As with other works of mine this story hearkens to the golden age of pulp writing. Imminent peril, intrigue, mystery, lost cities, dreadful monsters - even the obligatory damsel in distress – no element has been omitted.
This story invokes all the required ingredients Farnsworth Wright might have looked for when evaluating the latest Conan tale by Robert E. Howard or a piece of outré horror by Clark Ashton Smith or H. P. Lovecraft. For fans of these and other authors this story will hopefully be like sitting down with an old friend.
I am calling these stories collectively Tales of Unsuspected Bizzarie, a nod to Edmond Hamilton whose ability to craft stunning, unforeseen twists into his yarns I find to be unparalleled. I am constantly laboring on new works with an ever expanding host of stories in planning. All of them work toward the goal of appeasing the hunger of the fan of pulp era stories by catering toward that side of our nature longing to read stories of adventure.
Chris.
01: Disaster
Arriving at the top of the vertical precipice he just scaled Lieutenant Erik von Mendelsöhn took but a half dozen steps before he slumped to the ground in a heap, too weary to go any further without rest.
The merciless noonday sun beat down on him with the force of a hammer, etching his finely chiseled features with runnels of sweat and streaking his mop of thick, wavy brown hair with wet tendrils. He saw his hand shook with fatigue when he pulled a felt-covered canteen from his service belt, grimly noting the faint slosh of liquid within.
Not enough to last the day, he thought, as he twisted the cap from the container.
“Verdammt!” The single word perfectly summed his frustration.
Taking a carefully measured sip of the tepid water he grimly surveyed the lay of the land below him with keen, blue eyes, rubbing his neck gingerly. A casual inspection would have shown the purple bruises of an enormous handprint completely encircling his throat. The night before, while he was still miles from the series of cliffs he’d only stumbled on that morning, he had climbed high into the branches of a jungle giant bearing a blackened split in its bole left by a lightning strike.
The singed crevice was wide enough at its base to permit the passage of his body, it then tapering upwards for some four meters until it was only a hand’s breadth in width at its topmost point. Spotting this feature from the ground he saw in this hollowed cavity a possible sanctuary for the night from the wildlife of the primordial jungle which had sought his life on every hand since setting out from the wreckage of his plane the day prior.
Clambering into the interior of the tree he further ascended until the hollow cavity became too snug to proceed any further. Through the vertically running crevice he could see downward through the leafy foliage where the game trail he’d been following was visible below. He determined he would crouch there for the night. The constricted size of the interior aided in keeping him from falling back down the way he’d climbed while the giant crack in the tree’s bole gave ingress for fresh air.
The narrow confines of the cavity would not have easily allowed his drawing his sidearm should necessity arise so he left his pistol hanging from one shoulder by its lanyard in case he should have need of it in a hurry. Well for him he did.
He had drifted off to sleep for all the discomfiture of his position when a subtle sound impeded his consciousness. It was only a hint of a sound, as of the dislodging of a small piece of bark from above falling and rebounding from limb to leaf as it made its way to the soft undergrowth at the base of the tree. Through the crevice shone the merest gleam of light from the full moon, visible through the maze of branches above him.
As he opened his sleepy eyes this faint illumination slowly disappeared from view from above and he perceived a dark body was descending the exterior of the tree, its hairy form straddling and covering the crevice through which Erik now gazed, wide-eyed and fully awake. The reek of it was nearly overpowering for its closeness and potency. Scarcely breathing for fear of arousing the unknown thing to a realization of his presence it continued its descent and he saw from the length of the split from which illumination was being blocked that this was a creature of some size.
As quietly as he might he lowered his hand toward the butt of the heavy automatic. Before he could close his hand on it the thing sniffed out his presence or detected his movement. It was then he found himself deafened by a roar coming from such close proximity he felt spittle splatter across his face and smelled hot, foetid breath.
Before he could anticipate it an immense arm shot through the narrow opening. Immense and powerful fingers clutched him about the throat, choking and crushing him. He was vigorously shaken and felt the life being throttled from him. Through sheer will be brought up his pistol within the awkward confines of the cavity and, shoving its barrel out the split toward his nemesis, he fired two rounds full into what he believed to be its face. There was a yowl and the arm rapidly withdrew. This was followed by a heavy crash as of a body falling from great height to the jungle floor. The thing was gone the next day but he saw dark pools of sanguine where it bled from some wound it received at his hand.
Thereafter he found himself hounded by the immense apes whose size staggered the imagination. So dogged were they in following him he felt he must have slain their king for he saw none alive acting as though they’d been maimed recently. In fighting off these things he expended many rounds of precious ammunition.
He’d been climbing and hiking for two days by then, the grade increasing steadily, with almost no food and very little rest. He knew he pushed his limits but, being pragmatic, understood as well the longer he remained exposed in the primordial forest the less likely were his chances to survive to tell of it. Considering what he’d passed through already he thought it amazing he yet lived.
This combined with the incredible mental strain he’d been under since beginning this mission had brought him to a point of almost complete exhaustion. The man looked straight down the rocky path he’d just scaled, estimating his climb at approximately one thousand meters in elevation. From where he sat it felt as if he were on top of the world as he gazed upon the land falling away from him on every hand, dropping into a dark, impenetrable African jungle.
From the summit of a series of cliffs that rose like a wall out of the jungle floor the man strove in vain to find the point in the mass of forest below where his plane went down. He half expected to see a ragged, black hole where the Fokker ripped into the forest canopy. Cursing his faulty compass for the hundredth time Erik took out his flugbuch, or pilot’s log, rereading the latest entry - made just prior to his taking flight from the airbase near Bismarkburg three days prior.
It was dated 0200hrs on 28 September, 1917. His orders had been to courier new information regarding British troop movement to Vorbeck’s position. His commandant
informed him of a shortage of aëroplane fuel available at the bivouac so Erik conceived the idea of having a maintenance crew install two additional fuel tanks, he estimating it would be just enough to get him there and back. They worked late into the night finishing the installation. When he took flight the sky had been overcast – moonless and black with nary a star in sight.
After scanning the previous entry he wet the tip of his pencil and began writing.
30 September, 1917
Compass malfunctioned. Flew in unknown direction all night. Daybreak revealed unfamiliar terrain and only jungle below my aeröplane. Used sun to set course, but too late. Pressed on until fuel exhausted. Set plane down in forest two days ago. Surprised to have survived the terrific crash and attacks by apes, lions and immense snakes. Scaled cliff to get lay of surrounding land - nothing in sight but forest canopy. Cannot fathom in which direction lay friendly lines.
The lieutenant snapped the leather book shut. Only someone who knew Erik von Mendelsöhn intimately would glean from this enigmatic entry anything of the suffering and hardships he’d undergone since his biplane plummeted from the sky and crashed into the top of this African forest far to the west of his destination.
He had known when he set out that in all probability it would mean death were anything untoward to happen enroute. Much of the country over which he would be crossing remained virtually unexplored. Entire armies could be swallowed in the thousands of square kilometers of tropical forest,