The Forbidden Valley - 10

Snippet 10, in which the bandits are fought:

Marley fired his last rounds at them.  This time he was effective.  Both men went down, and stayed down, and then he fumbled to reload the pistol.  Another bandit came at him while he was reloading, but one of the caravanners, a young man, intercepted the bandit.  Alas, the caravanner was no match for the bandit, but he bought the time needed for Marley to finish reloading, and another couple shots ended their little part of the battle.

In fact, it seemed that it ended the battle overall.  As that became clear, Marley reloaded the pistol more calmly than he had before, and holstered it.

Marley's Hindi was poor, but adequate for what was needed right that moment.  "Thank you," he told the young man who'd likely just saved his life.

"Thank you," the young man returned in Hindi.

As Marley watched, he cleaned his sword on the dead bandit's blood-soaked garments and sheathed it, then proceeded to rifle through the bandit's possessions.  It didn't take long, but he came away the richer for it, with a small pouch of coin, an empty sheath, and a jewel-crusted dagger.  Marley guessed it had to have been loot off some rich traveler past, for it was far too rich a weapon for any brigand he'd ever heard of.

After he'd finished, the young man picked up the bandit's fallen sword and sheathed it, then offered it to Marley. Marley accepted it ruefully and gratefully.  "Thank you."

Standing there desperately struggling to reload his pistol, he'd been quite vulnerable.  He knew that if the young man hadn't slowed the bandit, his corpse could very well be lying on the ground like the bandits.

He shuddered.  He'd brought the pistol along on the trip to India mostly as a precaution.  He'd never really expected to need it.  He certainly hadn't expected to need a sword.  In fact, he only vaguely know how to use one, courtesy of fencing at school.  He gave a mental shrug and tied the sheath to his belt.  This was not at all how he'd thought his day was going to go.  And he'd missed most of his shots, whether from lack of practice, nervousness, or his eyesight.  "I definitely need to get eyeglasses when I get home."  The fleeting thought was erased by the sounds of the wounded.

Not the bandits - all of them had been properly dealt with.  Rather, there were two injured caravanners and a wounded bullock.  There was also a dead bullock, its corpse blocking the narrow trail.  Marley helped redistribute the beast's load to the other bullocks, and then they pushed the corpse downhill and out of the way. They were in no condition to bury the beast, nor the bandits.  Once the wounded had been seen to, they pushed onwards.  As best he understood, they were still hours away from stopping for the day.

They certain couldn't stay here.  The shrubby slope the bandits had struck from offered a poor camp, and downslope was even worse.  They were blocking the trail, which was too narrow to offer a good campsite.  Once the wounded had been tended, the load redistributed, and the bandits stripped, they continued on, slowly but surely.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 9

Snippet 9, in which the Marley continues into the mountains with caravan:

There were quite a lot of foothills between the plains and the real mountains of the Pir Panjal range.  For the first couple of days, they'd stayed mainly in the valleys between the hills, driving over roads that led up the valleys.  They'd loosely paralleling the rivers coursing down from the mountains, still raging as the carried the snowmelt downstream.  Luckily, none of the bridges had been out.  There had been some worry at one, where the water was almost up to the bottom of the bridge, but the whole caravan had made it across.

The valleys and lower slopes had been more populous than Marley would have guessed before, with farmsteads and tiny hamlets anywhere the slope was not severe.  The populace was dressed colorfully, and the land felt nothing like home.  But the weather was merciful to them, save for the heat and the blinding, burning sun.

Even as the valley had begun to narrow, one would be hard pressed to avoid sight of a farmstead, a tiny hamlet, a shepherd's shack on a hill around the next corner.  Now, though, the road had narrowed to a trail, and settlements were few and far between.  The caravan had left civilization behind.  Or maybe it was its own little bubble of civilization, moving through the near wilderness.

