The Haunting
by rann
A Cave of Fear addendum and a bridge to the end of Salvation
Summary: What really did occur in the Cave of Fear? The pain of that encounter was intense for both Marguerite and Roxton and then in Salvation the wound of William's death is reopened for Roxton. A tale just in time for Halloween. In the Lost World anything can happen.
Thanks to SantaCrux for the expert beta reading, and the insight and suggestions. Your help was invaluable.
Spoilers: Cave of Fear, Salvation, Survivors, Man of Vision, True Spirit, Fire in the Sky, The Secret, Tapestry, Legacy.
This story begins after the conclusion of Cave of Fear and continues to just after the conclusion of Salvation. Because this story depends on what happens in Cave of Fear and Salvation there are brief summaries of those two episodes at the end of this story for your convenience.
Setting: The treehouse, after the explorers return from rescuing Challenger from the Manuins and Lady Yorkton.
Challenger is examining some rocks in the lab, Veronica is there tending to Malone's wound. Malone expresses an interest in kissing Veronica again.
On the main level of the treehouse, Roxton is cleaning rifles.
Summerlee walks over, pipe in mouth. "I've never seen anything quite like it; must have been some kind of saprophytic fungus with psychotropic properties."
Roxton smiles briefly. "If you say so, Professor."
"You know you haven't said one word about what happened in there." Summerlee says rather pointedly.
"That's right." Roxton's tone indicates that he has nothing more to say on the subject as he checks the sight on a rifle.
"I see." Summerlee understands that this is a private matter for Roxton and turns to leave.
"Thank you," Roxton acknowledges his debt before Summerlee can walk away, "for saving my life."
"Only too happy to have been of service, old boy." Summerlee turns back and smiles.
On the balcony Marguerite paces. In her hands she holds her locket and looks at the inscription. She reads aloud her voice breaking, "For our daughter Marguerite forever in our thoughts." Tears seep out. Determinedly she tucks the locket away.
Lost World credits roll.
****
Later that night in the treehouse.
He had run out of guns to clean. The table just off the balcony was now clear except for the Colt that Roxton wore as a sidearm. Rifles were reassembled and safely placed in the racks near the lift. The extras were carefully stowed in a storage box, latched and tucked out of the way. Every pistol he could lay his hands on was free of dirt. Even the tiny one he concealed in an urn as a precaution against – who the hell knew what – was now ready for use once more.
Earlier, as he worked, the others had wandered off to bed. Veronica had solicitously hovered over Malone during the evening until at last she slipped an arm around him and he braced his arm across her shoulders and, with her help, hobbled off to his room. "Where," Roxton cynically thought, "she probably tucked him in with a good night kiss."
Malone had clearly enjoyed the fussing the young jungle girl had lavished on him. The two had made quite a point of telling everyone how Malone had killed two raptors. "About time he began to use that gun for more than a paperweight." Roxton jibed mentally as he recalled the image of Malone too distraught to fire as the raptor attacked. He felt his breath leave his lungs as once again the image of Marguerite dispatching the raptor with her pistol filled his mind. She'd been in a direct line with the shot he'd been about to make to save Malone. "Another few seconds and my rifle bullet might have passed through the raptor…." He broke off the thought.
Out of the corner of his eye Roxton had seen Summerlee approach the balcony's lone occupant. The tree house had grown quieter with the younger couple's departure for bed. Marguerite had avoided the others since their return, apparently lost in thought. Summerlee and Marguerite had looked out over the night-shrouded plateau. He couldn't hear what was said and didn't try. Whatever his faults, intentional eavesdropping on private confidences wasn't among them. He did see the shake of the brunette's head and saw her lean forward to place a filial kiss on the elderly scientist's cheek.
Summerlee patted her arm and turned away. After taking a few steps he turned, "If you change your mind…", the words tapered off. The botanist knew human nature. Marguerite wasn't ready to confide in anyone yet.
"I know where to find you." Marguerite concluded with the gentle smile she reserved for him. "Good night, Arthur."
Summerlee smiled his response and then seeing Roxton still working on his self-assigned task, nodded amiably to him as he trudged towards the stairs to make his way to his room. The day had been a strain on his aging limbs and muscles and he looked forward to his rest, but he also had the satisfaction of knowing he had repaid a part of his debt towards the other members of the expedition.
Roxton had methodically continued his work, the routine providing a comfort in giving his hands a task and masking from the others his mental distress. Unfortunately his mind still lingered over the …events? …dreams? …hallucinations? …of the day. He wasn't quite ready to attach a label to what had happened. Where had reality ended and delusion begun?
He scanned the treehouse interior, still somehow expecting to see the young blond man step toward him. It had sounded, even felt, so real. The accusation and hate that William expressed today…. "No, no. Please don't let that be how he feels. Surely he must know I tried to save him." But Roxton couldn't convince himself. Especially with the memory of William's reluctance to go to on safari – the memory of how he and his father had pressured William to go.
"Be a man. – Face your fears." The words echoed in his head.
Each glance around the room was filled with the memory of William. His shade was now haunting not only the Avebury estate, but the treehouse as well. "You'll never get away from me, Johnny. Not even at the ends of the earth." In his mind William's voice mocked him, his youthful and cruel voice.
He felt the pain of the loss of his brother anew. It was even sharper because it had not been long, after the adventures at the giant bee hive that he had silently congratulated himself on beginning life again. He had realized that with all the pressure to survive this Lost World, that William had slipped from his thoughts. Roxton's focus had been on saving his companions from the dangers that lurked in this strange and wondrous world. It had been a cruel but perhaps a fitting punishment that as soon as he felt the freedom from the weight of William's death that it had come crushing down on him even harder.
Desperate for a distraction, his eyes once again fixed on Marguerite who leaned against the balcony railing. The moon was obscured with clouds tonight; there wouldn't be much she could see in the shadowed jungle. Somehow he didn't think she noticed. Like him, what happened to her in that damned cave had to be weighing on her mind.
"At least I saved her." One more life on the positive side of the scale. "Wouldn't you think that if I saved enough people, it would make up for the one I didn't save?" It had been so long ago that he had failed William.
So long ago that he had tried for peace in the Jokhang Temple. He had almost convinced himself that he had found his inner way.
So what if he took countless risks with his life, he'd saved others.
So what if he'd nearly thrown away his reputation in that war-time gamble to save some nameless spy. It wasn't because he didn't value his own life or didn't think he deserved happiness.
