A Tiny Problem
Chapter 10: Searching
Somewhere in the jungle canopy, Marguerite found herself suspended upside down, her legs tangled in the tendrils of a maracuya vine. Coming to her senses, it was the delicious aroma of ripening fruit that she noticed first. Next, she became aware of the painful wrenching sensation in her knees. Finally, blinking, she realized that her dress was hanging over her head like a veil. She had never been described as a modest woman, but even in the jungle she felt there were certain standards that really ought to be maintained. She struggled to push the fistfuls of silk out of her face and attempted to extricate her ensnared limbs.
"Could this day get any better?"
She had a splitting headache and every part of her tiny body felt like it was on fire. At least nothing appears to be broken, she thought, though she was sure she would have an assortment of bumps and bruises to show for her fall. She could not remember tumbling out of Roxton's holster, or her descent through the canopy, but she was fairly certain she knew what must have happened.
Roxton. He's going to be furious, she thought to herself. He'll never let me live this one down. The man will be insufferable! She imagined his haughty smirk and smiled despite herself. She never doubted for an instant that he would come looking for her. But finding her would be next to impossible. The reality dawned on her. She was alone, and she would have to find her own way back through the jungle barefoot, bruised, and hopelessly disoriented. Not to mention the fact that I would make the perfect snack for any creepy crawly nightmare that happens to come along! Her pistol and her knife were back at the treehouse. She had no food, no water, no map, and no compass. She was no more than a few hours from the treehouse as the crow flies, she was sure, but she had never even seen this valley before, except from the air. A lot of good that will do me now.
Roxton was right, it was a terrible mistake to come along in the balloon, she realized. What was I thinking? Couldn't he have pressed his case a little harder? The irony of this thought was not lost on her. Paradoxically, she had to admit to herself that she had only been so insistent on accompanying them because of her unwavering confidence in his ability to keep her safe. It was an uncomfortable revelation. This is what happens when you depend on others to protect you, Marguerite, she chided herself. You should have learned this lesson long ago.
She was cross with Roxton for making it so easy to rely on him, though she was far angrier at having allowed herself to become so dependent in the first place. Yet, her fury quickly subsided. She would gladly trade any of the gems in her collection—yes, even the green sapphire, she admitted, though perhaps not the pink diamond—for a glimpse of him now, racing to her rescue, even if it meant she would be required to listen to yet another condescending lecture on jungle safety. Dangling helplessly from the vine, she felt more exposed and vulnerable than she ever had in her life. This is definitely worse than Monte Carlo, she cursed her current predicament. It's probably worse than Shanghai. It might even be worse than Ypres, she thought for a moment. No, she corrected herself, nothing could be worse than Ypres. Her fury was quickly replaced by fear. I don't want to die like this, she suddenly thought. John will never forgive himself. And I can't leave things like this with Veronica. It was a new sensation, the idea that she needed to live for someone other than herself. In the past, her own survival had always been a perfectly sufficient and uncomplicated motivation. It felt strange to shoulder such an obligation now.
From this perspective, dangling somewhere between the jungle canopy and the forest floor, her surroundings looked completely unfamiliar. The brilliant purple and white flower that bloomed beside her on the vine looked utterly alien, its anthers glowing gold with pollen. The waxy petals seemed so impossibly large.
Suddenly, a twig somewhere to her left appeared to turn toward her. She realized, horrified, that it was not a twig at all. The mantis, perfectly camouflaged, twitched its mandibles and took a cautious step in her direction. She struggled to free herself with a renewed sense of urgency.
An overwhelming feeling of terror at her current predicament had gradually been creeping up on her, and she knew it would swallow her whole if she let it, but Marguerite would not give up without a fight. She was steeling herself for what she was sure would be an arduous struggle with the approaching insect when she thought she heard a familiar voice echoing up from the undergrowth. Suddenly, she found her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely listen over the thundering in her ears.
She gripped the vine tightly and shouted his name as she scanned the area below, but her view was largely obscured by leaves of varying shapes and sizes. The distance to the ground was difficult to judge. Still, she could sense that he was out there, somewhere, looking for her. She was surprised to find that it gave her hope. In the past, whenever she had found herself in a similarly perilous situation—too many times, she thought—she had simply expected the worst. That way, when the worst inevitably happened, she was at least prepared. Anything that went better than anticipated was merely a pleasant surprise. She had never allowed herself the luxury of hope. Hope is for people who lack the fortitude to accept reality. She trusted in nothing but her own courage and stamina. Yet, now, here she was, helpless and hopeful. She hardly recognized her own feelings. It was even more disorienting than the unfathomable scale of the jungle around her.
Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, she drew in a deep breath. First thing's first, she told herself, her limbs finally disentangled, I need to find a way down. Roxton will never find me up here. No sooner had she finished the thought than a black and yellow bird with a long, thick bill perched on the other side of her, no doubt drawn by the tart yellow fruit hanging between them. The bird was rather small, but the force of its landing shook the vine, knocking Marguerite backward as she fell. Not again! It was all she could think as she felt herself cartwheeling through the air.
Roxton pushed through the undergrowth with a singular determination. The stand of Sumaumeira would be harder to spot from the ground, he knew, despite the enormous girth of their trunks. He listened for the stream that he was sure was nearby.
So far, he had seen no sign of their mysterious assailants. No tracks, no trails. For one brief instant he thought he might have heard a human voice. He had frozen at the sound, standing absolutely still for nearly three full minutes, but, hearing no further noise that he could identify as human, he eventually continued.
Nearly two hours later, Roxton was almost completely certain that he was standing more or less directly below the spot where Marguerite had fallen from the balloon. If the situation were different, he might have taken a moment to appreciate the fact that against all odds he had somehow found this place. A needle in a bloody haystack. As it was, however, there was little to celebrate. Now the real challenge begins.
"Marguerite!" He called, his voice hoarse with emotion.
He knew there was a chance—a good chance—that whoever had attacked them earlier might be listening, but his concerns were outweighed by even the remote possibility that she might somehow hear him.
"Marguerite! Marguerite!" He sounded desperate and cross, even to his own ears.
He stopped shouting and listened for a reply. The jungle thrummed with the buzzing and chirping of a thousand invisible creatures. Marguerite's voice, if she heard him, was not discernable above the din. He began to scour the forest floor for any sign of her, expanding his search pattern in a widening spiral. For the remainder of the afternoon, he methodically investigated every overturned leaf and fallen twig. It was a Sisyphean task, but he would not give up. He tried not to dwell on the parallels to the incident involving the shimmering portals, but the same impotent feeling hung over him. No, this is different, he repeated to himself, she may be well and truly lost but at least she hasn't just vanished into thin air. She's alive, I know she's alive. And she's here … somewhere … I can feel it. And as long as she's here and I'm here I can find her. I will find her.
He paused as he inspected his first and only clue: an arrow lying in the leaf litter. Turning it over in his hands, he noticed how the wooden shaft narrowed to a thin tip. The distinctive fletching—thick brown feathers with white bands—was instantly familiar. It was undoubtedly the handiwork of their camouflaged attackers. As a precaution, he scanned the undergrowth, but the only movement he saw was the rustling of leaves in the light breeze.
Why on earth did I allow her to come in the balloon? What was I thinking? He knew exactly what he had been thinking. Damn it, that woman needs to learn that she can't just do as she pleases, consequences be damned. Next time, I'm going to put my foot down. He wanted to believe that this was true, both that there would be a 'next time' and that he would be able to make her see things his way. The right way.
"Headstrong. Stubborn. Impulsive. Reckless. Obstinate. Willful. Impossible!" He hadn't realized he was muttering under his breath. It occurred to him that he might as well be describing himself. He smiled for the first time in hours.
He wasn't really cross with her. Well, maybe a little cross. More than anyone he blamed himself. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to her scheme. He had consented to carry her. He had even volunteered his empty holster. And he had lost her. Now, it was up to him to get her back. How Marguerite, at three inches tall, had somehow cowed the rest of them into taking her along remained a mystery. She doesn't even have her boots. He was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation. And she's wearing a damned scarf for a dress! Bloody ridiculous is what it is.
A half-eaten passion fruit dropped from the canopy above him, spilling its jelly-green seeds. He looked up and saw a toucan-like bird take flight. Just a bird, he thought to himself, but the dangers of the jungle were manifold, as he was well aware. Ordinarily, he knew Marguerite could handle herself. She was no great tracker, but she had a steady arm, and her aim was true more often than not. She was easily a better shot than either of the professors, and in a brawl she was at least as reliable as Malone, though Veronica was clearly a better fighter. Although he had initially been dismissive of the idea of a woman accompanying them up the Amazon, he had to admit that he was impressed by how well Marguerite could handle herself in a fistfight. Why, I've seen her take down an apeman with her bare fist! How many ladies in London could do the same? He smiled, for he knew the answer. Marguerite has no equal. She was a genuinely dangerous opponent, and he found it to be a remarkable aphrodisiac. But now, unarmed and undersized, she was vulnerable. I have to find her before something else does.
