BLACK FEATHERS, GOLDEN WING
( 1905 – SUMMER )
India rushed by the gap where a window was meant to sit. James leaned into the roar of wind keeping pace with the train, hand tightly curled around the safety bar. He let the world coat him in dust and rain, indulging in its sickening heat which, for the last week, made the whole world drip.
The jungle thickened, twisting into a tunnel that inched closer as every mile steamed by. It threatened to consume their train which served as the only hint of civilisation. Wherever the jungle ended it was replaced by cliffs and banks of black rock. Stretches of horizon peaked out to reveal mountains thrust up in walls against the sky. It was an ancient place of violence covered by a fragile layer of peace.
Sherlock Holmes shared no such desire to immerse himself in the world.
"You shall lose a head like that, Doctor Watson," the consulting detective remarked, straightening his teacup which seemed insistent on shuffling ever closer to the table's edge. The train continued to rock backward and forward in a war between its wheels and the track. "Tedious way to travel. Last time I was on a train, the entirely of its passengers murdered one of the other patrons. Did I ever tell you about -"
"Yes... a thousand times," James fell back into his seat, wet hair plastered to his forehead. It made him look a decade younger if not a little wild. During their six weeks at sea he had let his beard grow into a thick bush. James was certain he now knew all of Mr. Holme's cases by heart and in the most minute detail. "Unless you have designs on my life, please can we stick to the case at hand?"
Sherlock looked quite put out. In his opinion, this whole expedition was entirely lacking of that crucial component – a case and he wished that his companion would stop referring to it as such.
"There has been no murder," he protested, hunting out another cube of sugar for his tea.
"Dozens of murders -"
"-eight is not 'dozens'." The crystal cube plopped into the tea and fizzed.
"Eight is still more than your precious Nile adventure." James twitched. He could hear the sugar being ground into the fine bone china by Sherlock's indelicate spoon. The man did not possess a hint of subtlety.
"My dear Mr Watson, they are brutal accidents at best, foolish misadventure more likely. Murder is something of an entirely different nature. Druitt could teach you a thing or two about the difference."
"Pass..." How the man sat there in no less than four layers of coats and shirts was beyond all normal lines of reason. The heat was unbearable, even in the comfort of their second class carriage. James was quite a different picture. His loose cotton shirt was open to the waist, tucked into grey linen trousers that were irrevocably crushed from days of travel. He'd rolled them to his knees in a fashion that made Sherlock sneer at them every hour or so.
"We do not fill newspapers, fear to tread the streets or obsess over accidents. We cry and forget them. It is only the truly evil acts that are burned into our minds. John... he captivated a nation."
"With fear," James clarified.
"It doesn't matter what with... He held them in the palm of his hand. That is power – and unravelling such power is the greatest of accomplishments. It is a hunt."
"And what am I, your hound?"
Sherlock scoffed.
James's deep eyes flicked up, very nearly brooding. "You dragged me here," James reminded him. "Let's not be indelicate as to why. We're chasing a two thousand year old myth – at the wrong end of the continent, I might add."
James was unsettled by the soft laughter spilling from the other man's lips.
"I am here, Dr Watson," he explained, taking another sip of tea while inspecting the scones, "because people are dying and no-one knows why."
The train took them as far as the village. It was a hike from there.
Their team of twelve men, half as many women, a few children and a lumbering elephant were near indistinguishable against the forest. James and Sherlock tagged onto the back of the supply group which regularly serviced several tea plantations in the mountains.
James stumbled over the ground, losing his footing in the leaf litter. He was unsteady because his head was always tilted up toward the sky. The trees that towered overhead were the tallest he had ever seen. It was colder up here. Mist was rising with them, sitting on their waists. Everything in this world was abnormal – from the elephant breaking through the undergrowth in front, ridden by one of the workers to the tinniest insect trying to drill into his skin – this place was incredible.
"Oh Helen would love this," James whispered. He had not heard anyone raise their voice above a whisper since they'd left the train. "Only a fraction of the world has been recorded – a tiny fraction," he marvelled.
"A large portion of that tiny fraction is of the opinion you'd make an excellent snack."
"Holmes, don't ruin this for me."
Sherlock's eyes alternated between his feet and the faces of the convoy. He never missed a step as he hunted for fear on their tanned faces.
"The two gentleman carrying sacks of rice are stealing," Sherlock observed casually, falling into step with James. "An excellent scam. Every time we stop they transfer a little rice into the children's bags and add a few small river stones to keep the weight even."