From what he'd gathered at breakfast, this day's travel would see them to a camping spot just a couple of hours short of the ascent up to the pass.  That couldn't come soon enough.  In the past few days, he'd really started to feel much better than he had in ages, fully recovered from his ordeal in Umballa, and from the hurried trip to Jammu, which he'd undertaken perhaps a bit too soon.  But they'd been on road for many hours in the hot sun, and a nice meal was starting to sound mighty inviting.  Starting up the steeper portion of the trail, up to the pass, was something he'd just as seen wait until the next day to face.

Marley stifled a yawn, and squinted a bit against the glare.  At least we're headed north, with sun at our backs, not in our eyes.  Still, this glare is--

It was the suddenness of the attack that caused him to freeze.  One minute he was traveling in contemplative peace with the caravan, and the next the land was roiling with bandits.  For a moment, he completely failed to process the situation, and then a shriek of surprise and shout of pain shook him from his stunned state.  He pulled his pistol from its holster and took aim at one of the bandits.

He missed.  The bandit was wielding a viscous-looking sword and made to strike at one of the caravanners as he rushed down, but the caravanner was faster, and using his walking stick as a staff put paid to the attempt.  In a panic, Marley looked around, trying to comprehend the situation better.  Another pair of bandits were racing downhill, waving their own swords.  They were still far enough from the caravan that Marley risked a few shots in their direction.

The shots again missed, but they did give the two bandits brief pause.  And that was enough for more of the caravanners to respond and bring their own swords into play.  Unfortunately, the shots had also drawn the attention of one of the bandits, and Marley suddenly found a pair of sword-wielding bandits rushing toward him.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 8

Thanks to his newfound friends at the pub, Marley is headed up into them thar hills:

Four days later James Marley was staring at the south end of northbound bullocks, as those bullocks made their way up the trail and up into the mountains. Johnny had a friend who knew a local who knew a merchant who was running a bullock caravan up to Srinagar, in the valley of Kashmir. The Pir Panjal range, a sort of branch of the Himalayas, stood between Jammu and the valley. One brief look at his map had told Marley that while it wasn't far away as the crow flies, any journey by foot or hoof would likely prove quite lengthy indeed.

He'd not been proven wrong.  The trails up into the mountains and through the pass wouldn't admit carts, so caravan was of pack bullocks.  After three long days along the trail the view of the buttocks of bullocks had become far to commonplace.  Reaching the mountains had been a welcome relief, not just for the change of scenery, but for the slightly cooler temperatures.  He'd been in India for less than six weeks, but in that time it had gone from comfortably warm to uncomfortably hot.  It didn't help that the sun shone done relentlessly upon them as they made their way north.

And if he'd grown bored with the site of bullocks and their bundles, at least the rest of the scenery was far more interesting.  Human scenery included.  Not that he could do more than stare at most of his companions, watching them go about their business and speak amongst themselves.  Only a few knew much English, and his few dozen words of Hindi were barely adequate to cover the fundamentals.

Still, despite the lack of much meaningful conversation, Marley traveling along with the caravan something of a boon.  He wasn't likely to become lost.  Thanks to some rudimentary bargaining, he'd managed to make a deal for food, so he wasn't left to his own devices on that account.  And the large size of the group would hopefully deter predators.  Including those of the two legged variety.

Marley had heard the professor speak of the Thuggee, the feared cult of brigands who'd once terrorized travelers by the thousands.  They'd been more or less extinguished over a decade ago, but they weren't the only highwaymen known to India.  And hills seemed to breed for brigands, the world over, whether it be highlands of Scotland, the mountains of the Balkans, or here in India.

Still, he wasn't too worried, and he felt the comforting presence of his revolver in its holster.  He hoped he wouldn't need it, not for reasons of mere morals or squeamishness, but because loathe though he was to admit it even privately, he was actually a poor shot.  In part it was his eyesight.  He really should consider eye glasses, he knew, but he feared it would render him too bookish looking.  On the other hand, he was already engaged to to Alice. . .  "Maybe I'll look into glasses when I'm back in England, after the wedding," he said to himself, gazing off at the mountains.

