Scots Grey, Book 7: Perilous Paths!

Scots Grey

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Book VII

Wherein the Lady and her fair filly are confronted by an ancient evil.

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Gentlereaders, be forewarned!

On the pages that follow, our heroines face perils of the most shocking sort!

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Readers who are meeting the ladies for the first time are invited to seek out their preceding adventures on the author's page. For a more 'vintage' reading experience, please set Font Face to 'Times'.

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Unmapped lands west of Lake Victoria. 1904.

Quatermain and Umbopa had set out at dawn, taking with them three of the doughtiest porters and supplies sufficient for a few days' travel. The men intend to explore ahead, up the valley where the expedition has pitched camp, to determine whether it offers a route into the mountains that will be passable for the full company.

Boudica has elected to spend these days with Anabelle. The lands about the mountains' feet are more liberally watered than the dry plain they've left behind, and home to species of trees and vegetation different from those so far encountered. There is much to discover within a short pony-ride of camp.

The ladies' morning excursion is so rewarding that, after an early tea, they set out again, in the pleasant warmth of late afternoon. With her thighs about Ana's corset-narrowed waist, via the reins Lady Gordon directs her filly at a trot around a rocky hillside, and into a neighbouring vale. This one is more aptly described as a ravine, and seems at first to offer less promise of a route westwards. Its steep sides are cloaked in jungle.

But, what's this?

Near the valley's head Boudica spies a dark gap in the green, recalling the mouth of a tunnel.

She guides her mount under the eaves of the looming rain-forest. When their eyes adjust to the dim light... Yes, a tunnel-like passage below the trees extends well back into what had appeared, from a distance, to be impassable country.

'Tk-tk.'

A doubled click of the Lady's tongue signals Ana to proceed.

The tall pony-girl hesitates. Perhaps it's the dimness of the light, all in shades of green, that penetrates the forest canopy; or the novelty of thick jungle terrain after weeks of trekking across the sun-baked plain. But something here makes her ill-at-ease.

'Tk-tk. Let's go and see, dear.'

Mine is not to reason why...

Ana's faith in her mistress is complete, and if faith ever should fail to govern her nervous nature there is trained obedience to the reins. Grasping the slender bit between her teeth -- steel wrapped in resilient gutta-percha -- on hoofed boots she steps forward, feeling carefully for her footing in the green dimness. The shaded jungle air feels cool on Miss Smith's fair skin, flushed pink with her exertions and clothed only in the gauzy chemise of blended silk and cotton that she wears beneath her corset-harness.

The path runs nearly straight into the jungle along a seam of friable rock, gravelly in places and scattered over with tree-litter. It's far from anything one might call a road but really not too rough or steep. Anabelle's studded horseshoes find good purchase, and once her eyes adapt to the weak light she makes steady progress.

When the pair has proceeded for a furlong, illumination grows fainter still. Glancing over her shoulder, Lady Gordon sees that the close-hemmed path has curved sufficiently that the exit behind them is now lost to view. Ahead, the 'tunnel' into the jungle continues upwards at a gentle grade, until its distant end is lost in shadow.

'It's a mineral vein, perhaps.' She postulates. 'Where trees cannot grow. We should explore a bit farther! The vein might extend all the way up into the mountains. If Allan's route proves impassable, the expedition might come this way.'

As they continue, Anabelle becomes aware of an eerie silence. The lush greenery around them absorbs all sound, except for the occasional strike of her horseshoe on a hard stone.

Should not such rich plant life support an animal population, to generate some noise? I don't believe I've heard a bird.

The Lady's theory of the mineral vein is challenged when side tunnels begin to appear, opening off the main path at irregular intervals. These trails are narrower, having been created evidently by the passage of a large animal. Branches, some quite girthy, have been cracked aside by the beast as it forced its way through the jungle.

Shifting the reins to her left hand, Lady Gordon reaches for the Winchester rifle slung over her shoulder. The petite adventuress never travels far from camp unarmed -- though when accompanied by Anabelle this is only with thought to defence, rather than sport.

As her filly continues up the main path at a careful walking pace, Boudica cradles the weapon in her elbow, and speculates aloud on the side-trails.

'Elephants? But this ground seems inhospitable. I've seen paths through forest somewhat like this that had been made by rhino, but never one so tall.'