Roxton had continued to reassemble the rifles as the tree house grew even more silent. A glance towards the doorway showed no movement on the balcony. Apparently Marguerite had gone to bed. No noise drifted up from the lab, Challenger must have finally distracted himself enough to sleep.
The scientist hadn't said much, avoiding the rest of them. Seemingly, he was embarrassed with his lapse in judgment over Lady Cassandra Yorkton. Roxton suspected it was more because the scientist had been taken in and the others became victims of her cruel plotting rather than the marital misstep. Challenger had taken refuge in the lab this evening. Now glancing over the railing, Roxton saw the lanterns below were out indicating Challenger had sought his bed rather than nodding off over his experiments.
Like a winding sheet, a hush wrapped around the tree house. In his mind, in a never ending loop, a scene from thousands of miles away, and years distant replayed. – The ape dropping from the tree branch above, grabbing his brother, William's screams, and the bearers shouts. All viewed from the sight of a rifle. – The back of the great ape. The explosion of fur and blood as the bullet pierced his back. The ape dropping to the ground. A moment's exultation at the success of such a shot. Then William standing there, stunned, blooding flowing out of his chest an instant before he fell to the ground.
Roxton kept glancing out the corner of his eye, still expecting to see the blond young man standing there, wearing a bloodstained shirt, accusation in his eyes. The tension grew. Each minute that passed the strain of waiting for the unknown increased.
As he worked the treehouse was silent, then there would be a soft rustle. He'd glimpse a movement in the corner of his eye, turn his head suddenly but nothing was ever there. "It's just the flicker of the candle flame in the breeze." After this happened several times he finally blew out some of the candles, leaving just a lantern for light; with its glass chimney perhaps it would not be as susceptible to the vagaries of the wind.
He had focused on his work in the stygian silence of the treehouse, as if his concentration could keep…..whatever…at bay. Eventually, everything was put away. Everything, but the sole gun on the table. It lay there, loaded, ready for use.
But not by him. Not tonight.
Chilled to the soul, he was reminded of finding Marguerite ready to turn her gun on herself. He'd been terrified in a way he hadn't fully understood; he had forced himself to move carefully, gently grasping the gun and turning it away. He withstood her hallucinogenic induced assault, and then comforted her through the storm of tears. He'd been grateful for that moment. She was safe. Being there to comfort her had consoled him; it had given him his release as Marguerite shed her tears against his chest, as if her tears were for the both of them. He had failed William again, but he had saved her.
While he could understand the despair that might drive a person to the brink, he would never take his own life. Suicide seemed a coward's choice to him. Although, in his more honest moments, sometimes Roxton wondered if his courting of death by adventure wasn't just an even more cowardly form of suicide. Even so, if tonight was to be the end, he vowed it would not by his own hand. But if William's spectre wanted revenge, he'd leave the means.
He owed William that.
The tree house was still now. Everything was done. Roxton's eyes rested on the table empty of everything but the gun. A whisper of sound. The light dimmed. He wheeled around. Nothing. Once again the lantern burned steadily. He calmed himself and went to the balcony to slow his breathing and bring his heart rate back to normal. The malevolent darkness closed back in. The words of that which he did not want to name, didn't believe in, at least in the cold light of day, flooded through him – revenant, phantom, wraith.
"Strive for a little sense, Roxton. There's no such thing," he scolded himself. He spoke aloud, needing to break the overwhelming silence.
He stood gazing into the gloom of the jungle, the overcast night sky obscuring the thick vegetation, distinguishable only by the deeper hue of blackness. Even the jungle was unnaturally silent for one accustomed to the night noises. The warm, humid air muted sounds, another layer oppressing the spirit. It was a night for things one wouldn't want to encounter.
Then, barely heard, there was a scrape of metal on the wood table. Roxton wheeled around. The floorboards creaked. He peered into the blackness that enveloped the treehouse interior. Only deeper shadows mocked him and his dread. A whisper of sound as if cloth brushed against wood. A glimpse of khaki drifted forward. A shimmer of light gleamed off the barrel of the Colt. He caught his breath. This might be it. "So be it." He braced himself to not flee from his fate.
"Did I startle you?" Marguerite's soft tone had Roxton closing his eyes, exhaling slowly. He opened them to find her eyeing him curiously, holding out the gun with the barrel safely pointed away from both of them. She was offering him the gun. "Were you expecting someone? I found this laying out."
"I…," evasion was suddenly not possible as Roxton looked at the woman's face. "I'm not sure."
She nodded; something in his expression had her slipping the gun into the pocket of the safari jacket she still wore. Despite the warmth of the night, her jacket was wrapped around her as if she was still chilled from the day's experiences. She walked to the balcony; her eyes scanned the treetops, barely discernable against clouded sky, then lowered her gaze to the clearing around the treehouse trunk.
"We seem to be alone." She kept her attention fixed outward as she spoke. Turning back she added, "But, here things aren't always as they seem." Marguerite focused on Roxton; how much she could see in the shadows, he wasn't sure. "What happened to you today?"
Roxton didn't answer. He looked at his hands, as if the words he wanted to speak were written on them. Marguerite waited a moment, but Roxton failed to reply so she continued, changing the subject. "Malone and Veronica were pretty pleased with themselves."
Summerlee, Challenger, Roxton and Marguerite had encountered the pair as they neared the treehouse. It was already dusk. Ned was limping, an arm braced on Veronica's shoulders. Veronica must have overheard the two scientists debating the method of ingesting the fungus from the cave. Summerlee theorized that its effects were induced when it was inhaled, but Challenger maintained that it must have been absorbed through the skin. Their disagreement, as was often the case, was quite vocal and readily heard at a distance. Ned and Veronica were looking back, stopped on the path waiting for the others to join them.
Roxton assessed Ned's condition after the long day as they joined the young pair. Without a word he went to offer support so that they might make quicker time to the treehouse. The jungle at night was even more deadly than during the day.
"I gather Malone acquitted himself with raptors they encountered," Roxton replied. "Although how the raptors found them, they never quite explained. You were right; the odor of the sulfur springs should have kept them out of trouble."
"The best laid plans…." Marguerite looked closely at the hunter. "Things don't always work out as we plan."
"That's for damn sure." Roxton stood at the balcony staring at the dark nothingness of the shrouded jungle.
"What plans of yours have gone awry?" Marguerite probed, she joined Roxton in staring out into the jungle. Near enough if he wanted human contact, but enough space to allow him his privacy. She waited, and just when she thought he wouldn't answer, he spoke.
"I saw him today."
"Who did you see?"
"William, my brother."
"I thought you said your brother was dead?" Marguerite's brow crinkled.
"He is." Roxton said abruptly.
