Onboard Crowley's jet, currently ferrying the last of the convicts, as well as Woundwort, Vervain and Crowley himself across the Channel, Lucy sat handcuffed to a seat. After waking up from what she assumed had been a drug-induced sleep, she'd found herself airborne, her captors apparently having decided to relocate, their destination unknown.
She had been most discouraged when she realised she was now all alone; all of her fellow captives were nowhere to be seen and no one would tell her what they'd done with them or where they were taking her. However, the malicious look on the thugs' faces, particularly Vervain's, made her fear the worst. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do for them anymore but hope that maybe some of them had managed to escape or had been saved. Right now, she had to focus on her own problems, namely escaping.
Lucy knew her dad would be coming for her sooner or later; he and her Uncle Hazel would move Frith and Inle to find her if they had to, and she knew it. However, she couldn't just sit tight, waiting to be saved. Not again. One of the many things her father had taught her was that, whenever you found yourself in a tight scrape, one couldn't rely on anyone other than himself to get out of it. The days when she was the helpless kidnap victim in the hands of Robbins were over; she would get out of this, somehow, and return to her father. First, she had to consider her options.
Obviously, there was no hope of escaping while she was still up in the air. But this plane had to land sometime and when it did, she would be ready to make her move: either make a break for it and hope to make her way back home, however that was possible, or else try and find a way to lead her father to her. And in order to do that, she had to find out where they were going. That was why she kept her ears wide open, eavesdropping on every word that was being said up front.
In the forward cabin, Crowley, Hirsh, Woundwort and Vervain were pouring non-stop over Drake's journal. It hadn't taken them long to discover Drake's coded message in the back. One of Crowley's technicians had quickly recognised the hexadecimals and deciphered the message into plain simple English. But deciphering the meaning behind it was another story.
"'...Seek out the Crypt of Wealth in the Kingdom of Yesterday, the Crypt of Knowledge in the Kingdom of Tomorrow, the Crypt of Life in the Frozen Land of the Ilips, and the Crypt of Science on the Burning Wastes of the Glanbrins...' What's all this nonsense?" read Crowley, obviously thinking this was someone's idea of a joke or something.
"Just some ridiculous stories for mother does to tell their kittens," scoffed Vervain, who, like every self-respective rabbit, was familiar with his kind's folklore tales, even though he didn't hold them in particularly high regard, "Typical of the Outsiders, teaching their young stupid folktales, instead of the glorious history of true warrior rabbits, like Lord Hemlock. No wonder they can never hope to share in the General's...I mean the Dark One's glory..." Woundwort, however, despite sharing his servant's view of Outsiders, was quick to connect the dots.
"Your lack of foresight never ceases to amaze me, Captain Vervain," he said dryly, realising the obvious pattern to all this, "The only reason that fool El-ahrairah ever covered himself in all that glory is because he stole the credit from my great ancestor – it was Hemlock who first discovered and named all these unknown lands that had once belonged to Man." He conveniently failed to mention the fact that Hemlock, who'd once been El-ahrairah's Captain of Owsla before turning traitor, had merely been escorting his Prince on his travels along with Rubscuttle, intent on stealing their glory for himself.
"Then, you must have some idea where the Crypts are," interrupted Crowley, starting to grow impatient, "Well, out with it!" Frowning slightly at his ally's lack of respect towards a fellow military leader, Woundwort explained.
"When the humans realised they couldn't win against my ancestor, they hid away all the secrets of their power, to keep Hemlock from seizing them. My previous attempt to discover the secrets during the Battle of Efrafa unfortunately failed – mostly thanks to Robbins' treachery. According to the legend, the only one privy to the location of the Crypts is King Darzin, another ally of my ancestor's. His face appears in the sky only once every fu-Inle, pointing the way. In order to see the way, one needs to meet him in his large Stone Circle..."
Meanwhile, Lucy was listening carefully to every word that was being said. So that was the way to finding the Crypts! The next fu-Inle, she knew, was just two days from now. Once her captors worked out the locations of the Crypts, it would all be over. She had to find a way of getting this information back to her father. But how?
Making sure nobody was watching her, she inconspicuously reached over and grabbed a red marker lying on Crowley's desk. This she quickly slipped into her pocket. Now all she needed was something to write on. Behind her seat was the plane's galley. Beside the coffee dispenser jutting out from its rack on the wall, was a box of paper towels. A few of those would do nicely.