It was clear day, but even if his eyesight had been good, he'd not have been able to make out much detail of the peaks ahead.  For one, the distance was just too far.  For another, the glare from the sun was almost blinding.  Even as summer began to take hold, snow and ice held sway atop the mountains, reflecting the brilliant sun.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 7

Thus continues our story:

"And just what's the problem, then?"

Marley looked around as he chewed the mouthful of sandwich.  Apparently the day's custom was limited enough he had the barkeep's attention all to himself.  He swallowed.  "I'm trying to find a needle in a haystack."

The barkeep's eyes gleamed.  "Oh, aye, I've tried that once or twice myself.  What needle are you looking for in which haystack?"  He sounded amused.

"I wish I knew which bloody haystack to look for Professor Clark in," Marley said.

"Clark, you say?"  The barkeep looked thoughtful, then glanced about and his gaze settled upon one of the few others in the pub.  "Hey, Johnny, wasn't there a Professor Clark in that story that Survey chappie, Rendell, was telling the other night?"

Marley coughed a bit, then forced the bite of sandwich down.

"It was, it truly was.  If its Professor Clark you're looking for, Rendell'd be the man to ask.  I think he has an office in the bank building up the street."

Marley took a gulp from his beer.  "Mister Rendell was murdered yesterday in his office."

"Blimey!"

Both Johnny and the barkeep were surprised, he could tell for sure.  And Marley was no closer to finding the right haystack than he was before.  Or was he?  A thought occurred to him.  "Do you have any idea at all where Rendell was talking about in his story?  If I don't find him Alice is going to kill me."

"The missus?" the barkeep ventured.

"My fiance," he corrected.  "Professor Clark's her father.  Please, if there's anything you can tell me?"

The barkeep and Johnny shared a look.  Then the barkeep nodded.  "I don't rightly recall all the details, lad, but Rendell mentioned your professor as having investigated some ruined temple in Anantnag then rushed north to some valley."

Marley wanted to shout.  Instead he took a sip from his beer.  A valley up north.  Wonderful.  The same set of haystacks as before really.  He was about to force a polite thanks when the other customer, Johnny, chimed in.

"I reckon it couldn't have been too far from Anantnag, because the wild stories Rendell was hearing talk of started not long after."  Johnny made a decisive nod.  "If you went up to Anantnag maybe you could learn more.
There were supposed to be a bunch of other professor types there at the temple.  Besides, from what Rendell was saying the stories were spreading like wildfire up there."

Yes!  At least now I know where to start looking for the haystack.  "Thank you, thank you both, very much."  He took the last bite of sandwich and washed it down with satisfaction with the last of the beer.  And then the next practical aspect of his ever-elongating journey snapped into clear focus. "Uh, do you have any idea how I'd get there?"

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 6

Snippet 6, in which Marley goes to the pub:

Marley had noticed a pub on the next block.  Eager for a break from the stifling atmosphere of the hotel, he decided to walk there for lunch.  The streets outside were teeming as he made his way down the street to the pub.

A man dressed in robes, with a monkey on his shoulder, walked past. A trio of colorfully-attired women passed in the other direction with pots balanced atop their heads.  The smells were strange, and strong. Two men in turbans crossed his path.  A cow made mooing sounds in the street.

Suddenly, Marley felt very lost. Despite being so far from home, and left to his own devices for weeks, he hadn't felt lost until now. He stared about him, the sights, sounds, and smells familar from weeks in India, yet so different from home. "What am I doing here?"  He just stood there, motionless, staring without seeing, the pub forgotten.

And then the bells rang as a nearby clock struck noon, breaking the spell, and Marley pulled himself together, and resumed his interrupted trek. "What I wouldn't give to be back in England, out with Alice or enjoying an evening of cards at the club," he muttered as he reached the pub at last.

When he stepped inside, it was like a refreshing bit of home... aside from the heat.  It wasn't even the type of establishment he often frequented in England, but right that moment it was comforting.

