Synopsis: Tony Quade is unexpectedly and dramatically plunged into a subterranean world of wild savages and terrifying monsters. Here, our valiant hero must battle overwhelming odds to survive a multitude of perils. What strange adventures await him, what horrors will he endure? Why not satisfy your curiosity and read this dramatic tale.
Edit history: Minor changes were made to this story on 21 June 2021.
Chapter 1: Entombed in Darkness
The rushing water roared with the savagery of a primordial beast as it swept Tony Quade through stygian darkness. The young man fought desperately to keep his head above the raging torrent that swept him helplessly through the cavern, which plunged down like the throat of a vast monster to the very bowls of the Earth.
Quade struggled desperately against the current, fought against the wild water and panic that threatened to overwhelm him. The utter blackness, the deafening thunder of the raging torrent and the claustrophobic confines of the cave hammered at his nerves with savage and relentless blows. Then, to add to the nightmare he suddenly plunged in a sickening fall, his arms and legs windmilling in futile panic as he tumbled over the subterranean waterfall and plummeted screaming through the impenetrable dark.
Water flooded his mouth as he plunged within the lake at the foot of the cataract. Quade swallowed, held his breath. It was like being submerged in blackest ink as cold as ice. Which way was up, which was down? It was impossible to tell. The fear of drowning came upon him with the heavy weight of total terror. He forced calmness upon his wild thoughts. The human body floated. If he kept still he’d surface like a cork.
Quade sensed himself rising through the liquid dark, but the blackness stretched seconds to hours and he felt he’d never reach the surface. The desire to breath, to gasp grew and grew and he imagined with horrible clarity the choking water flooding his lungs, smothering him, drowning him. His heart danced a tattoo of wild fear in his chest as panic rushed upon him. A stream of bubbles burst from his nose, the prelude to the fatal inhalation. Quade clamped his hands over his nose and mouth in utter desperation as he struck out with a powerful kick. The effort made his senses reel. Then, just as his body’s urge to breathe overwhelmed all reason his head burst above the surface and he gasped air into his heaving lungs.
Quade floated on his back and the horrid weight of terror slowly faded. He was exhausted mentally and physically from his tumultuous ordeal, and as he rested he reflected on his dramatic and unexpected situation. An hour ago (was it an hour? Time had lost all meaning in this terrible blackness) he’d been enjoying the tourist walk through Gunug Mulu National Park in Sarawak, Borneo. A torrential downpour had caught him by surprise as he’d been traversing the foot of a towering limestone cliff draped in lush rainforest.
Seeking shelter from the pelting rain he’d hugged the cliff by pushing through a curtain of weeping foliage. It was here he’d discovered the concealed cave. Quade’s pulse quickened. Gunug Mulu was famous for its caverns and the sudden thought that he might have discovered something new fired him with the enthusiasm for exploration and other possibilities far more exciting than his staid job.
The entrance to the cave was very narrow – so narrow he’d had to doff his backpack to crawl inside. The dim interior vanished into the distance, the light rapidly falling off with every foot. An experienced speleologist would have proceeded with utmost caution, but Quade wasn’t a cave explorer and the old saying that fools rush in where angels fear to tread applied: He had advanced several yards when the cave floor unexpectedly collapsed beneath him and plunged him within the subterranean river roaring beneath, now swollen to a raging torrent by the heavy tropical downpour.
Quade brought his mind to the present. He knew he’d been a fool. His incautiousness had turned an enjoyable holiday into a potential disaster. He thought of his parents and friends back in England and his uncle whom he was staying with- a native of Borneo whose sister his father had married. The grief he’d cause those who loved him would be like torture if he didn’t get out of this misadventure alive. Determination settled upon him and he considered his immediate situation: The water was cold and he was at risk from hyperthermia.
He began to swim blindly through the dark in an effort to keep warm; following what he felt was the direction of the current, hoping that the river would eventually emerge from its subterranean channel into the jungle. Time passed. Quade swam through a black void, silent but for his breathing and the splash of his limbs. He began to tire. His stroke faltered. He floated on his back for a while; then continued grimly onward.
An age passed. Aching cold crept into his limbs, turning them to lead. His strength was rapidly giving out. Quade tried to battle on, but it was hopeless. A watery grave would surely be his fate. His legs sank like twin anchors. The water rose to his chest, his chin. He was too exhausted to be afraid. Then his feet touched bottom. Hope flared giving him strength and he waded forward and staggered onto dry land, collapsing on buckling knees to the earth.
Quade would no doubt have succumbed to the cold had it not been for the warm wind that revived him. It flowed over him like a healing balm, bringing life and movement to his numb limbs. After a time he regained sufficient strength to stand. Quade, although shaky, was infused with hope. Turning into the breeze he began to walk towards its source, arms outstretched before him. Many times he stumbled on the uneven ground and fell, bruising arms and legs on the unforgiving stone, and on the towering stalagmites invisible in the absolute blackness. Although completely blinded by the impenetrable gloom he sensed an immense void about him, its brooding silence truly terrifying.
For what seemed an age he pressed onward. His brain, deprived of vision, conjured up phantoms from the dark – gibbering nightmare things that swirled about him like demented ghosts. Delirium threatened to unnerve him. Madness whispered in his reeling mind – he was a lost soul stumbling across the lightless and unending landscape of Hades.
Quade stopped, stared. Was that faint glow ahead light, or the hallucination of a crumbling mind? He stumbled towards the source – the same source from whence the warm wind blew – hoping yet afraid to hope least he be dealt the crushing blow of disappointment. The light grew stronger. Quade’s hopes soared. Stalagmites and stalactites loomed out of the darkness as the illumination intensified. He let out a joyous yell and ran towards what he was certain was the exit to the cavern – an egress from this nightmare underworld.
He burst through and stumbled to a halt. Quade’s jaw dropped and he sank to his knees, crushed by the sight confronting him. No blessed sun made the light he’d seen. Before him was not the outer world but another stupendous cavern whose bottom was hidden by a vast expanse of water that must have been at least two miles across, and from this buried sea came the light, springing upwards from the pellucid fluid in veils of weirdly shimmering luminescence that shone upon roiling steamy clouds that obscured the cavern’s towering roof.
Roughly in the middle of the sea was a rugged limestone island comprised of soaring stalagmites piled on one another like the monster turrets of an ogre’s outlandish castle. It was a surreal vision – the strange light, the weird island and the bizarre growths that thickly grew upon the shore of this subterranean world.
The plants, which flourished in the unnatural light, were nothing like Quade had ever seen before. Each averaged about fifteen feet in height and raised their large fern-shaped fronds above the ground on black palm-like trunks of helical fibrous roots which oozed an oily resin that smelled of turpentine. From beneath the fronds hung long tentacles covered with stalked glands whose sticky exudations caught and digested insects which were lured to their death by the structures violet bioluminescent glow.
Beneath these trees was an undergrowth of plants three feet tall whose vertical clumping leaves, which resembled twisted sword blades, were so dark they appeared almost black in colour. The strange scene was completed by myriad swarms of minute insects darting through the air – eating, mating and being eaten in an endless swirl of giddy dynamism.
For a long time Quade simply sat staring at the scene before him, weighed down by the terrible knowledge that he was entombed in a vast network of caverns, completely lost, and that in all probability he would see neither friends nor family nor the light of day again.
To die alone and in this bleak underworld! Quade buried his face in his hands and trembled. The thought sent a shaft of cold despair shooting through his being that made him physically ill with its crushing sense of hopelessness. But within Quade was a spark of courage that refused to die despite the dejection that rolled over him like the icy waves of a desolate Arctic sea.
Slowly, he rallied his fighting spirit in a battle against the depression threatening to engulf him, knowing that to give up hope was the worst thing he could do. After a time Quade got to his feet, resolute with manly determination. Straightening his spine he flung off the last of the lingering sense of hopelessness, his face set in a look of bold courage.
There was life here and that meant food. He could survive. He would survive! From here he could, using this cavern as a base, explore the cave system. If there was a way in as indicated by the presence of life, which must have originated from the surface, then there was surely a way out as well.
Emboldened by this thought Quade set off towards the forest which choked the shoreline with its luxuriant growth. The air was hot and humid and the light of an intensity akin to dawn. He entered the margin of the trees and as he penetrated the dense undergrowth he was surprised that the illumination didn’t rapidly decrease, but then realised that the bioluminescent glow of the tree’s insect trapping tentacles were adding their light to the scene.
The violet radiance mantled the weird forest in an eerie glow. The soft hum of insects was all pervasive. Despite the depredations of the carnivorous plants, clouds of them hovered before Quade and he was constantly brushing the pests from his face. They itched, tickled, bit, and some even crawled up his nose. Quade swore and swallowed several. He battled on in silence as he searched for food and water, not daring to drink from the inland sea, for he thought it contained luminescent elements that might be highly toxic.
His fears of being poisoned were unfounded, but he had no way of knowing this: the light came not from dissolved minerals but from mighty gems of pyramidal form that had crystallised on the seabed and lay many fathoms deep beneath the surface of this watery expanse.
After an hour of struggle his initial confidence began to wane, a situation not helped by the unending assault of the tormenting insects and lack of obvious signs of anything edible. He stopped to rest, leaning against a tree. As Quade contemplated his grim situation the sound of something moving through the undergrowth drew his gaze, and as the man turned his head a strange being stepped into view.
Quade started at the sight, a look of utter astonishment upon his face. The creature was humanoid but diminutive – no more than four feet in height at the most. The being’s completely hairless skin was as white as chalk. Its eyes were yellow, slitted like a cat and larger than a human’s. The being, obviously male, was naked but for a G-string made from cured fish skin. A strange weapon completed its primitive impedimenta – an implement that combined aspects of club and sword.
