Expedition Beyond Read online

  Drums were beating inside E-shandra, accompanied by chanting, war whoops and whistles.

  Des found Itar sitting between his guards in the anteroom.

  “We are a little late. I thought I might have to do this alone,” Itar said.

  An old woman was standing on the platform inside, speaking through the microphone in a staccato voice. From what Des could understand, she seemed opposed to war. She was shouting to be heard over the din of drumbeats and warrior cries. It was a hard crowd to please if you didn’t want to kill beasts. The old woman finished and stared coldly at Des and Itar as she left.

  The sound level rose further with the beating of war clubs against wooden seats, louder drumming and chanting.

  Alée bowed to Itar and Des, then walked out onto the platform, holding her war club high over her head. The noise from below became even more frantic. She spoke a few words into the microphone, which Des didn’t understand, but by the time she’d finished, the drums were pounding mercilessly and the sound of voices was fever-pitched.

  Des hugged Alée when she returned, her face filled with pride.

  “Tough act to follow,” he said.

  Itar said, “Oh, well. I try.”

  Itar’s guards helped him to stand and handed him his canes. He hobbled out towards the platform. A thunderous roar from the crowd greeted his appearance. Itar stopped to rest, then dropped his canes! He inched forward to the microphone, held both hands high over his head and waved. The response was deafening.

  Itar quieted them and spoke. Though his speech was brief, Des could see his legs were shaking with the effort of standing.

  Des ordered the old man’s guards, “Go and get him now.”

  They reached Itar just as his legs gave way, and supported him at the mike while he finished. Itar waved again to the responsive crowd as his guards escorted him off stage.

  Itar was gasping when he said to Des, “I...was...just...getting started. Why you…take me off?”

  Des grinned. “If I’d let you continue, you would have stolen the show.”

  Itar panted, “Yes, I would have.”

  Des was prepared. He moved onto the platform, waved to the enthusiastic crowd and to the bejeweled queen across from him on the other platform. She was wearing a flowing red dress and a tall, spiked crown inlaid with large diamonds; around her neck were many gold necklaces with sapphires and rubies.

  Torches waved; the room was alive with motion. There were acrobats above and gymnasts on the floor. But the noise and action wasn’t what surprised Des the most.

  Everyone wore war paint on her face. Most faces were completely covered by paint, so it was impossible to identify anyone. One-half of the queen’s face was painted with gold lightning bolts on blue; the other half had silver bolts on red.

  Des was reminded for some odd reason of a tour he’d taken at the Cave of the Winds. At one point, the guide had asked everyone to hold their hand in front of their face, then turned off the lights. There had been darkness so complete that Des couldn’t even see his own hand.

  Now, in E-shandra, Des experienced total blackness of sound. Ten minutes had passed since he’d stepped onto the platform, and he’d said nothing yet. He raised his hands to silence the crowd and turned on the mike.

  “E-cock-a-ou-e—”

  No one heard the last syllable, “sa.” The whole place erupted as the sound went black again and stayed there for another five minutes.

  Des waved them to gray and shouted in their own language, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself!”

  When the blackness of sound regained control, Des switched off the mike, realizing this wasn’t going to work, much as he wanted it to. He held the pages of his speech over his head and ripped them in half. Then he ripped them in half again, throwing pieces on the floor and stomping on them. He picked up the pieces, ripped them some more and threw the confetti into the crowd. Action, that’s what they want.

  Des switched on the microphone and shouted in their own tongue one last passage Anastasia had taught him: “If I had the power, I would touch each and every one of you.” He paused. “I have the power!”

  He jumped into the seats below and slapped the hands of the woman closest to him. She seemed dazed, but the women next to her reached out to Des, grabbing his hands. Des worked his way up and down the aisles, slapping or grabbing hands that were reaching out to him joyously.

  Des saved the aisle to the queen until he’d finished most of the others. He was rejuvenated, even ecstatic. He worked his way towards the queen, making sure he touched every extended hand, being touched by everyone who wanted his.

  The queen stood as he approached her, towering over all, her hands on her hips.

  Des knelt on one knee, bowed his head and extended both arms towards her, palms up.

  The queen surveyed the crowd and raised her hands above her head; her face remained calm but stern. She windmilled her arms forward three times; the last time, she struck Des’ outstretched palms firmly with her fists.

  Pandemonium broke out as Des stood next to the queen—she took his hand and held it high.

  Itar’s guards charged across the floor of the arena, holding between them something wrapped in a large cloth. When they reached Des and the queen, they pulled off the cloth, revealing an oversized war club. The two guards held the ball end high, then offered the war club to Des. When he took it, the ball dropped swiftly; it was far too heavy for him. The guards eased it to the floor.

  They grabbed Des’ legs and lifted him up onto their shoulders. Other warriors plunked the huge war club across Des’ thighs before Itar’s guards took off at a gallop, jogging down the steps. It took all of Des’ strength to keep the ball from rolling off his lap; it jostled about and the stick swung wildly above him. When they reached the sand floor, Des grabbed the stick with one hand to steady it and heard roars of laughter. They jogged in an oval around the floor; people parted as they saw them coming. Every time Des grabbed the stick, there was more laughter; everyone was smiling. Itar, too, was laughing, as he sat on his litter on the far side.