She tried reaching out, but the box was several inches out of her reach. With one hand handcuffed to the armrest of her seat, she couldn't reach out far enough. She thought about using her legs, but there was no way she could do that without attracting attention. Stretching out as far as she could, she had almost done it, when suddenly...
"Hey! What are you doing there?"
Quickly sliding back into her seat, she turned and saw Vervain, who, seemingly sensing the prisoner was up to something, had come to check on Lucy, catching her in the act. Lucy pretended to play dumb.
"Excuse me?"
"I asked you what you were doing there," repeated Vervain suspiciously, marching up to her and pinning her to her seat with his paw, so they were almost nose to nose, "What were you trying to reach?"
"Nothing, just stretching out a bit," lied Lucy, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. Unfortunately, Vervain could smell a lie from miles away.
"You don't fool me, you impudent little brat!" snapped Vervain, bending over to inspect every nook and cranny around Lucy's seat, but luckily not noticing the stolen marker she'd hidden in her pocket. The handcuffs keeping her tied appeared secure. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he finally calmed his nerves, but still didn't take his eyes off Lucy. He fixed her with a hateful gaze.
"You're a prisoner and you have no rights!" he spat, "From now on, you stay still in your seat and don't move unless otherwise told so, or I'll beat you raw! You hear?"
"And then Woundwort will strip the hide off of you for disobeying him," retorted Lucy cheekily, "After all, I'm his honoured guest, remember?" Her cheek seemed to aggravate Vervain. Why his master insisted on bringing this impudent ithe brat with a big mouth along with them and treating her with hospitality nonetheless, instead of killing her outright like they had done those other Outsiders, he'd never know. He glared back at Lucy.
"If you're thinking of escaping, you can forget it!" he smirked cruelly, throwing back his own taunt, "There's nowhere to go and no one's coming to save you; your father has probably given you up for dead by now. Mind you, that will most likely be your fate once the General has no further use for you." Unfazed, Lucy gave him the fingers. Vervain lost his temper.
"I'll teach you a lesson in manners, you filthy little ithe!" He raised his paw to strike her across the face.
"VERVAIN!" roared Woundwort in warning, coming aft to see what was going on. Vervain reluctantly lowered his paw, knowing better than to invoke his master's wrath. But not before turning to Lucy one more time, whispering.
"This isn't over yet. When the time comes, it will be my pleasure to kill you slowly." Although Vervain's threat didn't go amiss, knowing full well she was running out of time as they spoke, Lucy didn't flinch. Instead, she stared sadly back at Vervain.
"I pity you, Vervain," she said sincerely, "Cowardly little scoundrels such as yourself always get their comeuppance in the end, and they live to regret it!" Part of Vervain wanted to laugh; after all, what had he to fear? He was the right paw rabbit of a living god, who had defeated death itself, rising to immortality, and who would soon be ruler of the entire world, with him, Vervain, sharing in his glory! On the other hand, the thought of what Johnson would do to him if they ever crossed paths again made him very uneasy.
Gesturing at Vervain to get lost, Woundwort settled down beside Lucy's seat. This ithe child sure had courage in her heart despite her young age to defy an Owslafa officer like that, he thought. Such a pity it would all be wasted eventually... Nonetheless, he was determined to win her trust before that happened; not because he really cared about Lucy, but because it would strike a devastating blow against her father in more ways than one.
"There's nothing to fear, young Lucy," he said, in the kindest tone he could muster, "Vervain won't dare lay a paw on you, if he knows what's good for him..."
"I'm quite all right, thank you," said Lucy curtly, yet Woundwort didn't miss the frostiness in her voice.
"You know there's no reason for us to see each other as enemies," he said, doing his best at trying to appear sympathetic, "The animosity between your father and I has nothing to do with you. I can protect you, young one, but only if you ask me for it..."
"Then why are you kidnapping me?!" retorted Lucy hotly, "You and the rest of these wankers are holding me against my will, and you say you're my friend? Think I don't know about all the things you did to your people in Efrafa? I'm not stupid, you know!"
"Once the Crypts of Civilisation are found, we can build a whole new world together," Woundwort continued, ignoring Lucy's protests, "I can give you a future, Lucy, a glorious one! All you have to do is trust me."
"You mean, blindly pledge my allegiance to you, so you can make me your pawn?" said Lucy in disgust, realising what this was all about, "Well, for the record, my allegiance lies with Hazel-rah and Watership Down, and I will not betray my people by joining you!"