He was silent so long Marguerite thought he wasn't going to say any more. Suddenly Roxton spoke. "My vision of him was here, in the treehouse."
"Strange that you would imagine him here."
"Imagine?" Roxton picked up on the word.
"It…", Marguerite caught her breath, "it had to be imagination. What else could it have been?" She didn't sound convinced.
"What else indeed?" Roxton thought, but he didn't voice that idea. He wanted to cling to a logical view. "Right, imagination."
"How did he really die?" Marguerite had heard the rumors, of course, but she knew not to put too much faith in stories like that. They'd be embellished beyond belief with each telling, the more gruesome or lurid a tale the more likely it was to be repeated. In her experience people were more than willing to tarnish someone's reputation if they could make a good story about it. The truth was usually much more mundane, thereby less interesting gossip.
"I shot him."
The blunt statement took Marguerite by surprise. She let the words sink in. Then considering how she had come to know Roxton these past weeks, she realized there had to be more. She covered his hand resting on the railing with hers. "I'm sorry." She was surprised that she really meant it.
Roxton closed his eyes and savored the touch of another person, the unexpected empathy that seeped through the simple words. He opened his eyes and looked at the pale hand protectively resting atop his tan one. Since the fateful evening she'd swept into Challenger's study and their eyes met, he'd felt a connection. At first he'd put it down to simple, quite understandable, lust. But now… his mind shied away from trying to analyze it. All he knew now as their hands touched was that the physical connection gave him strength that went beyond sexual attraction.
Eyes focused on their joined hands he spoke in a low voice, he forced himself to try and speak dispassionately. She leaned in so as not to miss a word.
"It was in Africa. William was with me on safari, some distance behind me. A giant ape dropped down, attacked William. I tried to save him." The last words came out intense, desperate. Marguerite's fingers tightened on his. He steadied himself, his voice was now clinical, deliberately detached as he finished his story. "I grabbed my rifle. I shot the ape." He looked blankly at the shadowed trees.
Marguerite waited, but when he didn't speak, she prompted, "It was too late for William?"
"It was too late," Roxton agreed, his voice still unnaturally even. "The bullet went through the ape and into William. 'Like a freight train slamming into his chest'." His voice shook a bit at the last, the quote from William's spectre. Marguerite closed her eyes and unconsciously her fingers tightened over his hand even more.
As they stood in silence, a breeze slipped through the treehouse, enough to send even the protected flame of the lantern into an agitated dance. Roxton wheeled around, his eyes sweeping the treehouse interior for a sign of….what he wasn't sure.'
Marguerite had turned at his movement, her hand going to the pistol she'd stowed in her pocket. She took a step forward, ready to get between the unarmed man she stood beside and whatever he thought lurked in the treehouse.
Unbidden memories of a London séance filled her mind. A wealthy widow spoke in syrupy, affectionate terms to her dead husband's spirit that Marguerite obliging told her she was channeling. The rather boring session was disrupted by several pictures suddenly crashing to the floor and a particularly hideous Sévres vase shattering. Marguerite, always thinking on her feet, had broken the circle of hands, stood dramatically and ordered the spirit away. Marguerite told the widow that it her been a former suitor of hers who jealously interrupted the session with her husband. The widow had preened herself on inspiring such devotion. It had been a spectacular session and she'd gotten several new clients. This had also been the session that had attracted the attention of that infernal nosy pest, Houdini.
At the time of the séance, Marguerite had assumed it was just another coincidence, poorly hung pictures, settling of the house, the widow's confounded lapdog frightened into oversetting the stand the vase was on. She had been able to turn the incident to her advantage. She'd always been good at that. Now, after what she'd seen in the cave, she just wasn't as sure as to what she had encountered back in London. "A ghost, right Marguerite," nervously, she mocked herself. But whatever it had been, she handled it. "Well, if I dismissed one restless spirit, I can bloody well manage another." She took another step forward towards the treehouse interior.
Roxton's hand on her arm, stopped her. He kept his attention on the great room as the breeze wafted across the room, lightly riffling papers, toying with the lantern flame, causing leaves on the row of Summerlee's plants to flutter, the dishtowel flapped where it hung by the sink. Then the air was still again. As if what the breeze sought wasn't there.
"It was just the wind." Marguerite assured him, although she wasn't as convinced of that as she would have liked to have been. As fanciful as it sounded it seemed as if the wind had wandered restlessly from location to location in the treehouse, rather than touching everything at once.
"Of course," Roxton agreed, but his eyes still strained to pierce the shadows.
Marguerite took a breath. "It wasn't your fault."
Roxton stood still. He knew exactly what she meant. He tipped his head back. "I should have done something different, used my knife, run across the clearing and clubbed the damned beast with the stock of my rifle. I've replayed it in my mind a thousand times." He shook his head, lost in the memory of what could have been. He hung his head at the futility of what was.
"How old were you?"
"What difference does it make?" Bitterly, Roxton turned back to the balcony and gripped the railing.
"That young." Marguerite surmised. "You couldn't know what would happen, you didn't know if you would have had enough time…"
"I should have known!" Roxton wheeled around her, using anger with her as a release valve. "I was 20. I was old enough for a safari, I had been handling guns for years." The bitterness hardened his voice. "I was thoughtless, showing off." He swallowed and his voice grew quiet with shame. "Showing off for…" his voice trailed off.
"Showing off for who?" Marguerite knew he needed to get the story out.
Roxton shook his head, suddenly drained. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that day in Kenya I ended my brother's life."
Marguerite thought of the young soldiers she'd seen at the front. Terrified, heartsick with what they faced, at what they had done, at what they had been ordered to do. It was hard to reconcile the man in front of her, who stood so resolute in these weeks they'd known each other, who risked himself to save her and the others on this journey, who was so competent and in control, with the image of an unsure twenty-year-old.
"It wasn't your fault. You did your best. You were young and, trust me, you were inexperienced." She spoke with the voice of one who understood bad choices. Lost friends and some that were more than friends. A best friend from a shabby bar; a child who thought he was a man at fourteen, her companion in surviving the squalid Paris alleys. She shook off her thoughts of her own experiences; she needed to concentrate on Roxton.
When Roxton had first rescued her in the cave, she'd been too overwhelmed with her own emotions to pay attention to his feelings. When he offered to be a sounding board if she wanted to talk about what had happened her only thought was to close off that line of discussion. She could never tell Roxton how evil she was; the confirmation that she had been born evil had been received today. Life was difficult enough already in their small band as they lived in each other's pockets. Besides they didn't think much of her as it was. She didn't need to confirm their opinion of her.