  Des knew it was all in good fun. And he didn’t need to be a geologist to know what was on his lap. By its weight, he could tell that the war club’s ball was close to one hundred kilos of solid gold.

  Des took the sound equipment back to Oom’s, where the blacksmith was busy with his furnace. Des carefully packed the equipment in his pack, then returned to Alée, who was waiting outside.

  “Now,” he said.

  Alée nodded her approval. She followed him to Anastasia’s house and stood by the doorway while Des went inside.

  Anastasia was sitting alone on her bed, looking drained.

  Des stopped in front of her, pulled the small wooden box from his pocket and opened it. He dropped to one knee.

  “Anastasia, will you marry me?”

  She didn’t need to understand the key word to realize what he was asking, but her response wasn’t what he’d expected: She began to cry.

  “It means that we can be together always,” Des explained, confused by her tears.

  She sobbed, “I cannot…marry you.” She cried uncontrollably for two minutes; whenever she looked at the ring, she cried some more. “I have tricked you,” she said between sobs.

  Des felt a freeze halo his heart; the chill spread to envelop his mind.

  “It’s okay, Annie. Tell me.”

  “I am already…marry.”

  Chapter 26

  PELLY BAY, NUNAVUT, CANADA

  LATITUDE 68° 42’ NORTH

  LONGITUDE 89° 41’ WEST

  Month 3, Day 7; 2200 UTC, 4:00 PM LTD

  “Sir, we’ve landed.” The flight attendant tapped the shoulder of Mitch’s fur coat gently.

  Mitch’s face was plastered against the plastic window. He opened his eyes and rolled away from the wi
ndow with a groan.

  “Sir!” She tapped him harder and more urgently. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”

  He staggered to his feet and into the aisle.

  “Perhaps you should sit back down,” the flight attendant suggested.

  “No, ma’am, it’s just the medicine. I’ll be fine when I’m off this airplane.”

  “Are these yours?” She held up the duffel bag and briefcase from the overhead compartment.

  Mitch forced himself to focus. “Yes, they are. Do you happen to know where the Inuit National Council holds their meetings?”

  The two husky Inuit courthouse guards frisked Mitch and his freshly pressed suit and had him open his briefcase.

  The courtroom had a small podium, behind which were sixty folding chairs with twenty occupants, all Inuits. Bearters was seated in the first row of folding chairs. He was dressed in jeans, a red-and-white checkerboard shirt, and a scowl. Mitch didn’t try to catch his friend’s eye as he took a seat in the back. The chairs and podium faced a long table with three executive chairs on the far side and gold nameplates with black lettering reading: Nighthorse, Tenbears and Fishand.

  “All rise,” a voice demanded, accompanied by a thumping on the wooden floor behind Mitch. An Inuit dressed in native costume had struck the floor with a thin, four-meter-tall pole.

  Three men in black robes entered and sat behind their name plaques.

  “This council meeting is now in order,” the man now identified as Tenbears announced. About fifty, he had a round, friendly face, black-framed glasses and dark hair streaked with grey. “We’ve got several items on the agenda tonight, so please be patient. Your turn will come.”

  Mitch studied the other two council members. Nighthorse was close to seventy. He peered through the lower half of his wire-rim glasses as though he were constantly inspecting his own nose. His long face and butch haircut gave him an almost comical appearance. Fishand was thin; his face was devoid of fat with the skin taut over his angular features. His hair was shiny black. Mitch thought he was probably in his mid-thirties. All three were obviously of Inuit ancestry.

  “Let’s get started,” Tenbears said. “Mitchell Jones.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch said. This was it. The set-up and the council’s response were crucial to his plan.

  “Mitchell Jones,” Tenbears repeated.

  “I’m right here,” Mitch waved.

  “I think Tenbears is asking if you would please approach and tell us why you are here,” Fishand said, speaking with a lisp.

  “Why, sure,” Mitch said. He walked to the podium, placed his briefcase on it, grinned…

  Fishand’s eyes rolled. “Sir, we are busy men. If you have something to say, then say it!”

  Mitch continued to grin as Bearters visibly gnashed his teeth.

  “First of all,” Mitch began, “I’d like to thank you for allowing me to come here tonight and for listening to me. My name is Mitch Jones. I’m a representative of Boster Denton, a Colorado corporation.”

  While Mitch spoke, Fishand leaned back in his chair and cupped a hand over his mouth as he whispered to Tenbears. Tenbears waved him off, but moments later cupped his own hand and whispered back. Fishand looked at Bearters, who wore a sour expression and eyes that could kill.

  Mitch ignored the Inuit theatrics and continued. “—and so I was sent to see if you would let us retrieve the items we left behind. If you allow us to return to our base camp, I have a company check in my briefcase for restitution.”

  “This is about the Vent, isn’t it?” Nighthorse said, eyeing his nose.

  “No, sir. It’s not about the Vent. What we left behind is valuable only to my company and we now have no interest in the Vent.”

  “Bearters told me that it was your decision to leave that equipment behind, against Inuit tradition and law,” Tenbears said.