Although Woundwort didn't lose his temper at being turned down, his eyes narrowed dangerously, "I advise you to reconsider your options carefully while you still can, Lucy. Your Outsider friends were lucky when I...let them go. Your future might not look so rosy in the days to come." Lucy felt her insides turn to ice, realising what that meant; there was no way Woundwort would just let them go without first doing something terrible to them. And she wouldn't be long joining them if her father didn't find her soon.
After Woundwort left her to think things over, making sure nobody was watching her, Lucy got to work. Pretending to be curled up asleep on the seat, she began scribbling on the cabin floor under the seat with the stolen marker, taking great care to write only in the shadows, where no one would find it without a deliberate search. Sometime later, when the plane had touched down and one of the mercenaries came to move her out, he didn't notice the message scribbled on the carpet under the seat...
The El-ahrairah-One had finally crossed the Channel into France, making landfall close to Normandy, not too far from the original landing site of the Allied forces during D-Day. Like their own native England, the place that was once France, one of many great European countries, was now but an untouched wilderness. Save for the occasional ruin jutting out through the green canopy, time had long since erased all traces of mankind's presence everywhere.
Making their way along the coast towards the north, they began searching for any signs of the mercenaries' landing site. Crowley's gang, Alan figured, wouldn't risk a long inland flight by air, because of the jet's finite fuel supply, instead probably using it to ferry his men across the Channel and then continuing on foot. If they were on the right trail, then the mercenaries must have landed around here somewhere.
Alan and Derek were up on the observation deck, restlessly surveying the horizon in every direction with their binoculars. Except for seals and gulls, nothing could be seen but a deserted coastline; further inland, dense woodland stretched as far out as the eye could see. Then, as they were approaching close to what was once Calais, they finally struck gold.
"Over there! I see it!"
Looking out to where Derek was pointing, Alan saw the telltale white outline of an aircraft sitting on the beach, about a mile dead ahead. It was no doubt Crowley's jet! It seemed their hunch that the mercenaries were headed into mainland Europe in search of the first Crypt had been correct.
Hotdog flew them overhead, allowing them to do a reconnaissance. It was indeed the mercenaries' Lockheed, which had landed, using the beech as a rudimentary runway it seemed. Nearby, at the water's edge, was a flotilla of abandoned Zodiacs, which the mercenaries had been using to get all their equipment across the Channel. There was no sign of movement anywhere.
Hotdog circled round, bringing the blimp down onto a small grassy plateau overlooking the landing site. Alan jumped out first, trailing the end of a mooring line with a grapnel anchor, which he secured firmly into the ground. Once the airship was secure, the Watership Owsla disembarked, Bigwig ordering them to set up a defensive perimeter around the ship, in case of attack.
Now that they were safely back on level ground (and, in Violet's case, muttering her thanks to Frith), the rabbits couldn't help but marvel this new environment they'd found themselves in. Although not very different from the English countryside, there were so many new smells here, among other strange surprises. Several of them felt a deep sense of pride; they were the first lagomorphs to set foot on a land beyond the Big Water and with many more still to come!
Leaving Hotdog to guard the airship, with orders to be ready to take her up again on a moment's notice, in case they came back with company hot on their tails, the Watershippers cautiously made their way down to the beach.
"What kind of earth is this?" asked Violet in surprise, feeling the sand under her paws, "By Frith, it feels so warm!"
"It is sand, made from rocks crushed by the Big Water over hrair seasons," explained Pipkin, one of the few rabbits who had received a full education from Alan, "Isn't it, Alan?" The man merely nodded, his full attention on their target right ahead.
A few of the other rabbits couldn't resist their curiosity at the sight of their first seaside. Dandelion stumbled upon a strange gelatinous creature with trailing tentacles, resembling a deflated mushroom, lying washed up at the water's edge, which Alan explained was a jellyfish. When he tried sniffing it however, its slimy texture gave him a nasty sting on the nose, causing him to curse and draw away indignantly. Fiver curiously chanced a sip of the seawater, only to spit it out in utter disgust.
"This water's poisoned!"
"No, it isn't, it's just salty, Fiver," said Pipkin right beside him, who had always loved listening to stories about the sea from Alan. The words had barely passed his lips, when he got a good taste of it himself as a wave broke on the shore, drenching them both. Fiver looked indignant, like a cat that had been hosed; Pipkin giggled.
"Oi, you two, stop playing about!" called Bigwig, "You're on active Owsla duty, not on holiday!" Alert and on the defensive in case of an ambush, they approached the landing site.