As she paced on the balcony earlier in the evening she was aware of Roxton working his way steadily through their arsenal. At the time she assumed he wanted privacy for his thoughts the same as she did. After all she heard him turn down Summerlee's offer to talk. But as she sat in her room, not sleeping, staring into the dark, she heard him moving about. It occurred to her that perhaps his offer to listen to her, might have also been his way of asking for someone to confide in. A man as steadfast as Roxton was used to bearing the weight of others, not caving in to his own emotions. But it was evident that whatever had happed today in that bloody cave wasn't over. And she knew she owed him. He'd saved her from turning the pistol on herself and then let her fall apart against his chest. He held her safe and never said a pointed word, not a hint of one of the snide remarks that had marked their exchanges since they left London. When she decided to investigate the pacing she heard and found the gun, she knew by the look on Roxton's face she had to do something.
She knew Roxton's grief would not subside with a few words from her. She thought about suggesting he go to bed, but knew the isolation from others would leave him with only his guilt for company. Besides, she wasn't quite sure she was ready to be alone. Memories of her own encounter in the cave pushed against her mind, trying to intrude, dragging with them all the heartaches of the past.
"Shall we sit here for a few minutes?" She gestured at the chairs on the balcony. The backs were angled enough that one might drift off to sleep. "I know where Summerlee has tucked away the sherry." Marguerite suggested somewhat conspiratorially attempting to lighten his mood. She didn't want to make it apparent to the hunter that she realized how badly off he was. He wouldn't like that at all.
Roxton nodded, forcing the corners of his mouth to turn up in appreciation of her efforts.
As Marguerite turned, the jacket with the pistol in its pocket swung against her hip, reminding her that tonight was her turn for vigilance. Sometimes the hardest thing to do was to save someone from himself. Unbidden the images of her and her companions in the slums of Paris outwitting shopkeepers and gendarmes arose in her mind. The past was too vivid in her mind tonight. Once again, she banished her memories ruthlessly and focused on the present.
In the treehouse kitchen she took down a couple of glasses, reflecting on the incongruity of glassware and china teacups in the middle of the primitive environment they found themselves. She held herself still as she realized that she was avoiding, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, the question that had troubled her since childhood, since she'd been old enough to realize how different her life was from the girls around her.
She had never been able to resolve the dichotomy of her upbringing between some evidence of care but no personal involvement. Habit had her turning things over in her mind, a kind of mental list making. "Parents who left a locket for me with a loving message, but never turned up, nor left any other message. No other relative at all. Not a will or any kind of documentation of their lives. Yet someone arranged for payments on the boarding school, sent the fancy dolls." She took two glasses out of the cabinet; her actions automatic as her thoughts drifted back again to her childhood. She continued to dispassionately catalog the facts of her early life in her mind, another effort to make sense out of a mystery.
"The couple who adopted me provided the necessities but kept their distance – especially emotionally. Why did they adopt me? They asked nothing of me and wanted nothing to do with me. They never said a word of praise for my abilities or skills when I was in boarding school. They didn't care enough to disapprove when I'd run away for weeks at a time." Kneeling down she reached into the back recesses of the sideboard for the bottle of sherry she knew was there.
"Even when gendarmes would eventually catch me, my guardians would pay my way out of the trouble, and dump me back in the school. Then they disappeared, just as I got old enough not to be put off anymore when I'd ask questions. They were gone. No trace of them. The account for my school fees closed as the last of the money was paid out." In her heart she knew the people who adopted her didn't have the answers she needed, they had done a job and walked away, even so she tried to trace them. They had been her only lead. It was a dead end. It was if they had never existed.
Suddenly it was as if she could feel the object in her boot heel digging into her foot. She had never really believed Shanghai Xan's tales of the ouroboros' powers. But after today – maybe, just maybe there was a grain of truth. Find the other half of the ouroboros; get back to Shanghai; trade it for her birth certificate. Then what?
She'd still have to track down her parents, if they still lived, if she could find them. She'd have to confront them.
Marguerite shook her head to clear it. "One step at a time." Plans were fine, but she better than anyone knew you had to be adaptable. Her first objective was to find the ouroboros and for that she had to survive this bloody plateau. "And to survive my best bet is that man on the balcony. That's the only reason I'm doing this." She had almost convinced herself that she was motivated by pure self interest. Opening the bottle of Amontillado she took a moment to inhale the sweet scent.
Although she covered it with barbs and quips, she admitted to herself a spark of attraction had been there from the moment she met Roxton. "But what woman isn't attracted to the dashing Lord Roxton." His exploits as a ladies' man were also the stuff of endless gossip. The attraction she felt she could explain away as pure lust. Unbidden the memory surfaced, of a strong arm holding her close, comforting her as she cried against his chest. The tenderness and caring had caught her off guard. It had been unexpected from the man who had baited her so unmercifully and impertinently pursued her. She bit her lip. Now was not the time to indulge her emotions. Taking a deep breath she poured the Amontillado.
She returned to the balcony, glasses in hand.
Roxton's mind was far away as he took the glass she offered. William's accusation of deserting his mother had him thinking back to Avebury and his responsibilities there. Would she be shouldering them? The business affairs would be handled by his estate agent. But there were other matters. Unbidden the long ago image of mourners in black gathered in a private graveyard, came to mind. Taking a sip from the glass, he remarked. "We're so far away. It's been so long since I checked on William's grave and on my father's to make sure they were being maintained, to pay my respects." His eyes looked into the distance but they didn't see the shrouded jungle, they saw the quiet, green shadows cast by ancient oaks' leaves rustling in a cool damp breeze, and the grey stone of the grave markers and the iron gates on the mausoleum. "I hope someone remembers to check."
He hated the thought of his mother having to deal with such things. She had been another victim of William's death and his father's subsequent heart attack; grief stricken, not able to spend much time at the estate in Avebury where the memories were strongest. She'd look at her surviving son and he could tell she saw the reminders of her lost first born son. He'd taken up the responsibilities, saving her from the day-to-day reminders, but not intruding on her grief, not burdening her with his presence. Now with the memory of William reproaching him with deserting his mother, he wondered if he had interpreted things the way he preferred to view them rather than how they really were.
He found he couldn't spend much time in Avebury. As a boy he loved the estate and his home. After William and his father's death, the painful reminders were always there. In his mind's eye he'd see his father at his desk in the study. William lounging in a doorway ready to be off at the spur of the moment and raise Cain. Somehow it seemed wrong that he still had the estate to enjoy while his brother lay in his grave.