For a moment both stared at one another in complete amazement. Then the strange tableau was shattered by the pale being that, with a wild cry, leapt forward and viciously thrust his savage weapon at the startled man.
Quade leapt aside, barely avoiding the strange weapon. He kicked out with a booted foot, but his agile foe dodged the brutal blow with ease and struck again. Quade evaded another leaping thrust but in the process tripped upon a root and crashed to earth. The being lunged; Quade rolled and as the weapon missed he leapt from a crouch and smashed against his fierce assailant in a wild tackle that drove the savage to the ground.
The Englishman was all over his opponent like a rash, raining wild blows upon the cave man’s head and kidneys in a frenzy of unrestrained violence until the flailing being lay limp beneath his hammering fists. Quade, eyes wild and panting heavily, climbed slowly to his feet. He stared in horror at the battered and lifeless body, the blood upon his torn knuckles. He stumbled away from the corpse, leaned against a tree and was violently ill.
He’d never killed a man before, and the being was close enough in appearance to be considered human. Quade was shocked by his undreamt of capacity for violence. Still, in wartime ordinary citizens had been turned into killers by the army, which showed that that potential is within all of us and will manifest given the right set of circumstances. The Englishman felt that a change had come upon him – as if the spirit of some primal ancestor had risen up from the depths of his being – a force he could now draw upon if the need arose. The thought was both comforting and, in some respects, unnerving.
Gradually, Quade regained his composure and was once again able to think more clearly: He was safe for the moment, but if there was one being there were obviously others, and they might be nearby. He return to the body, picked up the strange weapon and examined it. The implement, which was about three feet in length, resembled a cricket bat, but flat on both sides and half an inch in thickness. It tapered towards the end where a sharp piece of flint had been imbedded to form a spear-like point. Saw-like flint teeth had also been glued with resin into grooves along the weapon’s edges to give it both cut and thrust capabilities. The thing was murderous in appearance, and Quade shuddered at the thought of the savage injuries it could have inflicted on him.
The Englishman shifted his gaze and looked at the corpse of his erstwhile foe in speculation. The young man had a keen interest in science, developed as it was from his job as an administration officer in the Anthropology Department of Oxford University. To his eye the being had shrugged-forward shoulders, hardly any chin and a receding forehead. Its features reminded him of the reconstructions he’d seen of Homo Floresiensis – a diminutive hominid whose fossil remains had been discovered on Flores, an island east of Bali, the species having gone extinct about thirteen thousand years ago.
Of course this wasn’t Flores, but perhaps the species had a wider range than realised, with the ancestors of this creature being forced underground by the arrival of modern humans. The islands hereabouts were rife with legends of strange man-like beings the size of children. Could it be that these myths were based on the troglodyte lying at his feet? Perhaps over thousands of years Homo Floresiensis had adapted to a subterranean existence, which might account for the cat-like eyes, pale skin and hairless body the species now possessed.
Quade’s speculations were cut short by the sound of many bodies crashing through the undergrowth. He spun about, knuckles whitening on the hilt of the outlandish weapon as six more troglodytes burst from the undergrowth and, upon seeing him standing over the battered corpse of their companion, yelled in hot outrage and hurled themselves at him.
A howling melee then ensued – a savage dance of leaping bodies and snarling bestial faces spun about the Englishman in a whirlwind of unrestrained violence. Quade dodged, ducked and leapt aside, barely evading the jabbing and slashing weapons of his wild opponents. He struck one across the neck with his weapon. The creature screamed, staggered away, blood spurting from the terrible wound and collapsed in writhing agony.
Quade, shouting savage oaths, spun the sword-club in a wild whirl about him. His foes leapt away, scattered by his longer reach and greater strength. The Englishman stood panting, swaying as the glaring troglodytes surrounded him at a safe distance. Wary but undaunted they brought strange new weapons into play: One drew a clay sphere from a pouch hanging from his G-string and hurled it at the killer of their tribesman. Another unstoppered a perforated wood jar and tossed it at Quade’s feet just as the fragile missile struck his chest and splattered him with the pungent greenish fluid it contained.
Then all the cavemen threw themselves flat upon the ground as a swarm of insects, dark and wasp-like, erupted from the jar and set upon the Englishman, attracted and roused to fury by the spicy odour of the fluid he'd been splashed with. Quade cursed, swatted at the buzzing, swirling cloud. He killed two, but as they died they released pheromones that enflamed the rest to deadly viciousness. The things landed on him, plunged their stings in his flesh. The pain hit with brutal agony. It was as if a dozen white hot needles had been thrust within his flesh. The Englishman screamed, collapsed as the venom coursed through his veins like liquid fire. He writhed, howled in mindless torment for a moment and then fainted from the overwhelming pain.
**********
Quade regained consciousness and then wished he hadn’t. He felt as sick as a drunk who’d been on an all night binge. In addition his swollen stings ached abominably, which added to his extreme discomfiture. The Englishman’s arms and legs were bound, but even if they hadn’t been he was simply too weak to move his strength-less limbs. With an effort he managed to turn his head, looked about, and discovered he was on a water craft made from bundles of reed-like plants that had been bound together to form a type of canoe.
The silent troglodytes kneeled behind and in front of him, stolidly paddling their primitive vessel across the subterranean sea, their demeanour a strange contrast to the savagery they displayed in battle. But then, when Quade raised his head and saw how close they were to the outlandish island that appeared to be the cave men’s destination, he realised he must have been unconscious for some time - time enough for their fiery temperaments to settle.
At the feet of the Englishman were the corpses of those he’d slain and beside his head a woven basket full of dead insects that resembled foot long cockroaches. Quade correctly guessed he had run into a hunting party. The thought of eating such creatures made his stomach churn and he wondered what other types of flesh his captors indiscriminately dined upon. The possibilities that came to mind were most unsettling to say the least.
For a moment Quade was tempted to try and struggle wildly, but fought down the instinct of a trapped animal. To thrash about futility would waste what little strength he had, incur the violent wrath of his brutal captors and thereby put him at risk further injury. The Englishman realised the only sensible course of action was to appear cowed, bide his time and be alert for an opportunity to outwit his brutish foes.
Onward they rowed, the luminescent water of the shining sea slipping quietly beneath their reed keel. Time passed and it began to rain – a warm precipitation that filled the air with mist which turned the world ghostly as the weird pellucid light filtered through it. Quade was struck by the strange unearthly nature of the scene – the grotesque spires of the island looming out of the softly glowing fog, his strange captors and the fact that it was raining beneath the earth, the moisture condensing from the steamy clouds trapped against the cavern’s lofty roof.
Within an hour the rain had ceased to fall and shortly thereafter Quade’s captors grounded their vessel on the shore of the strange island. The ropes about the Englishman’s ankles were untied and he was forced to his feet and led ashore, having by now largely recovered from his ordeal. Despite his dreadful predicament Quade could not help but be amazed by his surroundings. All about him stalagmites rose as tall as castle towers, creating a forest of enormous cones, many of which had been excavated with stone tools to form the soaring homes of the cave people.
Beings peered curiously at Quade from crudely carved and ornamented windows and doorways as he was herded along the narrow and surprisingly clean streets of the village by three of his captors, the rest remaining by the canoe to tend to their dead. From what he could see the Englishman estimated the population was no more than five hundred troglodytes, and he could not help but marvel at the immense age of their habitation, for it would have surely taken many hundreds of generations of labour to carve out the huge dwellings he saw before him.
They continued onward and shortly arrived at a stalagmite mightier than the rest, one which soared seemingly to the very apex of the cavern, for its tip was lost in the swirling mist that cloaked the high roof of the stupendous void. To Quade it was obvious that this was the residence of an important personage, for it was larger than the rest and its grand entrance, flanked by a dozen guards, was elaborately carved in geometrical patterns of a spiral nature that were of a finer quality than those he had previously seen.
They passed within and entered a spacious chamber that had been hollowed from the limestone, Quade wondering grimly as to his fate. At the further end of the room he saw a high dais and upon it a carved stone bench occupied by the ugliest troglodyte the Englishman had seen so far. The creature, naked but for a G-string and headband to which large but crudely cut emeralds had been affixed, was nearly as tall as Quade. His jaw jutted and deformed teeth protruded from the gash of his lipless mouth like the tusks of a wild boar. Brutality was etched in hard lines on his bestial countenance and debauchery in the rolls of fat on his blubbery body.
As Quade was led towards the chief, clearly a genetic freak of the cave people, the brute regarded the Englishman with eyes as cold and inhospitable as a Siberian winter. Quade, for his part, was now oblivious to the troglodyte, for his shocked gaze was locked upon the young woman, perhaps twenty years of age, who sat listlessly at the slovenly creature’s dirty feet.
That she was fully human he could not doubt. Her unbound brunette hair cascaded to her waist. Her skin, although pale from lack of sunlight, wasn’t the repulsive chalky white of the savages. The girl’s features appeared European and although somewhat plain she stood out like a jewel among dross pebbles when compared to the bestial physiognomy of her uncouth captors.
And that the girl was a captive Quade could not doubt either: She was completely nude, denied all decency and bereft of all adornment, even the simplest of bead necklaces he had seen other female savages wearing. Too, there was a rope about her neck, its end clasped possessively by the paw-like hand of the deformed chieftain. The Englishman’s moral outrage lined his pleasant face with unaccustomed grimness.