Like the mercenaries' camp back in England, the landing site was completely deserted. They found the remains of several old campfires, some still warm, but no sign of life. Close to the abandoned Zodiacs, many of which had makeshift platforms with ramps fitted between them, they saw several tyre tracks leading up from the beach inland. It seemed the mercenaries had brought their jeeps with them and were now travelling by road.
Bigwig sniffed at the footprints on the sand, "Fresh scent; no more than half a day old." Among them was also a distinctly smaller set of footprints, which of course were Lucy's. Alan felt a wave of relief sweep over him, realising his daughter was thankfully still alive. Several of the Watershippers recoiled as they laid eyes on a pair of large rabbit paw-prints, bearing the familiar scent of Woundwort. How could that monster have come back to life?
Onboard the Lockheed, they found a dark, empty cabin, anything of value having been taken by the mercenaries before departing. The only thing left was a familiar laptop-computer in an armoured briefcase and attached to a parabolic dish sitting on the desk – it was the same computer Alan had seen Sven Shertok use to activate Black Inferno four years ago, the only way to reopen the time warp into the future. That pretty much confirmed Crowley was indeed working with Shertok.
The mercenaries had been pretty thorough in not leaving anything useful behind. In the cockpit, all the instruments on the pilot's console was riddled with bullet-holes, intentionally sabotaged it seemed, to prevent anyone from salvaging the plane. Likewise, the engines of the Zodiacs had all been drained of fuel and their cells punctured, rendering them useless. Not a single thing of interest could be found. It appeared they were once again too late. And without some kind of clue to give them a lead, they had no idea where to look next. That was until Sam made an interesting discovery on the floor under one of the seats.
"Hey, guys, over here!"
The Watershippers all gathered round to read the message Lucy had left behind for them to find:
WE ARE HEADED EAST. SEEK OUT THE CIRCLE OF KING DARZIN ON THE NEXT FULL MOON AND YOU WILL FIND THE WAY TO THE CRYPTS. I LOVE YOU DADDY.
Alan was almost driven to tears as he read the message aloud. Lucy had always been a smart kid and, realising they would be looking for her, had left them this clue to point them in the right direction. And, as her father, he wouldn't let her down. He turned to Sam.
"Well done, Sam. You've just gotten this rescue mission back on track." Several of the rabbits also enthusiastically muttered their praises. Sam felt touched; her shaky start, when, for a while, it had seemed her future in this new world might be over, seemed like a lifetime ago. Now she was truly starting to become a useful and respected member of this colony in her own rights.
"All right, let's not hang about!"
There was no time to lose. The Watershippers regrouped and hurriedly made their way back to their airship. Ten minutes later, they were airborne once again, heading east, deep into Europe. Derek had suggested they fly east on full speed and hopefully catch up with the mercenaries before they got too far. But Alan knew it would be pointless; the mercenaries already had a destination in mind, not a general direction. If they were ever going to get ahead of them, then they needed to work out the exact locations of the Crypts and fast.
It was late in the evening. The cabin lights onboard the airship had been lit, running off the battery reserves, until morning when the solar panels could kick in and recharge the batteries. After a futile search all day for the mercenaries' party, they'd continued on eastward, trying to figure out their next step: how to find the Stone Circle of King Darzin by the next full moon, just under 48 hours from now.
Alan was restlessly pouring over the chart, trying to find something, anything that might fit the description of a stone circle where some kind of heavenly deity was worshipped. So far, nothing seemed to come to mind. Even Dandelion wasn't of much help.
"...The Circle of King Darzin is rumoured to be a circle of giant rocks in the middle of a large meadow where the sky can be seen in every direction, erected long ago by Yetis – the earthly servants of King Darzin. Only within that circle can you see the face of King Darzin and only on every fu-Inle. That's all I know. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."
"Fat lot of good that is, oh, great storyteller!" groaned Hawkbit sarcastically, "There are hrair stone circles everywhere! We could spend a lifetime trying to find the right one!" Dandelion looked hurt. Hazel cleared his throat.
"Be quiet, Hawkbit! He's doing his best."
"I'm afraid Hawkbit's right," said Bigwig, in spite of himself, "It's not good enough. We need answers and we need them now!" Someone else however did have a possible answer. Derek, who had been flipping through an old tourist guide on historic landmarks he'd kept as a souvenir from the 21st century, had stumbled upon a picture of a well-known circle of stones found exclusively in England.
"Unless of course, the answer has been right under our ruddy noses all along," he said, showing them the picture. Alan took one look at it and his face formed into an ear-splitting grin.