"Ah, lad, welcome," the barkeep said as Marley sat down at the bar.  "What'll it be?"

Marley took a glance at the menu board and ordered a pint and a sandwich.  He glanced around the pub as he waited.  It was the same  mix of brick, dark wood, and brass that he'd have seen back home.  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment and tried to imagine being back in England.

When he opened his eyese again a few seconds later, the sights through the window of the pub quickly disabused him of that notion. He took a sip from the pint the barkeep had put before him.

"You look troubled," the barkeep said.

"You might say that," Marley agreed.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 5

This is snippet 5 of my in-progress fiction, The Forbidden Valley.  Snippet 1 may be found here.

The police finally released him and the Indian lad just before sunset.  The questioning had gone on for hours, but he'd had so few answers.  Thankfully they eventually came to believe he was uninvolved in the murder.  However relieved he felt at having been released, though, he was now at loose ends about how to proceed.  And his letter from Creighton had somehow disappeared in the pandemonium and the ordeal.  He decided to sleep on it overnight.

The next morning, he sent a telegram to Creighton first thing, then retired back to his hotel to await word.  It wasn't long in coming.  It also wasn't very helpful.  It informed him that Creighton was out of the office and might be gone for some time.  Marley stared at the telegram numbly for a moment.  What now?

If he had any clue where Professor Clark had gone, beyond following a river north into the Himalaya, he'd have an idea.  But the Himlayas were an enormous place, stretching as they did along sixteen hundred miles, and over two hundred miles thick in places.  Its tallest peak reached up well over five miles.  They were a massive haystack in which he was seeking a needle.

The only real hint he had as to where Clark was came from the fact that the rumors he'd followed were heard in Lahore and Jammu, on the west end, and that Clark had gone north from Jammu.  The fact that he was to be following a river really offered no great help, for the mountains where the origin of many a river, great and small, and Clark had not told Marley the name of the river in question.  Marley stared in frustration at the maps he'd obtained.

North from Jammu lay the Pir Panjal Range, a portion of the Himlayas that separated Jammu from the Kashmir Valley, beyond which lay the main body of the Himlayas.  Even if the hint provided by where Clark heard his rumors was accurate, that left both sides of the Pir Panjal plus the rest of the western Himalayas to search.

He sat back from the map, considering the situation, and another thought nagged at him.  His letters to Alice had mentioned his illness and the professor going on ahead, but he'd not mentioned to her that the professor had more or less disappeared.  But he had.  How do you tell your fiance you misplaced her father?  The question continued to nag at him as he decided to seek lunch.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 4

Snippet 4 of The Forbidden Valley is regrettably short as I've been busy working on things around the house, including some cleaning of the basement and wrapping up some projects down there that are in the way.  More will come.  But for now, there is only:

As Creighton had instructed, Marley found the office of George Rendell in the building across the street from the hotel.  Alas, he found no indication of Rendell's presence.  He thought he'd heard sounds from the office when he'd first arrived, but a knock on his door went unanswered, nor was there any response to his spoken words.  He knocked one more time.  "Mister Rendell, are you in there, sir?"

"Is Rendell-sahib not inside?"

Marley turned to face the young Indian man who'd approached while he'd been so preoccupied.

"I've knocked by there's no answer."

"I will let you inside, sahib, and you can wait for his return."  The young man produced a key and unlocked the door.  When he opened the door and they walked inside, any thought of waiting  for Rendell's return promptly disappeared.

Rendell was dead!  His body lay on the floor, behind his desk.  The knife embedded in his chest, and the blood stains around him, told them he'd been murdered.  Marley wanted to shout, to panic, to flee.  He wasn't used to finding dead bodies.  He certainly wasn't used to finding murdered bodies.  He especially wasn't used to finding murdered bodies of men he was supposed to meet in order to learn where his crazy future father-in-law had wandered off to.  He staggered for a moment, unsteady on his feet, unsure what do, then forced himself to calm down and straighten up.