  “No, sir. The man is a liar. He wouldn’t allow us to take what was ours.”

  Bearters coughed. All council eyes moved to him in unison. He raised his lip in a snarl.

  Mitch continued: “My company would fly a helicopter to Pelly Bay for your inspection, then return here with everything from our base camp for you to reinspect. You will receive this compensation check with only one stipulation.”

  He unbuckled his briefcase and produced the oversized check, making sure they saw all the zeros.

  Nighthorse no longer surveyed his nose. Fishand rubbed his palm. Tenbears had been sipping water and sputtered some back. All eyes were now glued on the million-dollar check.

  Mitch was gratified by their reactions.

  “What’s the condition?” Tenbears asked when he had regained some composure.

  “You may send a guide with us to make sure we do exactly what I have told you, but the guide cannot be Bearters.”

  The board’s eyes swung again to Bearters, who appeared to have premeditated murder on his mind.

  Mitch noticed a half-empty bag of Fireball Gumdrops behind Bearters’ chair while he waited for the inevitable question.

  Fishand was the one who asked, “Why not Bearters?”

  “Because I would be in charge of the clean-up, and Bearters is my mortal enemy. I can prove it. May I show you?” Mitch removed a hardcover book from his briefcase.

  “Just a moment,” Fishand said. He turned to the guards and raised an eyebrow.

  The guards surrounded Mitch.

  Fishand said, “You mean to tell the council that your company would retrieve all items left behind, without entering or nearing Anderson Vent Two, and that if we allow you to do this with one condition, that check is ours for restitution?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch answered.

  “And the condition is that we can send a guide as long as it’s anyone except Mr. Bearters, who is sitting here today. Your company specifically and emphatically told you that Mr. Bearters was not to be involved?”

  Mitch stared at his own feet. “Yes, sir.”

  Tenbears said, “Let’s see what you have there. You may approach.”

  The book was bound and on the cover was embossed:

  Official United States Army Case Report

  Operation Snowman

  By Jack Squires

  Released by Colonel Stacy Wingert

  “Where did you get this?” Tenbears asked.

  “From Stephen Summers, who was the doctor on the expedition. Jack Squires sent this copy to him, and he forwarded it to me.”

  “Why?” Fishand asked.

  Mitch sighed and shrugged. “Stephen sent me this copy because he thought Jack was, well, soiling my reputation. He—that is, Dr. Summers—wanted me to consult with a lawyer, which I did.”

  Nighthorse seemed mildly interested. “So, what happened?”

  “The attorney said I cannot win a lawsuit if what Squires wrote was true.”

  “What do you want us to look at here?” Nighthorse asked.

  “The page is marked, sir.”

  Tenbears opened the book, then read aloud: “’Bearters is an exceptionally fine individual who always conducted himself with total poise and dignity. His loyalty to the Inuit nation, their laws and customs, was unswerving. At all times, and under all conditions, national pride and preservation were on his mind.

  “’All of the expedition members revered Bearters, except Mitch. Whenever Mitch was around Bearters, Mitch behaved disgustingly towards him. The two men are now mortal enemies.

  “’On every occasion of conflict, Bearters conducted himself with exemplary discipline. They were in a fistfight that Mitch started and Bearters finished. As I have written before, Mitchell stole Bearters’ pistol and fired two shots before Bearters bravely retrieved it. Even after that action, Bearters remained cool.

  “’I believe that Mitch is a racist. At one point, holding a lit propane torch in his han
d, he said, “I’d like to shove this torch up his fat, Eskimo ass and then see how funny he is.” After that, Bearters made no more jokes.’”

  Tenbears asked Bearters, “Did this man say that to you?”

  “On my mother’s grave, he did,” Bearters answered.

  Tenbears glanced at Fishand and then at Nighthorse. He said, “We’ll adjourn for a short recess.”

  Again, there was a knocking on the floor, and the council members disappeared, taking the book with them.

  Thirty minutes passed before Mitch heard the thumping on the floor.

  “All rise.”

  Mitch stood, smiling.

  “Be seated.”

  “Mitchell Jones,” Tenbears said.

  “Yes, sir?” Mitch said, moving to the podium.

  Tenbears continued, “The board accepts your offer, and you may reclaim the equipment left behind by your expedition, if you adhere to the following provisions: That restitution is paid in advance, so we have adequate time to verify that the check is valid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not finished. That you don’t approach what is now known as ‘Anderson Vent Two,’ but remain at least ten kilometers away from the Vent at all times. We are in negotiations with several international companies for a look at that piece of ground. Your company’s helicopter carries a single flight crew, and only enough individuals to quickly dismantle your camp. We will give you only two days to retrieve your equipment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No weapons are allowed, and no climbing equipment of any kind—no ropes, no cable. There will be no construction equipment, no building materials or tools. The helicopter will fly here first for inspection, and you will remain in Pelly Bay until it arrives. After dismantling the camp, you’re to return here for inspection, as well. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fishand said, “May I please see the check?”

  Mitch hesitated. The check was fully negotiable, so if Fishand kept it, he would have given up his leverage.

  “You may inspect this check if I can have a receipt signed by the board members.”