His travels gave him an excuse not to spend time at Avebury or with his mother, but in the past he'd always dealt with the business of the estate, even if mostly through his man of business. He'd visit briefly, just to check on things, and then he'd be off again. Suddenly he longed for his home in Avebury, the manor, his life in London and the townhouse there. "I will get back to England." The resolve comforted him. That and, unexpectedly, so did the woman beside him. He turned and courteously gestured at one the chairs sitting side-by-side. She nodded and smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the gesture and sat. He took the other chair.
Roxton and Marguerite lapsed in a silence made bearable by the other's presence.
***
The breeze petulantly tugged at the shirt of the dozing man; it ruffled the jacket of the dozing woman the pocket weighted down by the pistol tucked within. The couple stirred, but neither woke. His arm moved closer to her, her head dropped to rest against it. The wind died down.
***
The light woke him. Caution from countless expeditions to far corners of the earth and honed by his experiences in The Great War, kept him still, eyes closed. He listened; the noise of the jungle had changed. The sound of the birds told him dawn was approaching. He assessed his surroundings. A chair on the balcony. He must have dozed off there as he nursed the glass of Amontillado. There was a weight on his left arm, not an unpleasant sensation. His right foot was propped up on a stool. He stayed still. He was amazed he had slept so soundly, although now he could feel the aches and stiffness as a result of sleeping in a chair. He remained unmoving however, not yet wanting to disturb the sleeper next to him.
He opened his eyes cautiously. No one was about, no sounds filtered out from inside of the treehouse. The sky wasn't truly light yet, but no longer the deep, impenetrable blackness of the night. True dawn was probably still an hour or more away. He turned his head slowly so he could see Marguerite as she slept in the chair. He thought she'd probably be stiff and sore as well, angled as she was in the chair, her head resting against his arm and shoulder. Her hair flowed free. He was glad she hadn't put it into a braid for the night. With his free hand he reached over and smoothed away the hair from her face.
He watched her eyes blink sleepily. He had roused her as he intended. They needed to vacate the balcony before anyone in the tree house stirred.
"Too early," Marguerite mumbled, closing her eyes again and snuggling in once more.
"Well if you don't mind the others knowing we're sleeping together, it's all right with me." Roxton whispered on a suggestive note.
Marguerite's eyes flew open. "You're all talk, Roxton, but I think we'll wait until you actually have something to talk about." With a wince for the aches it caused, Marguerite straightened in her chair and then stood. Roxton rose from his chair with a stretch and realized Marguerite was eyeing him, "Assessing me," he thought.
The wind tangled the strands of her hair, with one hand she smoothed it back, and looked around the treehouse. Once more she studied him. "Better, he's more himself this morning. Not likely to do something untoward," she thought. With her free hand she reached into her pocket and removed the Colt that she had taken from the table last night.
"You'll want to put this away."
Roxton nodded and Marguerite turned away, heading towards her room in the dim light.
***
Over the next days a routine settled over the treehouse. The sulfur retrieved at such a cost, occupied Challenger and Summerlee as they manufactured gunpowder, filling clay jugs and tightly sealing them against the ever present humidity.
Veronica hovered around Ned to his obvious satisfaction, tending his wounded foot, making sure he kept off his foot as much as possible to let it heal. She made a paste from the Aloe Vera plants they kept in the treehouse to help the bites heal. She insisted on Summerlee checking the foot twice a day, then carefully bandaging it herself. Malone was obviously basking in the pampering.
At odd moments a fickle breeze would send the vines at the treehouse windows trembling, moments later a napkin would flutter to the floor, a candle would be snuffed out. No one but Marguerite or Roxton took any notice of such incidents.
Roxton was kept busy with the chores necessary to maintain them, especially since Malone was still healing. He chopped firewood, checked snares, did some hunting, and with the gunpowder now available, began the process of casting bullets. In the daylight hours he made a point of interacting with his companions, carrying on normal conversations. Only occasionally, mostly at night, would he grow especially quiet and thoughtful, mindful of the errant drafts. He'd take up residence in the evening on his favored spot on the balcony out of the way of the casual glances from anyone sitting inside, foregoing the evening chats. Marguerite would find him there and join him in quiet companionship.
Marguerite repaired clothing, ripped shirts being a major casualty of life on the plateau and caught up on her laundry. She was the most fastidious of the treehouse family. Her insistence on cleanliness, a habit which she developed at an early age, had stood her in good stead in her eventful life. Even when at her most down and out periods, presenting a well groomed appearance would lead potential marks to believe she wasn't desperate for the contents of their wallets, thus making it easier to separate them from their money.
Marguerite would accompany Roxton on his trips away from the treehouse, providing the additional lookout. Daytime, things were back to a fairly normal routine. Of course that was as normal was defined in the Lost World. But at nighttime Marguerite was aware of the strain. It was as if the air at night became heavier, more oppressive. And the breeze that would pick at loose papers, even tip over glasses, provided no relief to the stifling atmosphere.
Perhaps because she was surreptitiously watching Roxton for any signs of a return of the mental distress she'd found him in a few nights ago, she became aware of how Ned, sidelined with his injury, was studying his companions and the notes he was making in his journal. It made her uncomfortable to notice how frequently he watched her, a speculative look in his eyes.
"Well, if all he's going to do is write 'Dear diary, Miss Krux washed her socks today.' I don't suppose I can complain." Marguerite thought contemptuously. But still the uneasy feeling persisted as Malone sat and observed her. His watching made her feel like one of the animals the two scientists kept in the lab. She was edgy and the evenings made things worse.
By contrast, during the day, Roxton was making every effort to get things back to a normal footing resuming his usual bantering with its undercurrent of innuendo in respect to her, although she thought it seemed more friendly somehow, less biting.
One evening Veronica mentioned several unique varieties of what Summerlee had deemed 'extinct' plants. Summerlee considered them to have great potential for healing. Where the plants were found was a little distance away, so Challenger, Summerlee and Veronica decided to get an early start the next day to gather specimens.
Malone's foot was feeling better and Veronica was on the verge of asking him to join them when she realized that Malone was not only writing in his journal, he was recording his thoughts and ideas about the plateau in the form of a letter to his fiancé, Gladys, not sharing them with her. Malone had stepped away from the table where he'd been working and she wandered over to see how he was describing the plateau. In a few paragraphs her smile had been wiped away. Ned's portrait of Gladys was set out where he could look at it as he wrote. Veronica turned away, stung. After the attack by the raptors when Ned had asked if they could share another kiss, she had thought Ned had fallen out of love with his fiancé back in London. Now she realized that Ned was more than willing to keep two girls on the string and she felt betrayed.