He looked around the office, briefly, but there was little to see.  Bookcases and filing cabinets predominated, but there were a few desks and chairs.  It was a fairly normal looking office, really - or had been.  Rendell's desk was a complete shambles, as well, papers strewn all about, some on the floor - some even now soaked in blood, from where they'd fallen in the blood.

Behind them, from in the hall, a man screamed.  This started the pandemonium that engulfed much of the rest of his day.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 3

Snippet 3 of The Forbidden Valley, in which Marley and Creighton converse:

"Yes, indeed."  They shook hands.  "Sit down, please."  Creighton gestured to a chair, then sat back behind his desk.  "Thank you for coming over here.  I'm afraid we have a problem."

No announcement that Clark was dead, at least.  Maybe he'd be able to face  "Yes?"

"Professor Clark discussed his plans with me here in Umballa, before he left.  Once he'd spoken with the curator at the museum in Lahore, though, he seems to have changed plans.  He was seen in Jammu, briefly, but after that there are no reliable reports.  He seems to have vanished.  I was hoping you might know a bit more about the professor's intentions."

Creighton's words took the form of a statement, but they were nevertheless a question, and Marley took them as such, and gave the man a slight nod.  "A little.  The professor's  original plan was to travel and gather folklore.  That was still the plan, but from his telegram it seems he'd heard a tale in Lahore of a so-called 'Forbidden Valley' in the Himalayas.  He went to Jammu to learn more, and I guess he found it, because he said he'd follow the river north into the Himalayas."

"What river?" Creighton asked.

Marley shook his head.  "He never said, and I haven't received another telegram in nearly two weeks, now."  He suppressed a weary sigh.  "How am I going to catch up with him when I don't even know where he's gone?  How am I going to explain to Alice if something happens to him?"

"Alice?"

"The professor's daughter Alice is my fiance.  She asked me to keep him out of trouble."  Marley took a deep breath.  "What am I going to do if something's happened to him?"

"I see."  Creighton paused a moment, thinking.  "If you wish to find him, perhaps I can be of some assistance."

Marley perked up.  "That's swell!  Thank you.  Any help at all would be appreciated."

"I'll ask one of my associates to make some inquiries."  Creighton jotted a quick note on a piece of paper, then folded it and handed it to Marley.  "Go to Jammu and check into the Hotel Jammu.  One of my associates, Mister Rendell, has an office in the bank across the street.  Hand him this note.  He should be able to help you from there."

"Thank you, Colonel."

"No, thank you, Mister Marley.  We all want to see Professor Clark safe and sound once more.  He's made many  contributions to the study of the peoples of India, and we'd like to see that continue."

It was only as he was packing his things at the hotel that Marley stopped to wonder why Creighton was so interested in the matter at all, and how he'd heard the rumors about Professor Clark.  But the thought quickly dissipated, leaving his still-cloudy mind as the bustle of preparing to depart pushed it away.

The journey to Jammu went easily enough for Marley, though it took several days.  The railroad only took him part of the way.  A horse got him the rest of the way.  After weeks of necessary idleness, the ride on the horse left him very tired by the time he reached Jammu.  It was with great satisfaction that he reached the hotel Creighton had recommended and retired for the evening.  Four weeks had passed since he'd been left in Umballa.  Marley wondered where Professor Clark had gotten to.  And on that thought, he lapsed into a long, restful sleep.

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 2

The Forbidden Valley - snippet 2

* * *

Despite a long night's sleep, James Marley still felt tired in the morning as he entered the already-warm lobby of the hotel.  For the first time in weeks, though, he didn't feel weak
or exhausted.

The clerk at the front desk greeted him as he approached.  The man was new, unknown to Marley even after a three week stay, and clearly not a native of India.  "Good morning, sir.  Can I help you?"  From Scotland, Marley guessed from the accent.

"James Marley," he introduced himself.  "I'm staying in room 219.  Are there any messages for me?"

