Doctor Who Eye of Heaven Jim Mortimore

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.My brother.And I am abandoning him.How can I justify this?I cannot.There is no sense in me any more.No logic.No science.Just fear.Total fear.My mind is gone, my heart is dead and in its place instinct takes control.And I stop running.Instead I get down on my knees and begin to scramble about on the ground.Deep inside I know I have gone utterly mad, that in a few moments the islanders whom even now I can hear running after me will catch me and then Alexander and I will both suffer the same fate as poor Tortorro.While my mind is busy screaming this information my hands are otherwise occupied.Rocks are scraped aside, similarly dirt and tough-bladed grass.Underneath - a hole.I scramble into the hole, keep on wriggling.I am packed tightly into the rocky passage.Dirt presses against my head, my shoulders; the weight of the island, the whole of Rapa Nui, bears down on me as if to prevent my escape with the tiny fragment of itself that I clutch so dearly, so close to my heart.Footsteps pass by - less than a yard from my own feet.But I am safe -for the moment.Safe in this tunnel, one of many shown to me by Tortorro before our sacrilegious collusion caused the islanders to turn against us.I take a moment to catch my breath.It comes with dirt and roots and wriggling insects.I have taken refuge in one of a number of tunnels made by the islanders to conceal them from the unwanted attentions of acquisitive Portuguese slavers.Wide enough to permit only one person at a time - and generally speaking one with a frame considerably smaller than mine - the tunnels descend through the upper geological layers of the island, linking together at a depth of fifty or so feet to form a series of caves.The caves can be stocked with food and inhabited in times of crisis.Some perform the function of living quarters.Others double as temples to the islanders‟ gods.I recognise the cave I now wriggle into immediately.The Cave of the White Virgins.It was here that young women were kept, often for months at a time, to bleach their skin in emulation of these same god-figures.Alexander and I both considered this a barbaric practice - even more so when we were presented with half a dozen not entirely uncomely girls upon our arrival on the island, apparently in honour of our own skin colour, and in particular my own hair colour, which, when not darkened by dirt and blood, and matted by immersion in salt water, is a bright copper-red.I slither into the cave from an opening in its roof and come to an undignified halt among a shower of dirt and roots and crawling things.I sit up, my first thought for the rongo-rongo.Yes.It‟s still there.I breathe a sigh of relief.All I can hope for now is that I can remain undetected long enough to exit the cave through another tunnel.Something moves to my left.There is no light here.I cannot see what is making the noise.An animal? Perhaps.I scramble away.The noise comes again.And with it a light.It‟s a girl.She cannot be more than fifteen.Her skin is pale, even in the yellow torchlight.„I am a friend.‟ I speak gently, as gently as I can.I know she won‟t understand the words but if I am lucky the tone of my voice will prevent her from calling out.I am not lucky.Her scream is piercing.I don‟t understand the words - it‟s not necessary.She jams herself back into the cave wall, seeming to melt into it.A moment and she is gone, the light with her.There must be an opening in the wall.I move quickly to investigate.Already I can hear scraping movement in the tunnel through which I entered the cave.I have only moments to escape.I run my hands across the wall.I was right.There is an opening.I push my way inside.The new tunnel slopes downwards steeply.I can feel a breeze blowing against my face.There must be a way out.I crawl forward as fast as I can, all the while conscious of movement behind me in the darkness.I imagine the islanders coming upon me in the darkness, hands gripping obsidian knives, hacking at my feet and ankles, drawing blood, forcing me on until I collapse through blood loss or exhaustion.What will they do then? Drag me out to participate in the same ritual in which Tortorro died?Or leave me here to die, jammed into a tunnel barely as wide as my shoulders, eventually to become part of the geological composition of the island itself?Horror and fear drive me on.My shoulders ache abominably.My chest and stomach and hips are a confused mass of grazes.I am sure I can feel blood upon my skin.Several times I crack my head painfully against rocky protrusions, once bringing a small shower of dirt down on to my back.I scream then, claustrophobia propelling me onward in a panicky rush.Then my elbow twists sideways and jams.Now I can hear how close the islanders are behind me.I think of those knives and wrench my arm until I am sure my wrist will break.The arm comes loose and I move on - ever more slowly.The passage steepens, narrowing even more as its angle increases.And now I can hear another sound above my pursuit and my own desperate gulps for air: a sound like thunder.Surf.A hand touches my foot, grasps my ankle.I kick out wildly, feel my foot hit something.A painful grunt sounds behind me.Something sharp digs into my calf.I scream, kicking and struggling madly within the confined space, my movements carrying me forward and down, faster and faster, steeper and steeper on a sliding carpet of dirt and roots and what feels like animal bones.My fall is totally beyond my control.The passage begins to widen.Soon I am tumbling, then rolling, then falling free through chill damp air.I fall for much longer this time.I lack the strength even to wonder if jagged rock or booming surf will break my descent.It is as much as I can do to clamp my mouth shut against the sucking wind which seems intent on ripping the breath from my lungs for a second time in one night.I have time enough to wonder why I don‟t faint when something smashes against my chest with incredible force.I faint then, for just a moment.I awake under water and kick madly for the surface.When my head breaks the surface my first thought beyond getting air into my lungs is that I can see lights.Not the guttering orange flames of islanders‟ fires but the steady yellow glow of cabin lights.The Pride of Hannay! I am in Anakena Bay.My flight has brought me within moments of safety.All I have to do is swim towards the clipper and cry out for help.I move my arm - and nearly faint again.The pain is so great, it is obvious my arm was broken in the fall.I offer a brief prayer of thanks not to have been knocked completely senseless and drowned.Kicking weakly, I strike out for the clipper.I have no way of measuring my progress against the tide [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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