"Sherlock..." James warned, holding the man's wiry wrist before he could approach them. "It's not our place to say anything – indeed – neither of us speak the language well enough to communicate beyond embarrassing hand – Sherlock..." James could only sigh as Sherlock slipped free, hunting over to the thieves.
He cased them for a while – stalking them like a predator might shadow its prey.
James muttered to himself, strategically distancing himself from what was likely going to be a nasty display. Distracted by an unusual bend in the heavy branches of a tree, James diverted toward the edge of the track, partly vanishing into the foliage. He could hear the rest of the party quite clearly and didn't worry as the rest of the forest bared down onto him, enveloping him in its sweet shade.
A low, wide, stunted tree with three load-bearing forks shuddered as creatures ran about inside its foliage. James recognised the happy chatter of monkeys and approached. All of his dealings thus far with monkeys had involved them scampering off with buttons from his suit and a rather valuable pocket watch, all of which was no doubt passed on to their masters.
These monkeys had no masters. They were wild with soft grey and blond fur and pink faces. Each had whiskers like a cat and a thin, white moustache over their upper lip. Their noses were drawn out and flat but their eyes more than made up for it, enormous and green, rimmed by black.
One of them, a male, climbed up onto a branch in full view of Watson. The monkey sat down and appeared to consider his genetic cousin, his tail curling around the branch. James was fascinated by the monkey's hands – near perfect copies of his own. The resemblance sent a shiver through his body.
"I see you there," he whispered to the creature.
The monkey continued to stare, neither afraid nor curious enough to approach. Their mutual intrigue was disturbed by another monkey's shriek. It fell from the tree, landing on the leaf litter amidst howls. The creature rolled around, clutching at a shoulder that no longer bared an arm. Something had torn it free – not long ago.
"Holy..." James stumbled back and bounced off a large, Indian man's chest.
A gunshot ended the wails. Another man emerged, rifle in hand which he slowly lowered. The monkeys fled, scampering away into the jungle.
"Seen three this week past," the ranger explained, his English accented but smooth. The side of his neck was burned, the pale skin shrivelled and healed long ago. "Snakes too, with spines half-ripped from their bodies. Something nasty is into the wildlife of late. If I were you, Englishman, I'd not wander so far from the group."
James managed a nod, stumbling away form the twitching body of the monkey.
The terrain steepened, weaving through a mountain pass that hugged a series of cliffs. The elephants struggled, lumbering along with the children asleep on their backs. Down again, they came upon fresh water streams riddled with fish. Already they could see wild camellia trees dotting the landscape and beyond this the hills were a deep, vibrant green. Tea plantations.
Sherlock fell back into step beside Watson.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
Sherlock smirked back. "Always so suspicious."
"It comes from spending too much time in your company," he pointed out. "I know what happens when you lack a chaperone."
"Hearsay, my dear Watson. Nothing more."
They traversed a rotten rope bridge scant feet above the water whilst the elephants and their keepers cut directly through the river. Watson kept a tight grip of the ancient rope, disturbed by its creaks of displeasure.
"French," James nodded over at the ranger, taking point ahead of them. The strong yet lean man had already reached the jungle on the other side, pacing in front of it while the others made their crossing.
"James, we've been with the man several day's hike and you've only now noticed that he's French?"
"It's the first time I've heard him speak," James muttered hurriedly. His feet were sliding over the rotting boards and the bridge shuddered and swayed, groaning. "Do you think he's one of the private contractors we were reading about? Foreign protection hired by the tea masters to protect their supply routes?"
"Have you ever seen a security detail engage with their surrounds as keenly as our frog?" Sherlock pointed out. Their ranger was sharp, inspecting every detail of the jungle too intently for someone hunting thieves. "He's turned a blind eye to the corruption inside the caravan and is unperturbed by the small band of miscreants tracking us."
"The what?" James hissed in alarm.
"Several miles back – raucous lot, not much of a threat though I'd sleep with your rucksack close."
James frowned. Holmes was a disconcerting gentleman. "I'm not sure I like the idea of being followed by – oh Holmes," James sighed, as Sherlock withdrew a long walking cane from his pack, "I thought you left that in London. Do you know how ridiculous you look with that thing?"
"I look ever so slightly crippled – which is quite the point."
"For the benefit of our friends at the tea establishment, I presume." Sherlock nodded. "You know, Sherlock, this might turn out to be a run of the mill animal attack – no foul play to speak of."
"James, in all my years I have never happened upon a place devoid of mischief."
"'cause it follows you around..." James hissed, slipping on the muddy bank as he departed the bridge. Sherlock merely stabbed the sludge with his cane and alighted gracefully. Bastard.