Ned was oblivious to the hurt in Veronica's eyes and with new found confidence he decided that he'd help Roxton with the hunting. Generously, from his point of view, he informed Marguerite she should still tag along.
***
"That damned cave. – 'Xiechun-ne, king and master, ruler of all, sleeps here, his journey among men at an end.' How the hell can I know that?" Marguerite wandered the main floor of the treehouse, restless. The day, in some ways, had been typical of the plateau. She'd gone out with Roxton and Malone with the idea of hunting and collecting some fruit and they ended up being chased by a T-Rex. She'd been caught in the daily rain storm and found time for a bit of flirting with Roxton. All typical of what she had come to expect on the plateau, but for that tomb…
She had been used to picking up languages without much problem. But usually there was some frame of reference that she could tell herself was the reason she could translate so easily. That and that she simply had an aptitude for languages like she did for sewing. But this was different, as the words formed in her mind, she had no clue as to where they come from. The words from the image of her mother in that bloody cave echoed in her mind. "But then you were born, right away I knew there was something wrong with you – different, evil." This ability of hers seemed to prove out those words. Preoccupied with her thoughts she didn't notice the blouse she'd been mending tremble in the current of air that picked its way through the treehouse.
Marguerite bent her head and shut her eyes, willing the sounds and visions of that encounter away. Almost equally as troubling was the thought of what the forgotten tomb represented – their transitory existence on this earth. It had brought home to her that she could die without ever knowing who she was, without knowing why she had been brought up in such an unusual manner, or without knowing why she had the gift for languages that she did. Then, at the end of her life, to molder in a tomb or grave, forgotten. No one to be concerned that flowers were left or even that a marker was maintained as Roxton worried over his father's and brother's graves.
The weather was overcast, giving the day the feel of twilight. A breeze tugged at the shades that were lowered to keep out the persistent rain. She shivered, although it was warm and humid with the rain falling outside. Papers rustled on the nearby desk. Sadness pushed at her. It slipped under the guard she normally kept on her emotions. She felt hollow inside and the sadness filled the emptiness. When she considered her likely fate on this death trap that the plateau was she despaired over getting the answers that drove her here. Instead of learning who she was and who her parents were, all that was most likely in store for her was an anonymous grave that the jungle would shortly reclaim. The only thing that would be left of her was a few paragraphs in Malone's trite stories.
Speaking of which, she spied Malone's latest journal lying out. She listened for Malone and Roxton; they were in the lower level of the tree house where Roxton was looking for tools to repair one of the rifles. Malone tagged along with him, nattering away. Now was an opportunity to see what the nosy pest was up to. She channeled her sadness into anger. Unobserved a candle flame writhed in the wind.
The first paragraphs had her chuckling at the florid writing style. Her eyebrows rose to see what a hero, Edward T. Malone was. According to his account they were very lucky to have had him around when they encountered Tribune and the lizards, he'd practically took care of everything single-handedly.
***
"What the hell was I thinking?" Marguerite chided herself. She wasn't angry with herself about Malone. To her mind that bloody wet-behind-the-ears nuisance got what he deserved when she ripped his journals. He was lucky it was just the journals she ripped when he had the nerve to tell her she had no right to go through his books even though he was using her name without her consent in a book he planned on publishing. The way she saw it, Malone got off lightly.
No, what she was feeling guilty about was how she lashed out at Roxton. He came upon her when she was still fuming about Malone and still fretting over what it meant to be able to read the damned inscriptions in that tomb. She kept her anger in check with the use of cutting remarks and digs. But when he mentioned the tomb, she lost her temper; he had come too close to what troubled her, to the despair that ate at her. His threat to make her behave was more than she could take, it was the last straw. So she went after him with her best and deadliest weapon, her tongue. "Damn it, I've handled worse remarks. What is it about the man that lets him get under my skin so easily?"
She needed to burn off a little more of her anger. To her mind the target of that should be the one responsible for causing the latest eruption. Malone was at Xiechun-ne's tomb. She heard him tell Roxton where he was headed. So she set her sights on taking the insufferable nuisance down a peg or two. He was the one who deserved her anger. Strapping on her gun, she headed for the tomb of a once great king, ignoring her qualms at confronting the symbols of a lost language and her fears of being forgotten in death. She deliberately concealed her uneasiness with a mask of cool sarcasm.
***
Roxton was unable to stay inside, he felt closed in and restless; and somehow, although both Marguerite and Malone had left the treehouse, he felt as if he wasn't alone. Between the lowered shades and the rainy, overcast day the treehouse interior was only dimly lit. And in the darker recesses, from the corner of his eye it seemed as if he'd catch a movement. When he would look around, staring directly into the corners, there was nothing to be seen. He had enough of starting at shadows. Strapping on his holster and picking up his rifle, he stepped onto the elevator.
He decided to scout the area around the treehouse. As they needed the meat he was deliberating clearing some of the smaller game out of their immediate vicinity. If the small game wasn't near the treehouse the larger predators would be less likely to come around as well. That was what he told himself he was doing, but when the pig-like, collared peccary started from the brush and disappeared without him getting a shot off, he knew what he was really doing was brooding.
"I should have stopped pushing Marguerite when I saw how she reacted when I mentioned the tomb." It was obviously a sore spot and she had pushed back. But stubbornly he wouldn't let it go and then tried to tell her she was going to behave. "What the hell did you expect her to do? Meekly agree? You knew she was too much a spitfire to do that. Hell, if she wasn't such a virago, you wouldn't want her so much." What he couldn't get over was how much what she said hurt. Not because he hadn't heard worse from others, but because it came from her.
***
Neither Marguerite or Roxton would have wanted to hear Summerlee's assessment, if he had been at the treehouse to make it. He might point out that it's those closest to our hearts that have the most power to hurt with words. That we only demand perfection from those we hold close.
***
Roxton shook his head to clear out the troubling thoughts and then stood still, to study the trail, looking and listening for signs of their next meal. The shout from the west had him wheeling around, pinpointing the source, and he was off at a dead run. He was sure the scream he heard was Marguerite's.
***
Marguerite sighed as they began the long trudge back to the treehouse. On the plus side it had stopped raining, the sun was filtering through the trees, and they'd saved Summerlee, Challenger, and Veronica. It was good to leave the Christecs settlement behind. She had managed an apology to Roxton, although she still felt she owed him something more. She sensed he was still troubled.