The girl looked up at Quade’s approach. Her brown eyes widened, her full lips parted as if to speak and her whole demeanour lost all lassitude at the sight of the Englishman as she straightened her hunched shoulders. It was as if she’d seen in him a long lost friend who had come to her succour.
Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed by the brute that held the rope. Rage and jealousy blossomed savagely on the chieftain’s horrid face. The thuggish fellow jerked violently on the leash about his captive’s neck. The girl choked, clutched the noose about her throat, her eyes now wide with sudden fear as she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor.
It was too much for Quade – the sight of the naked girl being tormented by this travesty of a man. Atavistic rage swept away all sense of caution. The furious Englishman erupted into savage motion that took his captors completely by surprise. Lashing out with a foot he drove his heel into the nearest foeman and sent him hurtling into his companions like a battering ram. Quade moved like lightening – before the startled cavemen had hit the floor he was dashing towards the brutish chieftain, a wild plan leaping to full consciousness.
The Stone Age ruler sprang erect in consternation as the frantic Englishman rushed towards him, his gasping slave quite forgotten in the moment. The chieftain lashed his fallen tribesman with harsh commands as Quade raced up the dais’ steps. The savage struck, but the Englishman dodged the clumsy haymaker and kicked his obese opponent in the groin with a viciousness that avenged the helpless girl.
Screaming, the brute fell upon his knees as his followers scrambled up and charged Quade in a savage rush, their faces set in looks of hot outrage. The grim Englishman slipped behind the kneeling savage as he clutched his throbbing injury. Quade’s booted foot lashed out in a wild kick that sent the groaning brute rolling down the steep treads like a barrel. He struck those racing to his aid, his gross body flattening them like ninepins.
Quade followed in a desperate rush, kicked a rising savage who tried to block the way and dropped him back upon the steps. By now the entrance guards, alerted by the hue and cry, raced within the room and charged the panting Englishman. Quade leapt towards the chieftain who lay in sprawled indignity upon the floor, his racing foes mere yards away. He placed his foot upon the savage’s neck and shouted wildly.
“Stop,” he cried as he pinned the groaning chieftain to the stone. “Stop or I’ll break your ruler’s neck.”
Quade knew his words were meaningless, but prayed his tone and actions would convey the dire threat. The guards slowed, halted. Quade’s hopes rose. Quickly, he turned to the girl who crouched on the dais, her eyes wide in amazement at the Englishman’s wild and audacious violence which had stretched her brutal master in helplessness upon the floor.
“Quickly, untie me,” he said, gesturing at her with his bound hands, hoping she understood.
The girl hesitated. She gazed at her gasping master, who lay pinned beneath the stranger’s boot, knowing full well the horrid penalty for betrayal. The chief tried to growl out a vile threat to crush her rising hope for freedom. Quade, who sensed his foul intent pressed home his foot, choking off the words. The guards, fearing he meant to kill their chief, prepared to rush the Englishman. Quade shouted at them with such ferocity that his voice was like a physical blow that stopped them in their tracks.
“Back, you bastards,” he yelled with utter savagery.
Again, Quade turned to the girl. He stood erect, one foot upon the foe, every inch of him the appearance of a conqueror. Infused with courage from the sight the girl no longer hesitated, and thus impelled by freedom’s wild hope she leapt to aid the man. She smiled shyly at him as her deft hands quickly plucked the knots, and in but moments the Englishman was free. But before he could thank the girl this seeming victory came crashing down about his ears – the couple, so focused on the foe before them had been oblivious to the creeping danger: Using a another passage other guards had got behind the pair and now burst forth from a doorway behind the dais.
The Englishman swiftly turned to face the unexpected menace, but too late – The guards had hurled their throwing sticks in swift succession. Four missiles – curved rods tipped with spiky wooden knobs - struck Quade’s body with hammering blows that sent him crashing to the floor. Desperately, he tried to rise, but another missile was quickly thrown, and the last thing he heard before it struck his skull and blackness claimed him was the girl’s despairing cry of utter terror.
Pain greeted Quade unpleasantly when he awoke. The Englishman groaned, cursed. Every part of him seemed to ache. He opened his eyes and looked about. He was in a bleak room, completely bare. A small wicker cage containing bioluminescent beetles was hanging on a stone hook carved in the middle of the ceiling, and by the creatures’ steady greenish light he saw the unconscious girl lying next to him.
Hot anger flared in Quade when he saw the welts on her naked body that screamed to him of the vicious caning she’d been given. Then guilt slapped him across the face – it was his fault, or so he felt, that she had suffered such a fate. He should have anticipated the attack that had caught both of them by surprise, and now they’d no doubt pay a heavy price for his ineptitude. But self-recrimination wouldn’t help them now. Instead, what was needed was a plan that would get them out of here.
He began by examining the girl and found that although battered and bruised she appeared to have suffered no life threatening injury. Satisfied that she was in no danger, at least for the moment, he removed his shirt and gently laid it on her. The girl stirred and Quade, not wishing to disturb her further, began to scrutinize their claustrophobic prison. The cell was a rough cube ten feet to a side. A single door – a solid stone slab that rotated on a central timber axle – was the only egress to the dingy room.
Quade approached and thrust his weight against it. It was as immovable as a wall and he correctly deduced that it was secured on the outside by a heavy wooden bar. The Englishman peered through an inch wide hole drilled in the stone, one of a dozen that provided ventilation, but could see nothing of interest in the dim and depressing corridor that stretched out before him.
A soft moan drew his gaze to the girl. She opened her eyes, rose to a sitting position and looked dazedly about as Quade’s shirt slipped from her body. Then, when her predicament dawned upon her she began to tremble and her face transformed to a blank look of mindless fear.
Quade quickly knelt beside the girl. In an instant she wrapped her arms about him, clung fast like a limpet and so close that he could feel her pounding heart between her naked breasts.
The Englishman, although somewhat embarrassed by the intimate contact, didn’t push the girl away, for he sensed that she sought comfort and reassurance, that she no longer felt she was alone, the only one of her kind trapped in a strange land, the prisoner of a savage people who regarded her as he might regard some exotic animal in a zoo.
Quade cleared his throat and spoke. “What’s your name?” he asked gently, uncertain as to whether she spoke English.
She raised her head and gazed at him, wide eyed. “Name?” she repeated slowly, hesitantly, as if recalling a half forgotten language. “My ... name ... My name ... is Rachael.” Then, with increasing animation: “You are from the sky ... the World Above.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Yes,” replied Quade with enthusiasm, relieved that they shared a common language. “How did you get here? How long have you been here?”
“I ... I don’t know. It was so long ago,” she replied with growing fluency as memory of her mother tongue came back to her. “I was a child. I wandered away from my parent’s ... There was a hole in the ground ... I fell in, or perhaps I walked in. It was dark and I was very frightened. I remember that. Then the Giznu found me ... I have been here ever since, and for so long that I often wondered if my memories of the World Above were just a dream. But now,” she continued looking at Quade intensely, “I know that they were not.”
“Giznu,” queried the Englishman. “Is that the name these creatures call themselves?”
“Yes,” replied Rachel. “And Igazur, their etahik, their chief, is the worst. Koajin, the old chief was happy to have me as a slave. But Igazur has always been attracted to me, perhaps because I, like him, am different from the other Giznu.
“When I was young it was no problem. But now that I am older and he is etahik he wants to ...” The girl paused for a moment searching for words, but finding none that a ten year old child’s vocabulary would possess – the age she was when she’d been captured - Rachel thrust her fingers deep within her sex and made moaning sounds as she moved them in and out.
Quade, although understandably mortified by her frankness, realised that Rachel had been raised by a culture whose inhibitions were not those of Westerners, and did his best to overlook the act.
The girl paused and looked at him in puzzlement. “Why is your face turning red,” she asked in all innocence.
“Never mind that,” said Quade, desperate to change the subject. “How do we get out of here?”
The girl shuddered. “None can escape Tiapiz. We are to be fed to Tiapiz, the god that dwells in the uras – the sea of light. This is the punishment for defying an etahik. I am sorrier for you than myself, for I would rather die than have Igazur do this to me.”
Quade caught Rachel’s hand before she could show him what she meant. “I get the idea he said hurriedly. “But I refuse to give up hope. What is this Tiapiz, this god they worship? If I know what it is maybe I can find a way to kill it.”
“Kill Tiapiz?” she gasped, eyes wide in amazement at his audacity, but before she could say more the sound of footsteps alerted Quade to the coming of their captors. He stood tensely, ready for action as he heard the bar being lifted from the prison entrance.
The slab rotated inwards like a revolving door and Quade saw the corridor beyond was packed with hard faced warriors. Rachel clung to him as one savage ground out a harsh command.
“They’ve come for us,” gasped the girl. “They’ve come to take us to the god.”
For a moment Quade considered making a desperate rush at the foe in a frantic bid for freedom, but quickly realised the futility of the act. From what he could see there were at least ten warriors he’d have to deal with, all armed with their dangerous sword-clubs and any resistance was doomed to instant failure.
“Don’t give up hope, Rachel,” said Quade as he squeezed her hand encouragingly and led her to the door. “We’re not dead, and an opportunity for escape may yet arise.”
The girl, impressed by his tenacity, gave him a hopeful smile as they exited the cell. The savages surrounded them, goaded them along the passageway at weapon point and from the building via another exit, then down a twisting maze of streets that wove between the mighty stalagmites. As they walked Quade racked his brain for some plan of escape, but none came to mind. His foes were too numerous and too watchful for any hope of that, and by the time they reached their destination – a log raft moored by the island’s shoreline - the Englishman’s confidence was understandably on the wane.