Some of the broken limbs are high enough that she must look up to them. When she's seated in the saddle behind Ana's waist, the Lady's eyes are seven feet above the ground.

Her gaze turns downward.

'If only there were spoor! But this rocky ground takes marks poorly. I see a few scuffs and scratchings, but nothing yet that makes any sense. Let's a bit farther, dear, and find a clue. It's fairly easy going, isn't it? And all downhill on the way home.'

'!-!-!'

Quite suddenly and without warning, the ladies are beset on every side by hostile natives -- none much more than three feet tall! Leaping out of the jungle, they fill the air with an alarming, high-pitched chatter, while brandishing spears with charred black points.

Ana spins on her hoofs, but the ambush has already closed in behind! There must be a dozen of the little men, all shaking their spears aggressively and shouting in what sounds like gibberish.

The natives wear feathers in their hair, and necklaces adorned with wooden beads and fangs, but otherwise their bodies are essentially bare. It's quite clear that these are fully grown men of short stature, and not boys! Faces decorated liberally with war-paint appear to Miss Smith demonic; In addition to their spears, several of the dark Lilliputians carry coiled ropes.

'Steady, Ana!'

Lady Gordon points her rifle high into the air, hoping that its mere report will frighten off these primitives. But before she can fire, a loop of rope snakes around the barrel, and the weapon is jerked from her grasp!

'Ah!' Boudica gasps, reacting to a sharp sting. A wasp? No!.............

Anabelle feels the reins go slack, and then her heart sinks, as the weight of her rider slips slowly from the saddle. Turning, the pony-girl looks down in horror upon her beloved Lady: Boudica lies facing upward upon the ground, with eyes open, but fixed, and the feathered tail of a dart sticking in her neck.

The hunters rush in pell-mell, and for a moment the path back toward camp is open. A voice in Ana's head screams that she must Flee! But her hoofs will not be moved from beside her fallen mistress.

I have to fight?...!

Even as Miss Smith lifts her head, a loop of rope falls over it, closing around her neck. And then another. With her hands in hoof-mittens there's naught that she can do to loosen them! The pony-girl paws desperately at the cords as they're drawn tight, and lifts a hoof to kick -- but the diminutive assailants who pull the ropes out tight to her either side are too far away to reach.

Breathing soon becomes a battle in itself. As Ana twists and tugs against the doubled noose, stars begin to sparkle before her eyes. Behind the dazzle she sees the black points of spears moving toward her, threatening...

Without the Lady's will to direct her strength, the formidably large but mild-mannered young woman is quickly overcome by fear. Staring wide-eyed at the spears held a foot before her nose, Anabelle clamps the bit between her teeth to stop their chattering, and stiffens from head to toe.

The hunters read in her stillness, and in her welling green eyes: Surrender. They all erupt in a shrill cheer of victory!

The ropes slacken just enough to allow Ana a deep, gasping breath. Immediately the men crowd in, laughing and prattling in excitement as they begin to paw at her. With the ropes around her throat, and a spear still held much too close to her face for comfort, Anabelle has no choice but to stand shivering in fright and endure the explorations of a dozen rude little hands.

If she were more composed, Miss Smith might give thanks that her captors seem to be more interested in the hardened leather of her boots and corset than in her soft, womanly parts.

The shiny metal stirrups attract Stone-Age eyes. Hunters lift and fondle them, speaking in hushed tones of wonder. With small blades of chipped black stone they saw the stirrups loose from the straps on which they hang, and hold them up like trophies. Then they cut the dangling hanger-straps free from Ana's harness, too; while others discover the saddlebags and rummage in them eagerly.

Several of the men surround fallen Boudica, rolling her inert form so that the noblewoman lies upon her face. With the slim leather stirrup-hangers they bind her wrists and ankles. As Miss Smith watches, helplessly and with tears streaming, the hunters fold Boudica's legs at the knees and link the ankle-tie to the one about her wrists, making her body into a bundle.

When four of the miniature hunters combine their strength to lift the Lady off the ground Ana sobs at the frightening way in which her beloved's head hangs slack.

Is she...? No, no! It cannot be!

The men drape Lady Gordon over the saddle, with her face toward the earth. Barely mindful any longer of the ropes around her neck, Miss Smith stands compliant as her mistress is secured in place with twine. Gladly will she ever bear this burden!