"Stonehenge! Of course!" he cried, realising the obvious. It made perfect sense that El-ahrairah's people had used Stonehenge, an ancient place of worship for humans to the gods of the skies, as a temple for King Darzin. That long-enduring monument of the ages had to still be out there, waiting for them, not too far from where they'd started in fact, back in England.
"Should I turn us around then?" asked Hotdog, "Are we heading back home?"
Although it looked like there was no other choice, Alan didn't like the idea one bit. Crowley's mercenaries were still ahead of them, with his daughter; by the time they could double back to check out Stonehenge and then return to pick up the trail, it would be too late and Lucy would probably be dead. But, whatever they decided, it had to be soon; if they missed the full moon in 48 hours, the next one would be a month from now. Then, suddenly, an idea occurred to him.
Grabbing the book from Derek, Alan hastily flipped through the pages, until he found the section under Italy; Rome. Just as he thought, there was another stone circle that would make a fine stand-in for the Stone Circle of King Darzin.
"No need to double back, you chaps," he said with a smile, showing them the picture of a familiar arena that had once been the cultural icon of ancient Rome, "All we need to do is deviate south, and pay a little visit to the Coliseum. I always wanted to brush up on my Italian."
"Visit the what?" The rabbits all gave him a blank stare, the names Stonehenge and Coliseum having no meaning for them whatsoever. Alan gave them a brief history of ancient Rome and the function of the Coliseum and the Gladiators. Many of them were appalled when they heard of the more gory details of what transpired within the arena.
"You humans sure had some macabre customs, having your own kind fight each other to the death for sport!" exclaimed Holly, wondering what kind of sick individual could find entertainment in such a bloody ritual. Only the likes of Woundwort would endorse such savagery.
"Only now we'll be using the Coliseum as an observatory, just like the ancient Britons, and later El-ahrairah, used Stonehenge," explained Alan, "If there's something up in the night sky on the next full moon, we'll be ready to see it!"
And so, in the dark of night, the El-ahrairah-One changed course, heading southeast, making a run towards the Mediterranean. Their new course would take them across France, through Switzerland and along the Italian peninsula, all the way to Rome. Only question was, would they get there before the approaching fu-Inle?
Elsewhere, Crowley's party had set up camp in the former plaza in what was once downtown Paris, in the vicinity of the now ruinous Eifel Tower. Although the rusting structure, which had turned blood-red from centuries of corrosion, had lost its top half, which now lay collapsed on the ground below, the bottom half, including the two main observation decks, still stood. Around it, the long abandoned city was being reclaimed by nature. Most of the infrastructure had long since collapsed into piles of rubble and overrun by a thick blanket of vegetation, although some of the more robust stone structures, including Notre Dame, the Arc De Triomphe and the July Column still survived.
The convoy of jeeps had reached the ruins of the former grand metropolis, the home of aristocrats and artists from times long gone, earlier that afternoon and decided to set up base camp for the next couple of days, for the full moon. Rather than looking around for a stone circle to dub in as the temple of King Darzin like the Watershippers were, Crowley had come well prepared.
While several of his men were hard at work with hedge-trimmers and chain-saws, clearing the old plaza of vegetation, leaving a large flat plain the size of a football pitch, his tech team were busy setting up an array of high-resolution telescopes, astronomical cameras, reflectors and infrared beacons, preparing a field observatory. With this equipment, they could take high-resolution pictures of the night sky during the full moon and then study them for clues in a computer. If there was any secret message in the heavens on that night pointing the way to their prize, they would know about it.
Up on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, which had once housed the famous Jules Verne Café, now long deteriorated, the mercenaries had set up spot-lights and snipers, in case of any unwelcome visitors showing up during the night. Although so far there had been no sign of Johnson or his rabbit friends, they had had several close encounters with more enlarged prey animals, or elil as Woundwort referred to them, evolved from native animals turned gigantic by Drake's serums. It seemed the evolution of gigantisism had spread worldwide and was now irreversible. If mankind ever got to rule the earth again, they would simply have to adapt to living among these creatures, like the lagomorphs.
While Crowley was supervising the organisation of the camp, Woundwort had taken Lucy aside and requested he join him on a private walk. Some of the mercenaries, including Hirsh, had been apprehensive, pointing out she might try and escape, to which Woundwort had sternly replied he was more that capable of handling one prisoner single-handedly and warned Hirsh not to question his abilities again if he knew what was good for him.