Then, upon seeing the raft hope flared within him and he whispered urgently to the girl: “Here’s our chance,” he quickly said. “I’ll distract these fellows. When I tell you run for the raft and start paddling.”
Rachel nodded, realizing it was their only hope. Quade lunged at the nearest savage. “Now,” he shouted as he grabbed the caveman and flung him against the others, the violent act sending several crashing to the ground.
Pandemonium erupted. Rachel bolted. Quade dodged a thrusting weapon, grabbed its owner and used him as a shield. The troglodyte screamed as he was accidently struck by stabbing sword-clubs. The Englishman, supporting the dead savage beneath his armpits, spun him in a circle and used his whirling legs like clubs to flatten several others.
A trio of foes rushed Quade. The Englishman hurled the corpse into them, snatched up a fallen weapon as they crashed to earth. He lunged at another charging savage, his longer reach striking down the troglodyte.
Quade spun the sword-club in a circle, forcing his remaining foes to leap away. He charged through the breach and to the raft. The girl had hesitated to cast off, was waiting for him expectantly. She saw him running frantically; saw also the remaining savages hot upon his heels like wild dogs.
“Look out,” she cried.
Quade flung a glance behind him, tried to dodge the hurled weapon, failed. It struck a glancing blow upon his shoulder. The full force of the throwing stick didn’t hit him, but what did was enough – he tumbled to the ground, the breath knocked out of him by the heavy fall.
Rachel sprang from the raft, raced to his aid. Quade tried to struggle up, tried to find breath to shout at her to get away. Despair crashed down upon him as another weapon struck the girl in the stomach. She screamed, collapsed and hit her head. The fight was over.
Quade and the girl, now completely incapable of resistance, were dragged to the raft. Their hands were bound, and they were hauled upright and restrained using the ropes which ran through pulleys at the top of a pole protruding from the centre of the deck. Again, the Englishman could feel hope ebbing away. They had almost made good their escape, only to be foiled when success seemed so near at hand.
He gazed at the girl. She hung limply, her bleeding head lolling. The sight of her filled him with determination to win free of this dreadful situation. Quade looked about, fighting off despair and pain. He saw another vessel approaching from a different point on the island as a throng of troglodytes began to gather on the shoreline, no doubt to witness the sacrificial rites.
As the approaching craft drew near he saw it was a large canoe of woven reeds at least thirty feet in length with an upwards curving stern and prow, the figurehead of which was a fanged beast so outlandish in appearance that he was sure it was mythological.
To the fore stood Igazur, his gross form instantly recognizable. The savage chief gave Quade a smirk of sadistic pleasure as the ceremonial craft drew up beside the prisoner’s raft. The Englishman returned his look with silent contempt as the rowers tethered both vessels together.
Rachel regained consciousness as they were towed out upon the lake. She looked about dully, seemingly resigned to her fate. Quade’s heart went out to the girl.
“We are still alive,” he said, trying to sound encouraging.
Rachel smiled weakly, but said nothing. To her the situation seemed hopeless. The girl knew Quade was strong and brave, but she’d witnessed these sacrificial rites before and knew the nature of what awaited them. Resigned to her fate, but dreadfully sorry the Englishman would share it; she took hold of her courage with the resolve to face the end as bravely as she could.
“Look,” she said, feeling the need to speak. “They have undone the rope joining us, and now lower the drum in the water to summon Tiapiz, the god.”
Quade surreptitiously tested his bonds as he watched the large drum, its end thrust deep into the water, being bound to wooden lugs set in the side of the canoe. Igazur approached the instrument, began a heavy rolling beat upon it while the rowers took up his wailing chant. Mist rose from the lake, shot through with wavering light that shone mysteriously from its depths. The muffled throb of the drum, the unsettling ululations of the savage choir and the weirdness of the scene all combined to make the Englishman’s skin crawl with rising dread.
Rachel was similarly affected. Her senses, which were more attuned to this environment that the man’s, alerted her to danger. Something was coming, something huge, monstrous, attracted by the wild throbbing of the drum, rising up from the mysterious depths. The tension mounted. A ferocious head broke the surface of the lake in dark climax. The girl, despite her brave resolve, screamed at the sight of it. The creature’s fang rimmed maw gaped wide. It hissed explosively. Quade swore, hauled savagely on the ropes that bound him as a long neck lifted the reptilian head many feet above the misty water.
Tiapiz, the beast-god of the underworld - a horrid monster, translucent like a jellyfish and at least thirty feet in length - saw its prey. Its bulging, colourless eyes locked upon the raft. The esca – a light emitting organ which protruded from its head shone with a pulsing crimson glow. In utter desperation the horrified Englishman threw his weight against his bonds and felt the pole give a little as the monster dived and began to swim towards them. Hope flared. The post, two inches in thickness, was sturdy enough to hold these pygmies, but the combined strength of two desperate humans just might break it.
“Quick,” urged Quade. “Help me rock the post.”
The instinct for self preservation fired the girl and she hurled her strength against their bonds with unrestrained vigour. Both hauled frantically on the pole, bending its supple length one way, then the other. Quade threw a glance towards the monster. The thing was closer, its sinuous body slicing through the luminous water with all the sinister grace of a torpedo. It would be upon them in an instant. The man sweated, strained mightily, the girl bit back a sob of terror as the thing reached them in a savage rush of frightening speed.
It breached the surface in a spray of water. The raft rocked, was swamped by thumping waves. The terrible head rose upwards on the mighty column of its neck and looked down on its terrified and struggling prey. For a moment it hung above them, the light shining through its translucent flesh, weirdly delineating its ghostly skeleton – a horrid spectre of monstrous death. Then Rachel screamed in utter fear as the mighty jaws opened like the gates of hell and fell upon her in a slavering rush of fangs.
As the mighty jaws swept towards the screaming girl Quade threw every ounce of fear fed strength against the pole. Wood bent, cracked. The couple tumbled to the raft’s rough deck. Quade jerked up the jagged end of the rod, thrust it at the darting horror in a wild stab and struck the monster’s snout.
The nightmare creature hissed, reared up, lucid blood jetting from the wound. For a moment it hesitated, its tiny brain confused, unused to cowering prey fighting back. Then it lunged again.
“Its eye,” yelled Quade as the horror darted at them.
Rachel lent her strength. They thrust their makeshift spear at the monstrous creature, struck one bulging eye. The organ burst, spewing foulness as the jagged wood bit deeply. The beast screamed, reared. The raft was rocked by waves from its convulsing body that sent the couple sliding. Quade grabbed the girl, caught a rope that bound the logs and stopped them tumbling overboard.
Spray showered them, thrown up as the badly wounded creature dived. Quade glimpsed it arrow straight towards the chieftain and his men who stood aghast, shocked to immobility by the wounding of the beast they believed to be a god.
Igazur no longer smirked in sadistic anticipation of Quade’s demise. Instead, his face was marked by horror as he gazed in disbelief upon his deity as it hurtled at him in blind panic. The creature breached the surface roaring out its pain. Igazur screamed shrilly, leapt from the canoe as the huge body came crashing down. The beast struck the reed vessel breaking it in two. Savages and fragments of canoe were thrown in all directions; then the creature plunged beneath the lake in sheets of leaping spray leaving death and devastation in its wake.
Quade and the girl watched as the retreating monster vanished into the distance. The Englishman shifted his gaze to the survivors of the wrecked canoe and cursed. Igazur was still alive. The chieftain clung to a fragment of wreckage and was haranguing his surviving warriors, no doubt urging them to attack the infidels who’d harmed their god.
“Igazur is telling them to kill us. He says it is the will of Tiapiz to be avenged,” translated Rachel in alarm, confirming Quade’s intelligent surmise.
The Englishman swore. He and the girl were still bound to the pole by lengths of rope that would hamper self defence. Quade tore frantically at the knots with his teeth, Rachel following his example as the three surviving savages, armed with blade-shaped paddles that could be used as spears or clubs, began to swiftly swim towards their raft, their ugly visages alive with mad fanaticism.
Igazur saw the couple work against their bonds. He cursed, shouted; goaded his savage men with wild words. Quade saw their foes put on a burst of speed. He swore. The sweating man’s muscles bunched. He strained to break the weakened ropes. He saw the cords begin to tear, felt them give a little, the savages now but yards away. Again, the panting man threw his strength against his bonds. Too late - a wild savage gained the raft and began to haul himself aboard whilst jabbing at the struggling Englishman.
Quade cursed him, kicked aside the spearing paddle, lashed out with his other foot. The troglodyte screamed as a boot heel pulped his face to red ruin. The savage hurtled backwards and slipped beneath the water as another climbed aboard and swung a vicious blow at Quade. The desperate Englishman tried to dodge, but hampered by his bonds wasn’t fully able. The oar blade struck him a glancing blow upon the arm and sent him crashing down.
Rachel acted as the grinning savage raised his paddle to smash Quade’s skull wide open. The foe went down with a yelp, his legs kicked out from under him by the girl. But as this foeman tumbled into the water the third climbed aboard and launched a swift attack upon his brave assailant. Rachel rolled aside. The plunging oar struck wood. She kicked out but her agile foe leapt away and swung a wild blow. The girl screamed as sharp wood raked her naked breast.
Quade’s fading strength was fired by the sight – the fallen girl, the feral savage towering over her, blood dripping from his oar. With a roar of rage he snapped the weakened ropes that bound him to the pole as if they were but threads. The savage turned to face him, wide eyed at the terrible fury of the man. The Englishman brushed aside the leaping oar. His fist smashed against the savage’s chin with such force that it hurled him from the raft.