Escape! is foremost among the thoughts that fight for space in Ana's panicked mind. If an opportunity presents itself to run off with her mistress, she will quickly seize it!

But the impish hunters are vigilant, as they begin to lead the pony-girl by the neck-ropes, with one cord stretched out before her and the other behind. The smallest among them -- he cannot stand so much as three feet tall -- carries a long, slim cane of something like bamboo; He snaps the hollow blow-gun up now and then across Ana's bottom to hurry her along.

But not too quickly! a tug on the trailing rope demands.

The high-pitched chatter of the hunters soon gives way to a gay marching song, and they begin to leap and to caper in dance as they proceed ever farther into the jungle, celebrating as they go their victory over the fearsome giants.

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For miles, it seems, Anabelle is led deep into the jungle. At some point the hunters depart from the main path onto branching trails, climbing ever higher into the green wilderness.

Feeling for her footing in the weak light, the pony-girl attempts now and then to glance over her shoulder, to her Lady slung limp across the saddle.

Unconscious, she must be.

The alternative is too dreadful to contemplate. But with mittened hands Ana can sense no warmth of life-- and then a tug on the leading rope demands that she face forward to their path again.

Twice, the noisy parade passes through narrow places where cliffs loom behind the trees, as it ascends into a secret valley. There, in a broad clearing surrounded by jungle, the hunters' village sits. The settlement is surprisingly populous: a whole town of half-sized huts encircled by a six-foot palisade built of thorny brush. To the residents, their defensive wall must seem much more imposing.

Ana is led in through a gap in the palisade, toward an open space in the middle of the village where scores of women, children, and men are coming out to meet their returning hunters. The villagers at first keep to a distance, wary of the strange giantess who is so eerily pale, and with hair like knotted flame. Atop her hoofs Anabelle looms at twice the height of their tallest warrior.

When they see how the huge beast-woman quivers with fear, and the hunters beckoning cheerfully for their people to come join the celebration, the crowd moves in. Cautious murmurs rise to a hectic noise -- the twitters of the tiny women are pitched high as the song of birds -- as Miss Smith is subjected once again to involuntary spection by countless little hands. Nearly-naked tribesfolk bustle all around her: reaching, touching, stroking. The dark diminutives are so captivated by Ana's shiny boots, her stiff-boned corset and supple kidskin leggings that she begins to wonder if they take these for her flesh.

'!!!'

A strident exclamation calls everyone to halt. Turning as one body, the crowd presses back to make a path, and some bow their heads: Their elders have arrived.

A half-dozen men, all mature and middle-aged, the elders display their status by means of elaborate feathered head-dresses and amulets crafted of beads and fangs that hang around their necks. Some wear fuzzy pelts about their shoulders, or in the manner of a sash, but otherwise the old men go as bare as the commoners of their tribe. The elders are escorted through the crowd by a like number of lictors: grim-faced senior warriors armed with clubs of polished wood, studded fearsomely with razor-sharp bits of flint.

The elders are as curious as their people about the towering, exotic creature who appears to be half ghostly woman and half animal. They want to see, too, the somewhat smaller 'giant' who's draped across the saddle.

Hope flutters in Ana's breast as Lady Gordon is lifted away, and her bonds loosed. But when two of the hunters hoist her mistress up -- with Boudica's arms stretched out across their shoulders, her knees rest fully upon the ground -- still her slender form slumps limp and lifeless.

One of the elders steps forward: a crafty-looking greybeard with shifty, deep-set eyes. By dint of his copious ornament he must be the tribe's chieftain. Cupping the Lady's chin in his horny little hand, he tilts her head up, and then left and right, studying her face.

Her eyes! Ana observes through fresh-salted tears, and with heart breaking. Open, so I cannot hope she merely sleeps. Oh, say it isn't so! My dear Lady!

Lowering Boudica's head, the chief steps back, and with ritual reverence he lifts both his hands toward the heavens.

'!' He proclaims aloud. '!.!...!!'

His people cheer, and grow excited, to the extent that some leap up and down in place as they shout reply. At the chief's command Lady Gordon is dragged off, disappearing into the raucous throng.

Miss Smith's panic is redoubled by separation from her mistress. It requires four pairs of small-but-strong hands pulling on the neck ropes to prevent her following.

What will they do?? And what hope have I, without her?