"And of course, I went running when I heard Marguerite scream." Malone was recounting his recent role in their encounter with the Christecs. He was walking with Veronica who was leading them back.
"As a gentleman naturally would," Summerlee responded approvingly. He and Challenger were close behind the young couple. Marguerite followed the scientists and she was aware of Roxton a few steps behind her acting as rearguard.
"According to Darak, Jante was a pretty good fighter, and you defeated him. Not bad, Ned." Veronica commented impressed with the image of Ned beating one of the Christecs' soldiers.
Ned glanced back and saw Marguerite lift her eyebrow, amused, remembering him getting knocked around the jungle, waiting for him to correct the misapprehension. With a sigh, Malone looked forward again and admitted, "Actually, Roxton was the one who knocked him out."
Marguerite grinned, taking the wind out of Malone's sails was at least a little bit of payback. Malone had insisted on being thanked for his efforts in attempting to save her from that maniac – funny, he never thanked her for rescuing him from that raptor. "Typical of the egocentric pest. He sees himself as hero, and doesn't want to admit when he had to be saved. Well, he got his reward, he now knows about my gift of languages. And, of course, that means everyone else will, since he doesn't keep anything in confidence."
Marguerite shied away mentally from what her gift meant, and the unaccountable sadness she felt when she thought of the abandoned tomb. "Malone had copied down some of the symbols, not as a way of remembering Xiechun-ne, but as another exciting adventure of the brave Ned Malone." She was ready to unleash her temper with him all over again when she thought of how he was so hypocritical as to accuse her of violating his privacy when he decided he had the right to put her in his damned book. "The hell with ripping them, I should use his bloody journals as tinder for the treehouse cooking fires."
Her brooding was interrupted as Summerlee made a request. "I was wondering, Veronica, do you think we can still pick up the plants we collected, before our … little side journey? Our medicine cabinet could use the help those plants might provide. I'd like to make a salve for that cut you received on your arm."
"I think so, Professor, it's not much of a detour." Veronica was anxious to get home, but she did like to accommodate Summerlee. He was like a genial grandfather she never had the opportunity to know when growing up.
"I suppose you'll still want to drag that blasted orchid back as well." Challenger remarked. He didn't want Summerlee to get the impression that the experiences of the trial and near execution had mellowed him.
"Beauty heals in its own way." Summerlee replied.
With six of them to carry the plants Summerlee had found, they made short work of the trip back reaching the treehouse by late afternoon. Summerlee and Challenger debating over how the arguments to defeat Tolmac could have been improved kept other conversation to a minimum.
Watching the trail and making sure they weren't followed was second nature to Roxton. He had plenty of time to consider Marguerite's words that had caused him such pain and her subsequent apology. He was dreading the coming evening. In the sunlight he could scoff at himself, and tell himself he was imagining things, but when the light faded he sensed William's presence, waiting for him. He just wasn't sure what William wanted. If only he could find some way to acknowledge him, let William know he was sorry. It wouldn't relieve his guilt, but it would help to think he had given William some peace, acknowledged his failure to his brother.
Alone with her thoughts, Marguerite couldn't stop thinking about the tomb. It was ironic in a way. She was afraid of being forgotten when she died, and Roxton couldn't forget his brother who had died. Maybe what she needed was a bit of karma. If she could pay tribute to one who had been lost to memory as well as others who had been important to her, but hadn't survived, perhaps when her time came, someone might do the same for her.
***
"So, Roxton, how do you feel about overturning the theocratic-political structure of an ancient culture?" Marguerite asked as they rode up together the elevator to the treehouse. The others had preceded them up to the treehouse with the largesse provided by the plateau that they'd carted back.
"I feel better about it than I would have if Challenger and Summerlee hadn't survived." Roxton took a practical view of the matter.
Marguerite shrugged. "You have a point."
"I wonder what kind of burial they'll give Tolmac?" He felt a twinge at having been the executioner; taking a life shouldn't be easy, even the life of one who was intent on killing others.
"Does it make any difference?" Marguerite looked ahead, not meeting Roxton's eyes. "We both saw that even if you were the most important person to your people, the Ruler of All, you end up forgotten. Memories are fleeting."
"There are some who shouldn't be forgotten, won't be forgotten, at least not by those to whom they mattered." Roxton looked at his companion knowing this was important to her. "What does it signify if the rest of the world cares or not?"
At Roxton's words Marguerite's thoughts went to persons in her past. A singer in a tawdry bar, a street rat. People who would be disdained by her current companions. She looked at Roxton and saw the anguish in his eyes and knew he mourned again for his brother and his father. Once more she felt the guilt pull at her for her angry words.
"And they're thousands of miles away, no way to remember them here." Her voice was forlorn.
Roxton nodded at her words. "There is no monument, no memorial here."
Marguerite looked away for a moment and said, "I wonder….", as a solution occurred to her. Then in a seeming non sequitur she gazed steadily into his eyes said, "I'm going to take some flowers to Xiechun-ne's tomb. She saw a bit of understanding seep into his expression, and maybe a bit of peace. He realized that she was thinking that Xiechun-ne's tomb could be a memorial here on the plateau for those they lost.
Glancing about the treehouse great room he saw the others were already busy with their own interests. Challenger was working on the gramophone, Ned was writing in his journal, and Veronica and Summerlee were potting the orchid that had been the bone of contention between the two professors.
"You shouldn't go alone. I'll watch your back while you gather those flowers." Roxton suggested. He knew what she was doing, both a peace offering for the pain she caused and a way to let him express his sorrow. He appreciated her allowing him to retain his façade of strength.
***
Marguerite and Roxton paused at the cave entrance. Roxton lit a torch, hesitated, and then stepped forward. The cave had been left open and he wanted to make sure nothing else beside Xiechun-nehad taken up residence, before they ventured too far in. However it wasn't a potential encounter with a raptor that required all his courage to enter the dimly lit tomb; it was something more nebulous. But he had a responsibility to guard Marguerite, and if William wished a confrontation, well, he owed him that.
Marguerite with the bouquet of flowers gathered under Roxton's watchful eye followed him in. He stuck the torch in the crevice near the burial throne and took up his sentinel position, one booted foot resting on the step near the throne, his rifle leaning against his thigh. She walked forward and removed her hat in a deliberate gesture of respect and then slowly laid the flowers at the king's feet. The bright colors of the flowers caught the torch light.
She intentionally caught Roxton's eyes. In her face he could see the regret and the empathy. His face reflected gratitude and the promise of remembrance. They held each other's eyes. The silent exchange went on for a long moment His pain eased a bit. Then she looked at the remains of Xiechun-ne upon his throne, still majestic in death, grateful to the 'Ruler of All' that he had given them both this opportunity to express remorse and to honor their own lost ones.