Lucy felt rather uneasy as they walked along. Although somewhat glad to be away from the harassing mercenaries, she was still all alone with Woundwort, her father's worst enemy, whom, she knew, could be completely unpredictable. Although, so far, he hadn't threatened to harm her, and had even ordered Hirsh to remove her handcuffs, she wasn't fooled by his display of false kindness, not for a minute. She was tempted to try and run for it first chance she got, but knew it would be futile to try; Woundwort was much larger, stronger and could easily outrun her.
Woundwort led Lucy through the vegetation-coated ruins, following what was once an avenue running through the heart of Paris. Where there were once picturesque cafes, luxurious restaurants and the finest fashion houses in all Europe, now nothing remained but sad, unrecognisable ruins. But some evidence of the city's former splendour still remained in places, including one of the stone bridges across the Seine, a few brass or stone statues that stood in public squares, and, joy of all joys, the iconic glass pyramid that once stood outside the Louvre. Its tip had since cracked apart from the corroding framework, but otherwise it was still recognisable. The Louvre itself had long since collapsed, but the marble Venus De Milo, which once stood on display in one of its galleries, still jutted out from the forest floor where the building once was.
Woundwort led Lucy into the cathedral of Notre Dame. An eerie silence prevailed inside; although wind, rain and vegetation had penetrated the structure, the interior was amazingly well preserved, with the chequered tile floor, most of the stainless glass windows and the vaulted ceiling still intact. But all of the cathedral's treasures, including all the religious icons, carved furnishings and works of art were gone, probably taken by the fleeing humans during the Apocalypse. The pair made their way to the top of one of the bell towers. From up there, they had an excellent view.
"Isn't it amazing?" said Woundwort, "Hrair generations of humans who shared my family's vision of power and glory built this place, and so many others like it all over the world. Such a shame all of this labour and toil was for nothing. You know, my ancestor had so many dreams of rebuilding all of this in his image..."
"Haven't we been through that already, Woundwort?" asked Lucy, coolly yet firmly, "I've made it clear that my loyalty lies with my father and our people, the Watershippers, not you or your cause."
Woundwort was beginning to grow very tired of this. Had this been an Owslafa hearing back in Efrafa, there would have been severe and extremely unpleasant consequences for anyone refusing to submit to him. In fact, the only one who had ever refused to submit and gotten away with it alive had been Johnson himself... Like father, like daughter definitely applied in this case.
"Why do you hate me so much?" Woundwort asked her incredulously, "Don't you realise I spared your life when Crowley would have had you tortured or executed without a second thought?"
"Why do you hate my father so much?" retorted Lucy, "From the moment he came into this time, you've been hell-bent on killing him and enslaving our friends, who had done you no harm!"
"It was necessary," said Woundwort with a cold indifference, "Your father sought to destroy my ancestor's noble work, all in favour of that outskirter Hazel, who had no business being a Chief Rabbit. Only the destined few who are born to be leaders, like myself, have any business shouldering the burden of leading their people to greatness! And all other rabbits have a sovereign duty to respect and serve their authority. This is how it has always been ordained by Frith and always will be." Lucy however seemed far from impressed.
"The only reason your father marked me as the enemy from the start was because of that human tale foretelling your friends' life's story," Woundwort pointed out with disdain, "Such a pity. He could have achieved so much more if he'd only realised the grandeur of my ancestor's dream of absolute lagomorph dominance, where the earth would be safe from the evils of Man!"
"My father's dream is that of a world of peace, where humans and animals can co-exist in harmony," said Lucy, defending her father's beliefs, "While it's true that many humans abused and exploited nature for their own gain, there are also those, like my dad, who sought to teach mankind how to make peace with nature. Why else do you think Drake gave the Four Brothers the gift of human speech and intelligence? Watership Down is a good proof as any that we can learn to live in peace. What's wrong with that, Woundwort?"
"Humans and rabbits can never learn to coexist in peace!" snapped Woundwort, appalled by the very idea, "There can only be one dominant creature in this world and only one ruler – me, the Dark One!" Woundwort's megalomania truly knew no limits, thought Lucy. But what Woundwort said next really chilled her to the bone.
"Never you fear; I'll make sure to put your father in his proper place when the time comes. We'll see if he still holds on to his pathetic belief of unity between our species when it comes at the cost of his own precious flesh and blood, like it did the lives of his friends' children..."
Lucy had heard enough. Her worst fears had finally been confirmed. This monster had indeed killed her friends and now intended to kill her too at the right moment, in order to turn her father against their friends in his grief, just like Robbins had once tried. Either that, or worse still, poison her against her father with his lies and false promises, in order to use the pain of her betrayal to crush his spirit. A cruel and outright cowardly form of warfare! She couldn't allow that!