While Anabelle stands captive, and weeping in despair, the leader of the hunting party makes a formal presentation of his booty to the chief; handing over Lady Gordon's rifle, some sundries pilfered from the saddlebags, and her Bowie knife. His half-pint lord inspects the various items with affected disdain before passing them on to his lieutenants.

Neither hunter, nor chief, nor the other elders know what to make of the firearm. After experimenting with various grips and movements they decide that the rifle is too awkward to swing like a club. It might be useful for mashing, with its larger end toward the ground.

Clearly they feel the knife to be the greater prize. Even the chief is hard-pressed to contain the awe that this object inspires: made of polished steel with a wondrously long edge, sinuously curved yet as sharp as the finest chipped obsidian. With a broad eight-inch blade and a handle designed to balance it, the Bowie invites him to apply a two-handed grip.

'...'

A single croaked word comes from some distance off, cutting through the hum and chatter as though transmitted by some energy other than sound alone. The assembled tribe, and their elders too, fall immediately to silence.

An entity approaches. Anabelle, looking down upon the half-height crowd from a perspective like to that of a person standing on a ladder, perceives it first only as a space that opens in the teeming mass as the unseen being passes through.

Arriving beside the elders, the phantom is revealed to be a withered, gnomish crone, who leans heavily upon a stick as she shuffles along. The only member of the tribe so old that her hair has all gone white, the woman is also the only one who conceals well her nakedness, under a layered drapery of animal hides.

Her face is parched and grey, cadaverous; The hand that grasps the walking-stick is skeletal, with long pointed nails, and quite like the claw of a bird. As she wobbles along, leaning on her staff, the crone's spindly neck appears to be overburdened by the many necklaces she wears, strung with beads of vari-coloured stone along with pointed teeth, and feathers, and uncounted other charms.

The elders -- even the chief -- bow their heads in respect for their priestess.

'...'

The crone's voice is coarse and raspy, like the sound made by two pieces of rough stone rubbed together. With that single word, she extends a shriveled hand. The chief offers a deeper bow, and murmurs a prayer as he presents the knife.

Wrapping twiggy, twisted fingers around its handle, the priestess receives his offering... And then with one hand she thrusts the heavy blade straight up above her head! The witch retains a hidden vitality that belies her withered mien -- either that, or there is Magic in her claws.

Holding the knife high, so that its edge gleams red with twilight glow, the shamaness shuffles off again through the crowd, muttering spells as she goes. Men and women press back against each other to make a wide path -- striving to keep clear of her lethal reach. As the tribe closes in again behind the witch, the knife in her hand appears to levitate just above the sea of heads, as it recedes from Ana's view.

The chief appears now a bit forlorn, with his trophy confiscated by the gods. To cheer him, the leading hunter calls his attention to the greatest prize of all: Anabelle. Taking the ends of the neck-ropes from his men, he tugs the pony-girl forward.

Fixed behind Ana's waist, the saddle is at a height somewhat above the little man's head, but the agile hunter vaults up into it easily. Alarmed by both his suddenness and the almost intimate sense of violation -- no one but the Lady has ever mounted her before -- Ana takes a half-step backward to regain her balance.

The hunter sits the saddle as he'd seen the Lady do. But he's so much smaller that, when seated behind the broad-built pony-girl, he cannot see ahead. Placing his hands on Ana's shoulders, he rises to stand with his bare feet upon the saddle.

The tribe acclaims his conquest with a cheer! Triumphant, the hunter yells shrilly in response, and in excitement he pulls on the reins.

With every nerve jangling in fright and acting on reflex, Ana leans back to ease the pressure of the bit upon her mouth. Her tilting movement causes the hunter's feet to slip on the smooth, oiled saddle, and after an awkward attempt to catch himself he tumbles to the ground.

The crowd's 'hurrahs' turn to laughter.

The hunter would remount... But his chief steps forward, with one hand raised. Approaching Anabelle deliberately, the petty tyrant makes a signal, and one of his people drops immediately to hands and knees at Ana's side, offering himself as a human stool to help his lord up.

Treading with no sign of gratitude upon the back thus volunteered, the chief climbs up -- cautiously -- to stand on the saddle. One hand he slips under a strap behind Ana's shoulder, taking a firm grip, and in the other he gathers the reins.

'!' He barks, unintelligibly, close behind her ear.

'!!' Again, louder.