Marguerite replaced her hat and rose. Roxton hefted his gun back to his shoulder. Before he could pick up the torch, it flickered as if in a draft. He glanced at the cave opening, the sun had set and dusk had fallen on the plateau. No breeze wafted in from outside. Marguerite looked around the cave; it had seemed as if she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.
Roxton looked at her questioningly.
"Nothing. Must be a trick of the light," she said without a great deal of confidence.
Roxton stood still and studied the shadows in the wavering light of the torch. Then he bent down and lifted up one of the blue flowers from the bunch at the foot of the skeletal king. He looked again into the shadows and then studied the flower.
Dimly remembered from her time as a medium, Marguerite recalled what one old spiritualist had told her about sympathetic magic. Her elderly mentor, unlike Marguerite, was a believer. She maintained that names had special powers. Marguerite spied Malone's journal and pencil, abandoned when he went to her aid. She tore out a piece of paper and wrote the names of those she wanted to remember. She didn't show it to Roxton; this was a private acknowledgement. Folding it in half she took one of the red flowers from the bouquet at the king's feet, and put it and the folded piece of paper on a rocky ledge, tucked behind the throne where it wouldn't be found if anyone else entered the tomb. She handed the journal to Roxton.
He nodded, somehow understanding what she was doing and wrote William's name on a page. He carefully tore it out and folding it around the stem of the flower he held, he gathered his courage and stepped into the deepest shadows to place the memorial where no one might disturb it. The torch flame danced wildly. Roxton stood there a long moment before he stepped back next to Marguerite.
"Et dormiunt in somno pacis." Marguerite wasn't quite what sure why she said the words 'and sleep in the sleep of peace' in Latin or why she said them with such conviction.
Roxton looked at her, he knew enough Latin from Harrow to understand what she had said, and then peered into the shadows. There was nothing to be seen, but it felt as if the shadows sighed. The torch nearly went out; Marguerite and Roxton gasped for air. The torch flickered once more and then was snuffed out. There was no sound, not even the normal sounds of birds and insects from outside the tomb. A shadow covered the narrow opening of the cave. The darkness of the cave closed in upon them; it was absolute. Although they stood next to each other, it was as if each was alone. The pressure in the cave grew. It felt as if they had dove into the water too deep. Instinctively they extended their hands towards each other and at the touch of fingers, urgently clasped hands.
They craved the tangible reminder of the other's presence. They clung to each other's hand. Then it was as if the cave shuddered, freeing the presence that overwhelmed it. The pressure eased. Air once again filled the tomb. The sounds of the jungle in the evening could be heard. The dusky light of the jungle twilight was visible in the opening to the cave. Roxton and Marguerite looked at their clasped hands. As their eyes met, Marguerite pulled her hand away. Roxton turned without a word and relit the torch. The flame burned steadily. With some trepidation they scrutinized the cave; the deep shadows of the cave seem to hold nothing more then they should. They waited long moments. The flame on the torch burned on without any unusual movement.
Roxton pulled the torch out of the crevice and turned to let Marguerite precede him so he could keep an eye on her, if necessary shield her from whatever might remain in the cave. His duty was once more focused on the living. Outside the cave entrance, without a word, they both tugged at the stone so it once more blocked the opening giving back to Xiechun-ne his secure resting place, free from intruders.
They stood silently in the waning light looking at the closed tomb, offering their silent goodbyes to those departed. The specters of the past seemed at rest. Marguerite sighed. Roxton cocked his head to be sure of her mood.
"Care to accompany me and see what Summerlee has come up with for dinner?" Roxton's voice was bantering as he offered his elbow in mock formality. It seemed the right time to try and lighten their spirits.
"How can I resist such a charming invitation?" Marguerite matched his tone and with equal playfulness placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
The two turned towards the treehouse, a sense of balance and at least some peace of mind restored. For now.
finis
Author's Notes:
The Latin phrase Marguerite uses was taken from the prayer for the Commemoration of the Dead.
Cave of Fear excerpt: While searching for sulfur to make gunpowder, Challenger, Veronica, and Ned violate a Manuin burial ground. Challenger is captured. Veronica and Ned get Roxton, Marguerite, and Summerlee to help rescue Challenger. Lady Yorkton, queen of the Manuins and romantically interested in Challenger, sets a task for the others to retrieve her husband's bones from a taboo cave.
Ned is bitten by a raptor. Veronica stays behind to protect Ned. Marguerite and Roxton enter a cave filled with a fungus that causes visions. Marguerite sees her mother who convinces her to attempt suicide. Roxton sees his brother he accidentally killed on safari. His brother plays on John Roxton's guilt and nearly leads him into falling into a fissure. He's saved by Summerlee. Roxton saves Marguerite. They return the bones and save Challenger.
Salvation excerpt: After saving a young girl from drowning Summerlee and Challenger are captured by a religious cult and are about to be executed as witches despite Challenger's spirited defense. Veronica has escaped and is heading back to the treehouse. She's chased by several Christec warriors led by Darak.
Marguerite, Roxton and Malone discover a tomb when escaping a T-rex. In the tomb Marguerite translates the inscriptions to the others' amazement. Later, Marguerite reveals to Roxton her fears of being forgotten after her death. Ned discovers Marguerite reading his journals, refuses to say he'll leave her out of his writings. Marguerite rips the offending pages out of his journal. He tries to attack her and is stopped by Roxton.
After Roxton lectures Malone, he goes to find Marguerite to tell her not to bait Malone. She tries to turn him away, he pushes. She snaps back at him with a comment about shooting his brother. He's visibly hurt by it. Then Marguerite tracks down Ned at the tomb. baits him, and he fires back verbally. Upon leaving the tomb, a Christec warrior who'd been tracking Veronica attacks Marguerite. She screams. Ned rushes to her aid, but is overmatched against the warrior. Roxton overpowers the Christec attacking Ned.
Marguerite has figured out they have Veronica. Under guard the Christec is leading them back to his settlement. Ned demands an expression of gratitude, and gets Marguerite to tell him about her incredible gift of languages. Marguerite apologizes to Roxton for her comment about his brother.
When they reach the Christec settlement, they discover that the Christecs are burning at the stake the young girl who is Darak's daughter, Summerlee and Challenger. Darak has just arrived with Veronica as his captive. Roxton shoots the high priest, ending the sacrifice at the stake. Summerlee, Challenger, and Veronica are freed.