The enraged Englishman snatched up a paddle and glared about him. Two of their foes were lying motionless, face down in the water. The third that Rachel had tumbled in the lake was swimming away as fast as he was able. He’d seen enough to make him realise discretion was the better part of valour, especially now that Quade was free and looking like the Devil incarnate.
Quade turned to the girl, worry for her cooling his blazing temper. Rachel was sitting, clutching her wound, blood oozing between her fingers and in obvious pain.
“The cut is long, but not deep,” she reassured him. Then, pointing at Igazur. “We must catch him. He knows the way to the World Above,” urged the girl as she drew another oar from the water and began to paddle.
Quade joined her and the raft was under way. Igazur saw them coming. He began to paddle frantically towards the island’s shore some hundred yards away, clinging to a bundle of reeds for buoyancy, all the while shouting shrilly for help to the now agitated and confused savages that thronged the stony beach.
The Englishman, hampered by his injuries could feel his strength giving out, and could see the girl was faltering also, sapped by the battle with the monster and then the wild savages. But his fear that Igazur would outdistance them was soon laid to rest. The obese chieftain, unfit from debauched living, was panting and gasping within a few minutes, and they soon drew level with the exhausted savage who clung to the fragment of wreckage and watched their approach with sullen eyes.
Quade reached out to grab the man. Igazur cursed him, knocked his hand away. Rachel swung her oar. The chieftain cried in pain as it hit the shielding arm he’d raised. The girl struck again and the savage’s eyes rolled as hard wood crashed against his skull.
“Careful,” warned Quade. “You might kill him.”
“He has a thick head,” replied Rachel contemptuously as she hit him again as if to emphasize the point.
Reassured the savage was completely helpless they hauled their unconscious prisoner from the water and quickly bound him hand and foot and gagged him for good measure. Quade glanced shoreward. The troglodytes were milling about, confused and alarmed by the wounding of their god and the capture of their chief. This situation, however, wouldn’t last indefinitely. Someone was sure to take command and come after them. He questioned the girl concerning such a possibility.
“You are right,” she confirmed. “They know of the World Above. The Giznu fear discovery, and with good reason – they know the people of the surface are more numerous and powerful, and they fear we will tell all we know. They will do everything they can to stop us from escaping.”
“Then we’d best hurry,” said Quade as he picked up an oar and began to paddle. Rachel joined him and he asked another question: “If they fear discovery so much will Igazur tell us what we want to know?”
The girl glanced at their bound and still unconscious prisoner. “I will make him,” she said with such venom that Quade went cold.
Clearly, the girl was no longer cowed by circumstance. Before Quade’s coming she’d been a slave, oppressed, brutalized, and meek for the sake of survival. But now an opportunity to escape this gloomy hollow within the earth had arisen. Childhood memories of the arching sky and the warmth of sunlight were no longer a dream, but a reality she meant to seize with all the strength and vitality of youth. The smell of wildflowers, the call of birdsong beckoned, and nothing would stand in the way of her gaining her freedom from this hated and dismal place.
They paddled on, but within fifteen minutes it became evident to Quade that exhaustion was setting in for himself and the girl. Both their strokes had begun to faultier. The Englishman lowered his oar and turned to the panting girl.
“We need food and rest,” he gasped. “If we push ourselves much further we’ll collapse.
Rachel looked back towards the island and a grim expression came upon her. The girl’s worst fears had come to pass. A dozen water craft, packed with savages had been launched, and were arrowing towards them far more rapidly than they could propel their clumsy raft.
Quade, drawn by her stare, cursed when he saw their foes bearing down upon them. He glanced at the bound chieftain, wondering if they could use him as a hostage.
The girl, who guessed the direction of his thoughts, responded. “They will let us kill Igazur rather than be discovered by the World Above, which is what will happen if we escape – such is their fear of attack by the surface people.”
The couple stood in bleak silence as the pursuing craft gained upon them. The rowers furiously dug their paddles in the water, and their cat-like eyes gleamed with feral viciousness as they contemplated the coming butchery. For man and girl to try and flee would accomplish nothing, for they would be swiftly overtaken and exhaust themselves in a futile effort to escape. It seemed to Quade that the only thing they could do was to stand and fight and die.
As Quade watched the approaching craft rain began to fall, but this time the strange precipitation was far heavier than the phenomenon he had previously experienced. A dense curling mist was descending in billowing drapes form the mighty cavern’s roof, and in but moments had blotted out the rushing vessels in swirling fog.
Quade quickly looked about. In every direction the world had became a void of glowing whiteness as the thickening vapour diffused the lake’s illumination, creating an atmosphere where he could barely discern objects several feet away.
“Now’s our chance,” said Quade. “We can elude them in the fog. Can you swim?”
“Yes,” confirmed Rachel, “but what about Igazur?”
“He’ll only slow us down,” replied Quade as he slid the broken post into the water, “and if they catch us we’re dead. Come on,” he urged as he entered the lake. “Cling to this piece of wood. It will give us extra buoyancy.”
The girl followed, reluctant to leave their captive guide, but realizing there was no choice if they were to have any chance of escaping their savage pursuers. Rachael grasped the pole and she and Quade began to quietly swim towards the shore, which was about a mile distant.
They had progressed but a short way when a shout pierced the fog. It was Igazur yelling stridently for help – the chieftain had regained consciousness and had somehow managed to work his gag loose. Answering shouts sounded out, distant but rapidly closing in.
Quade felt Rachel tense. “It may work to our advantage,” he quietly said. “They’ll converge on the raft giving us a chance to slip away.”
Rachel shook her head as she listened to the voices. “Some are going to the raft, but Igazur has ordered the rest to spread out and search for us. Quiet ... I think I hear something.”
The couple listened in silence. The fog became pregnant with sinister and eerie menace. Hunting enemies were hidden in the deathly stillness. Was that the dip of a paddle, the susurration of a gliding craft as it slid across the water? Quade tensed. Shadows became visible in the fog. The couple dived. A dark shape slid above them and a paddle plunged down nearly striking the Englishman’s shoulder.
The craft paused. Had they been heard, seen perhaps? The couple waited anxiously, held breath burning in their lungs. Quade saw a shadow hand reach out and grab the pole. Muffled voices filtered down to him. He wanted to breathe, to gasp air into his aching body. Would those damn savages never move away?
An eternity of time seemed to pass. Quade knew he couldn’t hold his breath much longer. He rose to the surface, hands reaching to overturn the vessel – a move of utter desperation. Then, just as he was about to grab the craft it began to move away. The Englishman held out a little longer. Then, when the urge to breathe became irresistible he broke the surface in time to glimpse the backs of the foe as they disappeared into the all enveloping mist. Rachel joined him as he clung weakly to the pole, which the savages had discarded, and as they caught their breath they listened to the fading calls of the searchers who were spreading out in all directions.
After a time both had regained sufficient strength to continue on. They swam slowly, conserving what little strength remained, all the while Quade worrying if they would reach the shore before the fog-like rain lifted.
They struggled on in silence. Time lost all meaning in the mist, and in the eerie quiet their laboured breath rasped saw-like as their strength ebbed away with every passing minute. The couple’s rest stops became more frequent and it was depressingly clear to Quade that they weren’t going to make it. They paused again to catch their breath and, as they clung to the buoyant pole with almost strength-less limbs, the mist began to thin and a shadowy form, alarmingly near, slowly emerged from the all pervading whiteness.
Quade’s heart sank at the sight of it. The shape was long and low with humps upon it – the hunting foe upon their reed vessel, or so it seemed. To the Englishman’s tired and despondent mind, taxed as it was by his ordeals, capture and death appeared inevitable, for his weakness was such that he could barely maintain his hold upon the pole. He turned to the girl, wondering what words of comfort he could offer her in the face of the grim fate about to fall upon them, and was struck by the bitter futility of the empty platitudes that came to mind.
But as Quade looked at Rachel he was amazed to see that the girl’s expression was not one of fear or resignation but rather hope. Indeed, as she stared intently at the object that floated several yards away the girl smiled with growing certainty.
“It’s a darzu,” she said excitedly and then explained: “a plant that grows on water. Its young can be eaten. They will give us strength to go on. Come, let’s swim to it.”
They kicked out towards the strange growth, and as they drew near Quade saw that the plant consisted of a dense circular mat of roots roughly fifteen feet in diameter from which bladders grew to keep the thing afloat, and that the humps he’d thought were rowers were in fact six low trunk-like structures, each about two and a half feet in height, that grew in a circle about the living raft. These trunks were crowned with fronds that resembled the leaves of staghorn ferns, but patterned with colours in the manner of a coleus.
With the dregs of strength the couple hauled themselves aboard the living raft and collapsed in panting breathlessness upon the mat of roots. Now, without the buoyancy of the water it was as if their fagged limbs had become leaden weights a ton a piece, and it was about fifteen minutes before each regained sufficient strength to move.
“The rain is clearing”, observed Rachel. “We had best crawl within the circle of the darzu’s fronds and hide in case any Giznu are nearby.”
Quade followed the girl, edging his way amongst the foliage, the mat of roots undulating alarmingly as he crawled after her. But his worry that their weight and movement would tear the plant apart proved unfounded, and in but moments they were in the centre of the growth and well concealed from any sharp-eyed foe. Here, Rachel pointed out the strange objects that grew beneath the fronds: Each was a flattened cylinder, about seven inches in length, one in diameter, and possessed of a dark brown scaly rind from which grew four large fin-shaped leaves of a reddish hue – one pair at either end.