Nothing happens. Miss Smith is in a state too agitated to guess that the chief's command is meant for her.

The leading hunter, eager to regain respect, takes up the neck-ropes and carries them forward. Perforce, Anabelle must walk through the crowd, which opens before her to create a path. The littlest member of the hunting party reappears -- the one who'd tormented her as they'd marched through the jungle -- and slaps his lightweight blow-gun up across her bottom almost gleefully.

Despite his provocations, Ana walks deliberately, striving for smoothness in her stride. Loathing grows in Miss Smith's heart for the imp who goads her, and for the pocket martinet who rides standing on the saddle, to the deafening acclaim of his people. But with her Lady absent fear governs Anabelle completely. The light sting of the cane upon her cotton-draped bottom merely hints at what punishment she imagines the tribe might exact, should she cast their chieftain to the ground. The head-man's lictor walks alongside her, too, glowering up at the tall pony-girl with menace, and brandishing his flint-toothed club.

What have they done with my Lady? If only she were here, and hale... Never would my mistress allow this hateful treatment to continue!

All around the central space of the village they proceed, as the crowd's cheers turn to chanting, and then to triumphant songs.

When the chief's circuit is complete, and he has dismounted, another elder steps forward. This grizzled warrior scrambles up behind Ana's back without calling for aid; When he's standing on the saddle with a firm grip on the harness, he loosens the ropes from around her neck, and casts them off to the ground.

Knowing now the desired route Miss Smith carries the old warrior around the village without needing to be led. Her lips quiver around the bit, in fear of the consequences should she even appear to hesitate. The crowd's cheers rise again, swelling to their loudest yet: an ovation for their hero's bravery and air of command.

When Ana has returned this rider to their starting point, the chief -- unwilling to be outdone by his lieutenant -- steps up to ride again, also without lead-ropes. And so Anabelle's waking nightmare continues, as evening turns to night, compelled by terror to carry one of the elders around the village after another, and then another.

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As all of this transpired, Lady Gordon has been quite lucid, as she's remained without interruption since the ambush. The venom insinuated to her veins by the needle-sharp blown dart is paralytic, only. While rendering her body limp, and so completely immobile that she's unable even to swivel her eyes in their sockets -- the only motion she's allowed is occasionally to breathe, and more rarely to blink, and even these merely as reflex outside of her control -- the toxin does not a thing to dull her wits or senses.

And so proud Boudica Gordon has been forced -- despite a seething fury -- to endure being handled, and disarmed, and bound, and dragged, and lifted like a bag of so much meat. As she was carried deep into the jungle her trapped mind had resorted to memorising what landmarks she might observe along the trail, from her awkward perspective with head hanging loose and upside-down.

At the same time, her concern had mounted for Anabelle. Slung across the saddle, Lady Gordon could well hear the snap! of the blow-gun-cane across Miss Smith's bottom, and the poor girl whimpering. Boudica's deepest anguish has arisen from her inability to defend her companion, or even to reassure Ana's gentle spirit that the effects of the venom must eventually pass, and that once her mistress is herself again she'll make everything all right.

How she might deliver on this promise, given her current predicament, remains to be seen.

From her one-sided audience with the chief, the Lady had been dragged through the crowd toward a mean little hut. The brief glimpse that she'd obtained, when her head swung through that direction, told her that the dwelling must belong to the tribe's shaman or medicine-maker. Tall wooden stakes set in the ground all about the hut are hung with a panoply of assorted flowers, feathers, gnarled roots, and other talismans; The stakes are topped with animal skulls.

Boudica has not been taken inside the hut, but to a place nearby: a platform of packed earth a few yards across and a foot high. Ringed with large, rough-edged stones washed with white and decorated with heathen symbols that appear to have been painted in blood, the earthen platform evokes the sense of a sacred place -- though certainly no Christian one.

At the centre of the platform stands a structure, of construction rude but stout: two wooden posts rising from the ground to a height of about five feet, with a crosspiece lashed between them. All together, the timbers form a shape recalling a broad letter 'H'.

Helplessly paralyzed, Lady Gordon was man-handled into a position draped over the crosspiece, with her bottom toward the sky in a pose most undignified. Her legs, drawn out to either side, have been secured to the posts with wraps of coarse rope about the ankles. The toes of her hunting boots do not quite touch the ground.