"Go to Inle, you heartless brute!"
Grabbing a chunk off a broken bust, she hurled it as hard as she could in Woundwort's face. The jagged end struck Woundwort right in the eye, causing him to cry out in pain. Not waiting to see how much damage she'd done, Lucy turned and run. Down the tower stairs she fled, through the cathedral, and out into the plaza overlooking the Seine. Behind her, she heard the angry roar of Woundwort from the top of the cathedral. But there was no time to think about that now.
She knew word of her escape wouldn't take very long to reach the mercenaries, who would then comb every inch of the ruined city, hunting her down. She had to find a hiding place and fast. If they couldn't find her, she figured, they wouldn't hang about for long, not with the race to find the Crypts still on, and hopefully move on without her. She could then stay put, using all the invaluable survival techniques her father had taught her to stay alive and wait for her father to catch up.
Making her way back across the bridge, the made her way into what, long ago, was the Montparnasse district of Paris, now a thick forest filled with scattered ruins overrun by vegetation. Remembering from her Junior Owsla training, the best place to hide when pursued by the enemy was underground. Cautiously making her way through the thick foliage, she came upon a gaping hole in the ground; a flight of crumbling stone steps, probably part of an entrance that had once stood above ground, led into a dark tunnel deep underground.
Lucy hesitated; another part of her training reminded her that underground hideouts such as this were also home to elil, including the weasel or the lendri. Did she dare venture down there? She'd already had one close scrape with that stoat not so long ago and wasn't very keen on repeating that experience now. But, the roaring sound of jeeps approaching told her the mercenaries were already hot on her trail; it was now or never.
Hurrying down the stairs, she found herself in a stone tunnel, filled with ankle-deep rainwater that had accumulated down there over the years. It was perfect. This way, even Woundwort would lose her scent and never find her.
Wading though the muddy water, she followed the tunnel, which split and turned in many directions like a maze. What little light coming from the entrance only went for a short distance and she soon found herself walking in complete darkness, using one hand to feel her way along the tunnel wall. Lucy didn't particularly mind dark tunnels; after all, her rabbit friends practically lived in places like this, albeit dryer. Pretty soon, the sound of the mercenaries' jeeps died away.
She walked for a long time. Eventually, the tunnel slopped upwards and she soon found herself walking on dry ground again. Finding a safe spot, illuminated by a hole in the tunnel roof, she stopped to rest. Settling down on a stone, she took off her soaked trainers to dry her feet. For the moment, she was safe. Now, she had to find shelter.
Looking around, she found a rusty piece of a broken pipe with a funnel-shaped end. Grabbing several fistfuls of dried weeds and leaves that littered the floor of the tunnel, she stuffed them into the pipe. Then came the tricky part of making fire without matches. For an amateur, it would seem impossible; but not with Lucy Johnson, who was as resourceful as her father.
Reaching up into her hair, Lucy unfastened the bow she always wore. Like most of her belongings, she'd made it herself, using a flat piece of metal from a broken saw-blade and a steel metal rod from a tent-peg joined together. At first glance, it seemed like a useless, cheap piece of junk; but in situations such as this, those two pieces of metal could do wonders.
Taking the bow apart, she struck the two pieces of metal together, creating a spark. After several tries, the torch finally lit up. Grasping it firmly with one hand, she set off down another tunnel, using it to light her way. In the light of the torch, she could see the tunnel walls were lined with stacked human skulls, thousands of them. The sight of all those empty eye sockets staring at her as she walked along made her skin crawl.
Of course, she thought. She'd found the famed Catacombs of Paris, an ancient burial ground dating back to ancient times. She could vaguely remember her teacher from second grade telling the class about Parisian history, including stories of the Catacombs, although she couldn't remember any of the details.
Entering another section, she made an interesting discovery. The chamber, originally a burial crypt it seemed, filled with several niches – slots cut into the walls, housing ancient stone coffins – was littered with an assortment of 21st century hardware that seemed out of place.
Several rusty frames of bunks lined the walls; the corroded remains of a portable generator, which once lit up the place, stood in a corner; and lying scattered all over the floor were many empty preserved-food containers and water-bottles. Among them were also several human skeletons, some lying huddled in groups where they'd died from hunger and thirst. She'd discovered the remains of an underground bunker, one of many underground shelters built in the Catacombs of Paris during the Apocalypse. But unlike a self-sustaining HAB, like their own back in England, this place was a death trap once its limited supplies run out.