The Englishman reached out to touch what he believed to be a fruit, but his curiosity turned to sharp surprise: the darzu’s young severed its stem, and when it fell upon the roots it began to wriggle like a worm. Quade’s surprise turned to revulsion. He uttered an oath and jerked away from it. Then his revulsion turned to horror as the thing used its fins to crawl towards the water like a lizard.
“You have to be quick,” warned Rachel as she snatched up the escaping young. “Once they’re in the water they’re as fast as fish.”
Quade turned his head away, clamped a hand over his mouth and swallowed hard as Rachel bit down on the wriggling horror. “Dear God,” he gasped as he heard her crunching on the motile vegetable.
“What’s wrong?” asked the girl, naively, around a mouthful. “Here,” she said, shoving the still writhing monstrosity under his nose. “They taste good and you must eat.”
“Thanks,” replied Quade weakly as he reluctantly took the proffered young which oozed viscous green fluid from the bite marks. I think, he added silently as his stomach churned in revulsion at the sight of the still writhing abomination.
The sweating Englishman could feel the eyes of the puzzled girl upon him and, not wishing to appear a coward, he worked up his courage with considerable effort and bit into the squirming horror. It was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.
Fortunately, the vegetable monstrosity tasted far better than it looked, like avocado in fact, and he managed to control his nausea and keep his meal in his stomach. Indeed, the darzu’s young proved surprisingly invigorating, and it wasn’t long before Quade felt healthful strength returning to his limbs and sweep away the crushing tiredness that weighed his mind and body down. The plant’s white sap was also useful as Rachel demonstrated by tearing off some leaves and applying the sticky fluid to their wounds. The liquid quickly dried to form a natural antiseptic bandaid.
By the time they had finished their meal and tended to their injuries the fog-like rain had cleared sufficiently to allow an unimpeded view and Quade, taking advantage of this lucidity, peered cautiously through the foliage to assess their whereabouts. He saw the tree lined shore a mere fifty yards away, but his heartfelt prayer of joyous thanks became a bitter curse when he glimpsed a canoe manned by four troglodytes headed straight for them. Perhaps the Giznu suspected they were hiding on the darzu, or maybe they were coming to merely satisfy their hunger. Whatever the case Quade knew with a sinking feeling that in but moments they would be discovered by the savage foe.
The worried Englishman quickly informed Rachel of the looming danger. “Here’s the plan,” he continued. “If we try and wriggle over the side we’ll cause the darzu to move and they’ll be forewarned that something is amiss. We’ll have to tear a hole in this mat of roots, dive beneath and use surprise to try and seize their craft. It’s our only hope unless you can think of something better.”
The girl couldn’t, so both quickly put the desperate plan into action. However, the mat of roots proved tougher than it looked and the hole was barely large enough when they felt the enemy canoe bump against the darzu. Rachel squirmed through the narrow aperture, Quade followed, losing skin in the process. Both dived, swam beneath the living raft and towards the enemy.
Slowly, stealthily, the Englishman rose beside the canoe and cautiously poked his head above the surface. He saw two savages remained aboard the vessel, the others having gone upon the darzu to gather young. Quade readied himself as he quietly gripped the reed gunwale. Both foemen were looking at their fellows, eagerly anticipating the delicious viands they were harvesting. The Englishman quickly glanced at the girl. She, too, had braced herself against the craft in preparation. Quade nodded. Then, with a powerful kick to propel them upward, he and Rachel swiftly hauled themselves aboard the reed canoe.
The foe cried out in consternation as their craft rocked with alarming violence. One savage darted for his sword-club. Quade’s fist crashed against the fellow in a wild blow that sent him toppling overboard. He flung a glance at Rachel and stabbing fear ran him through with feral terror. The girl had slipped and fallen in the bottom of the vessel. The knee of a grinning troglodyte pinned her to the reeds. A bone dagger held high above his head was plunging down in a fatal arc.
Quade flung himself on the savage in a swift and desperate tackle. He crashed against the foe, knocking him aside and the stabbing blade ripped through reeds not flesh. Wild cries rang out as Quade locked his hands around the fellow’s throat. The Englishman turned his head, swore. Those upon the darzu were rushing at him.
Two savages clambered on the rocking craft as the first foe Quade had tumbled overboard also tried to haul himself aboard. One yelling enemy swung his sword-club at the prone Englishman. Quade twisted desperately, using his writhing, gasping victim as a shield. The jagged teeth of the whistling weapon smashed against the savage. Blood spurted from the fellow’s fractured skull.
Quade lashed out with his foot. The wielder of the sword-club screamed. He stumbled back and crashed against the other who sought to join the wild fray. Both lost their balance on the madly rocking craft. With cries of rage and consternation they fell upon the third as he hauled himself across the gunwale. All three plunged overboard. Quade snatched up a paddle, pushed off from the darzu and brained one foe who tried to grab the vessel.
Rachel struggled up, bruised but otherwise unharmed. She saw the second savage latch upon their craft, one arm swinging back in preparation to hurl his knife at Quade. The girl seized the corpse, hauled it up and dumped it on the man’s antagonist. The body struck the troglodyte, spoiling his aim. He screeched, the knife missed and the cave man disappeared beneath the water as Quade paddled clear of their remaining enemies.
Rachel brushed long hair from her eyes, looked wildly about and swore luridly. One threat had been swiftly replaced by another.
“Over there,” she cried in swift alarm.
The panting Englishman groaned when he turned and saw another canoe coming at them and, to add to his consternation; behind this in the distance were several other craft. At the bow of the foremost vessel was Igazur. A savage cry of triumph erupted from the brutal chieftain’s throat as he spotted Quade. The four rowers plied their paddles in a fury at the chief’s command and his canoe seemed to leap across the water like a flying fish.
Rachel snatched up a paddle and with Quade churned the water with the fury of their desperate strokes. The deadly race was on. The trailing canoe began to fall behind them as they plunged their paddles and bent their backs in Herculean earnest. The shore drew nearer, closer. Safety seemed assured. But then the Englishman’s hope was cruelly dashed – the plunging blade of the savage who’d tried to knife the girl had ripped a gaping rent in the hull through which water gushed.
Quade flung a glance behind him. Igazur was gaining as the rising water weighed their vessel down and he knew with dreadful certainty they wouldn’t reach the shore in time.
“Faster,” gasped Rachel as she, too, saw their enemies getting closer.
Quade needed no urging. Water flew from the plunging paddles, sweat from the frantic couple. Both strove mightily, the muscles of their backs rippling as they drove their sinking craft towards the shore with desperate tenacity.
The distance steadily closed between pursuers and pursued. Water was now flooding in. There was no time to bale, no time to pause. The couple rowed with all their might, but it was frighteningly hopeless. The gap between the vessels quickly narrowed as the couple’s craft sank lower- twenty yards, fifteen, and then ten. Igazur grinned, hurled a throwing stick with all his might. Rachel cried as the whirling missile struck her shoulder. The girl dropped her paddle, her muscles paralysed from the heavy blow. The savage chieftain yelled in dark triumph as she slumped upon the flooded belly of their canoe.
Quade spun around. The situation was utterly desperate. Their foes were bearing down upon them in a wild rush and although the shore was close it might as well have been a million miles away. In an instant the frantic man saw the answer: reaching past the groaning girl he snatched up the throwing stick and swiftly hurled it back at Igazur.
The startled chieftain, hemmed in by his narrow vessel, was unable to dodge the flying missile which struck his solar plexus like a heavyweight boxer’s punch. Igazur, severely winded, toppled back and crashed upon his men, crushing two with his weighty corpulence. Screams erupted from the squashed rowers who lay pinned beneath their leader as he gasped for breath. The pained cries of the stricken brought the warm pleasure of revenge to the panting Englishman.
Quade grabbed Rachel beneath the shoulders. “Come on,” he urged as he eased her in the water and quickly followed to support her. “Our canoe is sinking fast. We’ll have to swim for it while we have the chance.”
The girl bravely fought through the pain and struck out for the shore with the Englishman’s assistance, and soon both gained the stony beach, albeit with considerable struggle. Here, they paused for a moment to catch their breath, Quade gazing back at the foe. The Englishman saw Igazur rise with difficulty. The chieftain glared at him venomously as his men took up their paddles and began to row shoreward with slow and pained movements as the other canoes packed with savages rapidly closed the distance. Pursuit had been slowed but not completely stopped.
Quade took Rachel’s hand and they plunged into the weird jungle that fringed the lake’s shoreline. Teeming insects beset them as they ploughed through the undergrowth in headlong flight. They had gone about a hundred yards when Rachel tugged frantically on Quade’s hand and brought him to a halt.
“What is it?” gasped the panting Englishman. “Igazur and his men are right behind us. We can’t stop now.”
“Danger,” replied the breathless girl as she pointed: “Achtik.”
Quade looked and saw a pear-shaped object about four feet in length hanging almost directly over them from a frond. The nest, for that was what it was, was covered in crawling insects that resembled ants in general form. But unlike the ants he was familiar with these creatures were two inches in length with bodies striped in vivid blue and red. Their legs were long and their heads large, and from the broad armour plated forehead extended four bizarre horns that pointed back towards the thorax.
The sound of other bodies crashing through the undergrowth jerked the couple round and through the tangled foliage they glimpsed the racing foe bearing down upon them, the wheezing chieftain bringing up the rear.
“Walk slowly beneath the achtik nest,” warned the girl as Quade was about bolt. “If we move too quickly and frighten them they will squirt us with their burning poison. Trust me, I have a plan.”