"Let me check, sir."  The clerk turned his back to search for a moment.

Marley really hoped there were.  He'd come to India along with Professor Edward Clark and his expedition, but a bit of illness had left him stranded at Umballa for weeks now.  He was finally starting to feel like his old self once more, but Clark and the rest of the party had gone ahead.

He'd received only a couple messages from Clark since, one informing him that he learned something at Lahore that was changing the direction of the expedition, then a second from Jammu telling him they were heading north to learn more.  And then nothing.  For two weeks now.

"Here you are, sir," the clerk said at last, handing him a folded note. It wasn't a telegram like he'd expected, either from Professor Clark or from England.

After the salutation and the briefest of formalities there were only two sentences, and they filled him with dread.

"It is imperative that I speak with you regarding Professor Clark.  Please visit at me at the Laurel Bank at your earliest convenience."  It was signed by Colonel Creighton of the Ethnological Survey, a man he'd never met but whom Professor Clark had consulted when they'd first stopped in Umballa, the night Marley had fallen ill.  The note filled him with vague unease, but he couldn't know more without speaking to the man.

"Thank you," Marley said to the clerk, then left the hotel for the warm streets of Umballa.

It was only a few blocks to the Laurel Bank, which he remembered from his strolls around Umballa in the  days since he'd started to feel somewhat better.  The sights, sounds, and smells of India went largely ignored as his thoughts kept his mind fully occupied.

"Dear Lord, Professor, please be alive.  I don't want to have to explain to Alice that I lost you."  She'd specifically charged him with keeping her absent-minded father out of trouble on the Indian jaunt he'd insisted upon taking.  Losing him. . . wouldn't be good.  "Perhaps this Colonel Creighton has good news."

Soon enough, he was inside the bank, and a native clerk directed him up the stairs to offices.  He found the offices of the Ethnological Survey readily enough, and the clerk inside recognized his name at once.  "Please wait a moment, Marley-sahib.  I shall inform the Colonel-sahib that you have arrived."

A minute later, the clerk came back and led him through a door and into an office.  Inside, an average-looking English gentleman stood waiting for him.

"Mister Bailey?"

"Colonel Creighton, I presume?"

copyright (c) The Other Sean

The Forbidden Valley - 1

I mentioned in my previous post that the elements of a story idea I'd had suddenly came together yesterday at lunch time.  I did a tiny bit of writing tonight, so here's a little snippet of "The Forbidden Valley"

The room looked much like that at any other decent club in London, full of dark woods, shiny metals, and the upper crust of society.  Some men sat quietly reading the evening papers, while others were chatting over drinks.  The sound of games going on in an adjacent room were largely muffled by the stout old walls of the club.  The only thing that set this room apart from others was that James Marley was sitting in the room.

A small crowd had gathered around that young man tonight, his first night back in the City.  Some were old friends, others passing acquaintances at best, but gather around they did.  It was Charles Jenkins, who'd known Marley for ages, who spoke first.

"Okay, James, spill it.  We've all heard the news, seen your name in the press.  You were there when it all started.  Give us the straight story."

"I wasn't there at the very start," Marley protested.  He took a sip from his glass of liquor, wetting his lips, before continuing.  "And I didn't have all that much to do with events, really."

"No, no, none of that," Jenkins insisted, pushing a fresh glass in front of Marley.  "All we've got are sensational by vague stories in the press - and half of them contradict the other half!"

Bryan Henderson nodded in violent agreement.  "The papers are full of talk of flying machines, monsters, death rays - it all sounds too much like something Jules Verne would write.  Tell us what really happened, Marley."

Marley stared down at his drink.  It didn't really interest him - not the drink, not reliving those harrowing days - but he took another sip to give himself a few moments peace.  If he didn't talk, they'd just hound him again later.  And it would take forever for the true story to be straightened out by the press - if they ever managed that feat.  He suppressed a sigh.  "Alright.  But don't blame me if you don't believe my tale.  I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

copyright (c) The Other Sean