and rattled impotently.
Mathers turned round in his seat. “What the hell is going on back there?”
There was a banging on the sponson door. “Hey, you’re stuck. Looks like the British Land Navy has run aground. Is everything all right in there?”
Mathers looked at his crew. He fixed each of them with a stare, reserving the last and longest for Alfie. He spoke in a low, measured voice, quavering with suppressed anger. “Later. Not in front of them. Perkins, clean yourself up.” Then, to make it clear that there was to be no further discussion, he called through the visor to the accompanying infantry in a cheery voice. “Spot of bother! We’ll need a hand.”
THE SPONSON DOOR swung open and the crew clambered out. The little bantam driver, Clegg, crouched down between the front track horns looking underneath the tank.
Atkins joined him. “What is it?”
The little man pointed under the tank. Atkins got down to have a look. An outcrop of rock had caught the low-rising tank floor and lifted the tracks from the ground.
“Is it serious?” Atkins asked, barely trying to hide his annoyance.
“Well, that depends,” said the driver, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. “We need some logs to put under the tracks.”