Quade complied and they edged beneath the agitated insects, which made warning stridulations despite the couple’s careful movement. The Englishman was beset by sharp worry. Every moment of delay meant their vicious enemies were ever closer. He looked behind him and saw the enemy burst alarmingly into view. Savage war cries erupted from the brutes as they laid hard eyes upon their fleeing quarry.
“Pretend to limp,” hissed the girl as she clutched Quade’s arm. “We must lure them to incautious haste.”
Quade limped. The foe charged in vicious delight. Rachel snapped off a low hanging frond and hurled it. Her timing was impeccable – the branch struck the nest as the savages passed beneath it. Enraged achtik showered down upon the foe and their whoops of mad bloodlust quickly turned to cries of indescribable agony as the enraged insects sprayed them with fuming acid. For a moment the stricken danced about, madly swatting. Then they collapsed in contorted agony and lay in writhing, screaming heaps upon the earth, smoke rising from their bodies as the acid seared their skin with the intensity of fire.
Only Igazur and a single warrior escaped the deadly living shower. Both skidded to a halt, spun about and fled.
“We can’t let Igazur escape,” warned the girl. “Only he can lead us to the World Above.”
The couple pursued, giving the swarming achtik a wide detour, and this delay was to Igazur’s advantage. He had the lead and Quade guessed the other canoes would by now have landed on the shore, providing the wily chieftain with ample reinforcements to whom he was fleeing for succour.
Quade put on a burst of speed, grimly determined to catch the fleeing savage, Rachel close behind him. But as they tore madly through the undergrowth in swift pursuit the single warrior, at the fleeing chief’s command, turned about to face the charging Englishman, his sword-club poised to strike a fatal blow.
The Englishman skidded to a halt. The savage leapt at him with a wild cry, weapon swinging. Rachel darted past. Quade ducked, felt the weapon brush his hair. He scooped up loam, hurled it in his opponent’s face as Rachel flung herself on Igazur. Quade glimpsed both crash to earth as his adversary screamed, but he couldn’t help – his desperate foe, though blinded was far from hors de combat: the cursing savage swung his weapon in wild defensive arcs that prevented Quade from slipping past to aid the girl who, whilst wrestling with the chief had been caught by him in a brutal stranglehold.
Wild fear for Rachel assaulted Quade as she clawed at Igazur’s throttling hands. The Englishman fought for calm and with a well timed leap dodged the swinging sword-club and crashed his fist against the savage’s chin with such force that it snapped the cave man’s neck. Snatching up the fellow’s weapon he charged the struggling pair. Igazur saw him coming, released his hold upon Rachel and tried to flee.
Quade swung the sword-club and with its flat struck the savage chieftain down. Standing on the brute’s back to pin him to the ground, he then turned anxious eyes upon the gasping girl.
“I’m not badly hurt,” she wheezed as she struggled to her feet and leaned against a nearby tree.
Wild shouts made the couple start. Quade turned, cursed. The other canoes had landed and disgorged their savage crew. At least a dozen troglodytes had followed Igazur’s trail and were now rushing at them with wolfish eagerness. Grim faced, Quade wracked his brain for a solution to their desperate plight. Neither flight nor fight was possible for they’d soon be run to ground by overwhelming numbers, and if the girl was right then the chief was useless as a bargaining chip for the cavemen, above all else, meant to prevent their escape so the World Above would remain in ignorance of this hidden realm.
Quade turned to the girl. Rachel smiled bravely as she snatched up a stone and prepared to face the rushing foe. The Englishman cursed silently. He couldn’t let her die. Desperate thoughts raced through his mind like a herd of bolting horses as he turned to meet their charging enemies, now mere yards away. Then an inner muse gifted him with sudden inspiration.
Handing his sword-club to the girl, the Englishman dug his hand into a hip pocket, prayed. Quade’s fingers closed upon the cylinder of waterproof matches. He tore them free, struck one. It hissed to flaring life and he raised it high above his head. The savages’ eyes went wide. They stumbled to a halt, bunched together and stared in silent awe at the dancing flame.
“Tell them,” he said to Rachel urgently, “that I have the power of Tiapiz their god – the power of light, of fire, and that I will destroy them all if they do not let us go.”
As Rachel swiftly completed her translation Igazur, who had just regained his senses made his fateful move. Face down in the dirt and unaware of everything that was going on, the only thing that the chieftain knew was that his warriors were just in front of him and rescue was at hand. Igazur placed his palms against the ground, thrust up and twisted with all his might and Quade, who still stood upon his back, toppled with a startled yell to the earth.
Rachel cried in consternation. The spell was broken. Igazur’s warriors leapt forward as the savage chieftain heaved his bulk upright. But before the brutal foe could fall upon the couple the burning match set alight the resinous tree trunk against which it had fallen.
The oily resin, which smelled of turpentine, ignited with a whoosh that sent tongues of leaping flame racing up the tree. The savages, including Igazur, screamed in wild superstitious fear at this seeming conjuring up of fire. Like a living beast the hungry flames began to race across the fronds. The troglodytes turned as one and fled in utter terror. But as Igazur sought to follow his foot caught upon a root which brought him crashing to the ground.
Quade lurched up, appalled. The fire was spreading with frightening speed. Already, it had leapt from tree to volatile tree and now a wall of roaring flame barred their path, and in but moments they’d be trapped within this blistering inferno. He leapt forward and grabbed the panicked chieftain as the savage shot erect and with wide eyed terror looked frantically about.
For Igazur reasoned thought was blotted out by all pervading fear. He tore a bone dagger from his girdle; lashed out with all the desperation of a cornered beast. Quade dodged the wild blow, caught his foe by the wrist as the roaring flames rose higher. Rachel joined the fray and grappled with the panicked savage. Now, more than ever, they needed Igazur to guide them out of here.
But the chieftain’s strength was amplified by the utter desperation of total terror. With a shriek he flung them off. The couple staggered back. The savage bolted. A burning frond crashed upon him as he passed beneath a tree. He screamed in agony, collapsed. Then the flaming branch set alight the oily resin of the trunk and a burst of roaring flame engulfed the hapless troglodyte.
Man and the girl, a look of utter horror on their faces, were driven back by stifling heat and flames. With Igazur’s demise they’d lost their only hope of sure escape. Quade forced aside despair. He grabbed Rachel’s hand. Flames were spreading rapidly. They’d lost too much time wrestling with their dead opponent. The couple fled, sprinting madly through the hindering undergrowth towards the lake, sheets of flame racing after them like beasts of living fire.
A breeze arose, whipping up clouds of oily smoke shot through with burning embers that started other fires. Trees exploded as their resin caught alight. Another leaping curtain of roaring flame shot up in front of them. Quade swerved. Rachel stumbled, fell with a pained cry.
“My ankle,” she gasped.
Quade bit back a curse. He slung the girl over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and fled from the inferno. The smoke was thickening now. The heat was intense; the roar of the conflagration a wild and ravenous monster. The sweating Englishman struggled on, weighed down by the girl. The flames pursued, gained upon him. He stumbled on, coughing.
Quade burst through a thicket only to be halted by a towering barrier of rock. In his panic and confusion he’d been fleeing away from the lake and towards the wall of the stupendous cavern. The panting Englishman turned and saw the fire front bearing down upon him. To his back was soaring stone, before him a sea of wild fire. Despair struck him like a blow. There was nowhere to run and in but moments they’d be engulfed by racing flames.
Quade lowered Rachel to the ground. They clutched each other, looked wildly about as the roaring flames closed in upon them.
“Look,” cried the girl as she pointed, “a way out.”
The Englishman turned. Above them was the mouth of a cave – a difficult climb, especially with the girl’s sprained ankle, but it was their only hope. Quade lifted Rachel. She grasped a knob of stone, hauled herself higher. Quade threw a glance behind him. The racing flames were closer. The heat was so intense it felt as if his blood was boiling.
Quade leapt, caught the knob and swiftly followed the girl as she struggled up towards the cave. It was a frantic desperate race – the two climbers inching up, the hungry flames roaring ever nearer. Rachel slipped, her sweat slick hands losing purchase on the stone. The girl cried in fright, clung by a single hand. The Englishman put on a burst of speed, gained her side and managed to steady her. Shoving one hand beneath her buttocks he heaved mightily and thrust her within reaching distance of the cave. She caught the lip of the entrance and hauled herself painfully within.
The Englishman followed and paused on the edge of egress, looking back. The sight was appalling – flames were racing through the forest in all directions, unstoppable, unquenchable, fed by the oily resin of the trees. Smoke towered to the high cave roof, the billowing clouds red lit by the raging fire below. Embers whirled about, stirred up by the rising heat that caused the air to shimmer, and on every side the roar of fire was a wild thing of primal savagery.
Guilt hammered Quade’s conscious. The entire subterranean world was going up in flames and he felt partly responsible. If only he hadn’t lit that match, but on the other hand what else could he have done to save their lives? The sobbing of the frightened girl by his side broke in upon his thoughts. This was no time for moral philosophising. A tree grew close to the cave mouth. Reaching out he broke off a bunch of bioluminescent insect trapping tentacles that hung beneath its fronds.
“These will give us light,” he explained to Rachel. “Come, we must move further in the cave to escape the fire.”
Quade helped the limping girl, the glowing tentacles providing illumination. Behind them the roar of the fire increased in frightening volume. Leaping flames raced up the tree by the entrance. Volatile resin exploded in a flare of darting fire. Quade cursed as he was seared by the heat. He cursed again - the tunnel ended in a rocky wall and choking smoke was billowing in. Their place of refuge had become a death-trap.