Hoping to find something useful, Lucy wedged her torch against a bunk frame and began searching. Inside a cabinet, she found some flashlights, but their batteries were of course long dead, totally useless. Rummaging through a first-aid kit, she found an unopened box of sedatives, which had been well preserved by being sealed airtight. These she pocketed, along with a small bottle of whisky she'd found on the floor. Then, on a worktable, she found a VHF radio.
Lucy's eyes lit up at the sight of the radio. If she could get it to work, maybe she could use it to contact her father, to let him know where she was so he could send help. Grabbing a rag, he began dusting the radio clean. The knobs were stiff from age and corrosion and the chrome had yellowed and cracked, but it looked like it might still work. It was only then that Lucy realised she'd forgotten one little thing.
The radio needed electrical power to work; and the generator that originally powered it up was reduced to a rusted-out hunk of junk, completely beyond repair. The radio was useless.
Frustrated at her rotten luck and refusing to give up now, Lucy was just thinking of where she could find another source of power for the radio, when suddenly the sound of someone clearing his throat caught her off-guard. Turning, she saw Woundwort standing there, glaring at her. He clearly wasn't pleased at her doing a runner.
Oh, hraka...!
Refusing to be recaptured so soon, not when she'd only just managed to escape, Lucy darted for the door. If she could just make it back to the tunnel, she could lose her pursuers in the catacombs... But she never got there, because Vervain suddenly appeared out of nowhere, tackling her to the ground.
Lucy struggled furiously, her hands going for Vervain's eyes. But the former Head of Owslafa in Efrafa, who had dealt with plenty of prisoners trying to escape before, knew his business. And unlike her father, who was a mountain of muscle that could send opponents flying, Lucy was skinny and petite. Within seconds, Vervain had her pinned to the ground, using his weight to keep her immobilised.
"Let me go, you jerk!" she screamed angrily, still struggling frantically, but it was no use. Vervain laughed sadistically at her futile efforts.
"Nobody can ever escape the General, you stupid Outsider ithe!" he sneered, "You belong to him now! Perhaps you need some disciplining to learn your place? That can easily be arranged. We have all manner of punishments to crush the spirit of any disobedient, attempted runaways! General, shall I put her eyes out?" Lucy gasped at the threat.
"I've already made it perfectly clear that I forbid you to lay a paw on her, Captain Vervain!" barked Woundwort sternly. Vervain, who had been hoping so much that the Johnson girl doing the runner would enrage his master enough to order Lucy punished – something he would have taken great pleasure in administering personally – was terribly disappointed.
"But, General," he protested, "This brat has been disrespectful, insolent, and now she even dares assault you! She needs to be punished for this!"
"You will do as I command, Vervain, or I'll kill you!" growled Woundwort, angered by Vervain backchatting him. It didn't matter one bit that Vervain had been instrumental in Woundwort's resurrection; gratitude had no place in Woundwort's vocabulary and he was going to play this game his way, whether Vervain liked it or not. He looked at Lucy.
"You disappoint me, young one; I've been kind to you, done so much for you and instead you repay me by breaking the trust I showed you by trying to run away. Pity. I thought we were friends."
"You can never hope to be my friend, you hypocrite murderer!" yelled Lucy, but Woundwort ignored her.
Dragging her by the ankles, Woundwort and Vervain dragged her out of the catacombs and back above ground. By that time, the mercenaries had arrived with reinforcements. Crowley glared at Lucy for putting his men on full alert and dragging them on this wild goose-chase. Like Woundwort, he didn't take kind to disobedience.
"Take her back to the camp and lock her up!" he ordered, "From now on, the restraints never come off, for any reason whatsoever. Any further escape attempts and you're cleared to shoot her!"
Hirsh took Lucy and tied her hands and feet securely with plastic cuffs. Then the mercenaries carried the flailing and swearing girl into the back of a jeep.
Poor Lucy couldn't hold back her tears of anger and disappointment as they rode along. After coming so close to escaping, she was a prisoner once again. All that trouble had been for nothing. And she knew this would only make her captors tighten their security on her, even treat her more poorly, in an effort to force her to comply. But, whatever happened, she couldn't give up now. If she couldn't escape on her own, then she had to find a way to stall the enemy, keep them from getting to the prize long enough for her dad to find her.
Dad, wherever you are, please hurry...
Author's note: My apologies for the lengthy delay, but this chapter was particularly difficult to write and came out much longer than I expected. If there are any suggestions for future chapters, I'd be glad to hear them. Enjoy and please review!