He continued to search even as the sun began to sink beyond the horizon. As night fell, he knew it would be impossible to continue in the dark. Earlier in the day, he had decided against building a fire, hoping that it would be unnecessary and fearing that it would draw out the mysterious attackers who had so far failed to reveal themselves. Now, however, he was questioning that decision. If a fire would reveal my position to them, it might just do the same for Marguerite. He knew that the setting of the sun would bring all manner of new, nocturnal dangers for her. But, more than anything, he hated the helpless feeling of doing nothing. If he could not continue his search, at least he could wait for her—or them—to come to him. And so, in the dying light, he set about gathering kindling.
In the windmill clearing, Challenger was deflating the balloon after their return. His shoulder was still rather sore where his flesh had been ripped by the arrow, but he was perfectly capable of securing the basket and disconnecting the reaction chamber. Finn and Veronica had gone ahead to the treehouse with the last of the half-dozen crystal samples they had retrieved.
Apart from a scuffle with a small band of apemen, the remainder of their voyage had been largely uneventful. Thinking back on it, he realized that such simian encounters had become rather a rarity of late. It's been months since we came across a truly numerous shrewdness, he thought. Recalling the relentless menace the apes had been in their first few weeks on the plateau, terrorizing them at practically every turn, he wondered what might account for their sudden disappearance. Is it us? Have we hunted them to extinction? He sincerely hoped this was not the case, even as he recognized the irony of the thought. True, the apemen had been a constant threat, but they were also a scientific marvel. Imagine, finding a lost world where such creatures have survived for millennia only to drive them to oblivion before I can prove their existence to the world. He found the notion deeply disconcerting.
His mind then wandered to the familiar matter of how he was going to explain the wonders of the lost world on their return to London. The particularities of this problem had plagued him since they first landed on the plateau. He felt the weight of this burden keenly, and it followed him like a shadow. Indeed, it had been his primary motivation in building the diminution beam. He simply could not return empty-handed, he was sure. No, he had asked four strangers to risk life and limb to prove his point. Summerlee had died for it. The rest of them had come awfully close more times than he could count. He would not, could not let their struggle and sacrifice be for naught. But what evidence could possibly persuade the world of the existence of such fantastical beasts? He wondered. Malone had come along to serve as an impartial observer, but the tales in his journals would seem far-fetched without concrete proof. Yet, Challenger recognized that had no photographs of the apes, no furs, and certainly no live specimens.
Now, for the first time, he considered the quandary from another perspective. If I do somehow succeed in persuading those small-minded dotards of the Zoological Society of the validity of my findings, there will undoubtedly be a return expedition. Larger, better equipped, it would surely be only the first of many. In bringing it to the attention of the outside world, I may yet be responsible for the desecration of this sublime plateau. And what of the people who live here? By god, how many lost civilizations have we already transformed forever through our contact? He remembered their encounters with the Christeks, the Tintas, the Amazons, and a host of others. Am I to be remembered as a discoverer or a destroyer of worlds?
Lost in his thoughts, Challenger did not notice that the evening air had become suddenly still. Drawn by the faint smell of dried blood that lingered on his linen jacket, three raptors had trained their yellow eyes the professor.
From the workbench below the treehouse, Finn and Veronica heard the report of a rifle in the clearing.
"Challenger!" They exclaimed in unison and set off at a sprint.
They found him ducking defensively inside the basket of the balloon, one raptor snarling in an effort to sink its teeth into his wounded shoulder while another clawed ferociously at the wicker frame. Challenger swung at them both with the butt of his rifle. The third creature swept its tail and lowered its head, charging Veronica as she burst into the clearing. It was quickly and expertly dispatched by a small, spear-pointed blade that sung through the air before finding its mark. A bolt from Finn's crossbow stilled the beast that had been shredding the basked of the balloon, but the final raptor succeeded in locking its jaws around Challenger's arm. The pain was blinding as it pulled him over the brim.
Finn fired another bolt, but it went wide. Veronica, without a moment's hesitation, slashed her knife across the side of the creature as it began to shake the professor in an effort to tear his flesh. She knew her strike would not be fatal, but it succeeded in diverting the beast's attention. She backed away as it turned its sights on her. The momentary distraction gave Finn enough time to reload. A split second later, the beast lay twitching on the ground, a short metal bolt protruding from its eye.
"Challenger, are you alright?" Veronica stumbled over to where he lay on the grass, clutching his bloody shoulder.
"Rather worse for wear, I'm afraid, but still in one piece," he replied, obviously in agony.
She examined his arm. Rivulets of blood were streaming from a semicircular row of deep puncture wounds.
"We need to get back to the treehouse. Now!"
To be continued …