Rachel sank to the floor, coughing, dejected. Quade fought off the leaden weight of despair. He wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Rising smoke drew his eye. It twisted up and through a hole in the low ceiling – another cave!
Quade hauled the girl to her feet. “Through there,” he urged as he heaved her up towards the hole.
Rachel scrambled through. Quade tossed the glowing tentacles after her and with a leap quickly followed. The way was narrow and choked by loose boulders, and it was with difficulty that the brawny Englishman wormed his way within the slanting tunnel. Grasping the glowing tentacles he held them aloft, looked about and was encouraged by the view their faint light disclosed – an upward twisting way that seemed traversable.
Smoke, though, was rising through the hole and Quade knew if he didn’t act quickly their escape route would become another death-trap – already, breathing was becoming difficult. He crawled up beside the gasping girl and kicked back at a bolder to dislodge the rock. It moved a little. The coughing man struck again with increased desperation. The bolder tumbled, hit another stone and set in motion a mini avalanche that blocked the hole.
“Up,” wheezed Quade as he handed her their living light. “We’ve got to crawl to fresh air before we suffocate.”
The couple crawled, struggled up the rising way, and as they gained a higher elevation the choking smoke began to thin. Quade uttered a silent prayer of thanks to providence, but his gratitude was quickly proven premature – Rachel screamed in fright, lunged back and crashed against the startled Englishman.
Quade gripped the panicked girl. “What is it?” he asked as he peered ahead into the choking darkness of the narrow tunnel.
“An asuku,” gasped Rachel as she held the light aloft so he could see.
About two yards away was a scorpion, but not the diminutive kind the Englishman was familiar with. This monster was the size of a tomcat and studded with thorn-like spines. It stood in the gloom, muted light shining dully on the oily blackness of its carapace, giving it an aura of unnerving menace.
Crawling terror struck Quade. They were cornered; trapped in here with this horror. He stared at the thing in disbelief. The envenomed tail quivered in warning, its movement creating an unsettling sound reminiscent of a rattlesnake. The huge claws opened and closed with a threatening snapping motion that added to the immanent sense of danger. Then the man’s rising feeling of dread reached its dark crescendo as the asuku scuttled forward in swift attack.
Quade snapped out of his shock. He thrust the girl behind him and as the monster struck grabbed its darting tail just below the deadly sting. Huge claws sunk into his arm as he wrestled with it. The tail’s spines pierced his hand. Quade gasped. The pain was agonizing. He tried to lift the horror, to smash it against had stone. Claws twisted in his flesh. He screamed and lost his hold upon the thing. It struck.
As the deadly sting swiftly arced towards the Englishman a well flung stone crashed against the darting tail and deflected it. Then Rachel smashed a larger rock upon the monster’s head. The asuku staggered but was saved by its thick carapace. The girl struck again, but the creature scuttled back causing her to miss.
Quade, in imitation, had also grabbed a stone. He saw the creature darting at the girl, envenomed tail striking like a pickaxe. The man hurled his missile. It smashed several of the creature’s legs. The thing went down and as it fell in a writhing heap Rachel, with a wild yell and a double handed blow, brought her rock swiftly down upon its head with such force that the monster’s brain was crushed like a hammered egg.
“Did it sting you?” cried the girl as she cast away the splattered rock.
“No,” replied Quade as he struggled with the pain. “My wounds are from its spines and claws. Nothing life threatening.”
The couple rested, Rachel taking the time to examine Quade’s wounds and bind them with strips of cloth torn from his shorts. Fortunately, his injuries were not as serious as she had feared, for the asuku are notoriously vicious creatures.
Within ten minutes they were again crawling up the narrow passage. Time passed in an agony of slow progression. Quade began to worry - their living light was fading as the tentacle’s cells began to die. Soon, they would be immersed in utter darkness with no way of knowing what lay before them and no sign of an exit. Within half an hour the wan illumination gave out completely and smothering blackness engulfed them. They crawled on stoically through a darkness more impenetrable than night.
The couple’s rest stops became more frequent as their strength faded along with hope. The tunnel seemed endless and Quade began to fear that, rather than leading to the surface, the snaking way was doubling back upon itself. He sank exhausted beside the girl who lay in limply on the hard stone, unable to go on.
“We aren’t going to get out of here, are we?” she asked weakly, and then began to cry.
“Nonsense,” replied Quade as he held Rachel in his arms to comfort her. “We’ll get out. We can’t give up now. All we need is rest.”
But even to Quade his words lacked conviction, and the fear of dying came upon him with awful terror – to be buried alive in the earth and to perish in utter darkness. These thoughts crushed all optimism. It was as if the tons of rock above him had come crashing down and he felt himself along with Rachel give way to despondent hopelessness.
Rachel sensed his despair. She, too, felt there was little chance of them getting out of here alive. The girl snuggled closer to Quade, desiring to comfort him. She took his hand and slid his fingers deep within her body - a life affirming act in the face of death and dissolution.
“Do this to me,” she murmured inticingly...
The couple lay in each other’s arms, the only comfort in this bleak darkness, exhausted bodies sinking further into post coital lassitude. No doubt that’s how they would have died. But something stirred the embers of Quade’s consciousness. Dimly, he struggled for recognition. What was it, this sensation, this odour that hovered at the edge of memory?
Slowly, it dawned upon the man: A breeze tousled his hair and on it was the scent of living things. Recall goaded Quade. With an effort he struggled up and shook the girl who mumbled sleepily.
“Rachel,” he yelled excitedly. “The way out is just ahead.”
The girl woke. Now, she also felt and smelled what stirred the man, and in but moments both were crawling up the narrow way with renewed hope and strength. But as they progressed the tunnel began to narrow, and again bleak fear beset the pair – fear the exit would become impassable.
It was impossible to see anything in the utter blackness. Quade, in the lead, groped his way forward cautiously. Suddenly, his hand touched something long and clammy. He snatched it back, alarmed. Was it a snake? A rustling sound came to his ears. With freedom so close there was no turning back now. With a brief warning to the girl to stay back, Quade gritted his teeth as he cautiously felt about bracing himself for the strike of envenomed fangs.
But to his vast relief his questing hands encountered the wet, breeze rustled vines he had mistaken for a serpent.
“It’s the exit,” he shouted wildly as he pushed aside the vegetation and wriggled through.
Rachel quickly followed and he helped her out. Both stood. It was night and overhead heaven blazed with stars whose glory was undiminished by city lights.
“The stars,” said Rachel rapturously as she held his hand. “Oh, how marvellous it feels to look upon them once again.”
**********
Moonlight slanted through the shutters of the bedroom window and fell upon Quade as he lay in bed thinking of their harrowing ordeals, which hadn’t ended with their emergence from the subterranean world. The Englishman felt he couldn’t risk waiting until morning to be discovered with a naked woman who had no identification papers of any kind – it would have raised too many questions and after all they’d been through dealing with the local police was the last thing he wanted to endure. With this concern uppermost in his mind he and Rachel had set off through the dark to his uncle’s house, which lay on the outskirts of one of a number of villages abutting Gunug Mulu National Park.
For hours they’d stumbled through the night shrouded forest, the man guided by his knowledge of the stars. It had been and arduous journey, not helped by Rachel’s limp, and several times he and the girl had come perilously close to falling down one steep limestone declivity or another that lay hidden by tangled growth and darkness. Battered, bruised and on the verge of collapse, they’d tottered into the village at about 2 am, the local’s hounds yapping wildly at their arrival.
Fortunately Aditya, Quade’s uncle, had been awake – kept sleepless by worry for his missing nephew – and quickly let them in when Quade had pounded on his door as lanterns in the surrounding houses began to show, their occupants aroused by the wild barking of the dogs. Aditya had been amazed to say the least by the appearance of a naked woman on his doorstep, and by the tale Quade told him, but the man knew his nephew well enough not to doubt the fantastic story the exhausted Englishman succinctly related.
He and Rachel had spent most of the day sleeping, and now Quade lay awake, his body clock disrupted by these events. Depressing thoughts tumbled through his mind as he lay restlessly in bed – according to the evening news smoke had been reported rising from a dozen hitherto unknown caves across the national park, and the authorities were in the early stages of investigating. It seemed that there was more than one entrance to the subterranean world.
Had the troglodytes survived the conflagration? If they had they’d certainly need help. Now that Quade had time to think he realized he couldn’t wash his hands of the matter, especially since he had played a part in the disaster. And then there was Rachel. She had spent so long immersed in an alien culture, its mores shaping her every attitude. Could she adjust to the modern world, and what of her parents? No doubt there was every chance they were still alive, and neither he nor his uncle could keep her hidden here forever. No, the more Quade thought about it the more he now realized he had no choice – he’d have to approach the authorities and tell them all he knew.
Quade sighed as his thoughts wandered down another path. He knew he wanted to protect Rachel from the intrusive spotlight of the media into which she’d be inevitably thrust, but beyond that what were his feelings for the girl? Before, with constant danger threatening from every side all his thoughts had been focused on survival and escape. He liked and admired her, but was he confusing this with love and, perhaps more importantly, what were her feelings for him? They had made love, true, but sex and love are entirely different things.
The door to the man’s bedroom opened, breaking his train of thought. Rachel paused on the threshold and Quade gazed upon her. The girl, being unused to the feel of clothes, had shed the pyjamas Aditya had leant her. She stood smiling for a moment, her body highlighted in moonlight and shadow. Then, wordlessly, she approached his bed and slipped between the sheets. There was no need for speech as he took her in his arms, and although Quade knew the future was unknown he had a sudden and comforting premonition they’d be facing it together.
THE END