The two men assigned to her preparation next drew the Lady's arms forward, tying ropes around her wrists and pulling them out toward stakes set in the ground. With her limbs all limp and loose as these ropes were drawn tight, since Boudica's keepers tied off their last knot she's felt rather stretched.

The men have placed a forked stick under their captive's chin to prop up her lolling head. Unable to move her eyes, the Lady studies with her mind the corners of that view which she's allowed, hoping for a glimpse of Anabelle. But Miss Smith remains outside her field of vision. Boudica can only listen to the occasional outbursts of the crowd, in a tongue unknown, and guess at what events inspire them. In secure restraint, her anger boils, alongside concern for her companion.

Then, even the brave adventuress would admit that her stomach turns with unease, as her captors produce coin-sized blades of chipped flint, and begin to cut away her clothing.

Starting at her sides, they work with methodical speed to open the seams of her shirt, taking care to avoid nicking the flesh beneath the garment and to minimise damage to the cloth -- like the skilful hunters they are, well-practised in skinning game.

How ironic it would be! The Lady muses, bracing her courage with dark humour. Recalling all the heads that I've taken to hang on my walls -- If I were to meet my end as the trophy of another!

When Boudica's shirt has been removed, her captors glide their fingertips over her 'combination' undergarment, made of pure mulberry silk dyed a pale rose-pink. As they touch for the first time in their peoples' history the diaphanous 'fabric of dreams', the men comment in hushed tones to one another, wondering at the material's lustre and slippery hand.

Deciding finally not to damage the eldritch cloth, they set to work upon the Lady's khaki jodhpurs, until she's left with only the weightless silk of the one-piece 'combination' between her bottom and the sky.

At her either side, the hunters stroke and poke at Boudica's tough hunting boots...

'...'

From the direction of the crowd, where cheers continue to erupt at intervals, the hunched figure of the shamaness staggers toward the timber altar, leaning on her stick and with her drapery of hides dragging along the ground. The witch carries Boudica's knife; With a curt gesture and a word in her rasping voice she sends the hunters away. The Lady's boots and 'combination' will remain intact, for the present.

The priestess moves to stand before her captive. With Lady Gordon folded jack-knife at the waist, it is remarkable how little the stooped, dwarfish priestess must bend in order to face her intended victim eye-to-eye. With a watery black stare, she engages Boudica's gaze -- fixed, yet steely -- as she sets the Bowie knife before her, upon ground already blackened by past outpourings of blood.

'...'

At this harsh, scraping word, someone emerges from the hut: a tiny maiden, sleek and nubile, wearing naught but a wreath of flowers about her ebon brow. The girl steps quick and light to stand beside the witch, with her eyes down and hands clasped in modesty.

Instruction is soon forthcoming, and as the shamaness holds her stare unbroken upon the Lady her assistant hurries to comply. Soon returning, the girl places on the ground beside her priestess a sort of tray made from a plank, embellished with carvings and bearing a collection of wooden cups. Each of the cups is filled with a different-coloured paint or pigment.

Stiffly, the priestess lowers herself an inch or two, to either sit or kneel upon the ground. Which of these postures she adopts is unclear, as, except for face and claw-like hands, all of the witch's withered body remains hidden beneath her layered skins.

Taking up a brush made from the pounded stalk of a fibrous plant, she begins to paint, with remarkable dexterity and finesse, upon Boudica's face. With ritual care the priestess draws her brush across the Lady's high-born cheekbones; and then, applying a different colour, down past the corner of her mouth. She chants softly prayers as she paints.

Her process takes some time. As it continues, Lady Gordon finds that, with effort, she's able to move her eyes.

Finally, the toxin's potency is fading!

When Boudica's eyes begin to follow the brush, the witch takes note. A sneer twists across her thin, grey lips, as she continues uninterrupted with her painting and her mumbled incantations. Long minutes pass as her brush slides wet, or dabs dots upon Boudica's face; with the Lady pinned by rope and venom like a butterfly to a board.

At last the witch sets down the brush and calls for her disciple to kneel beside her. Obeying a croaked command, the girl lifts off the flowery crown and demurely presents it. Her fell mistress takes the garland in her claw-like hands and presses it firmly onto Boudica's head.

With a grunt of arthritic pain, the crone rises, and makes her shambling way around to a position behind Lady Gordon. The cups of paint are by her apprentice likewise relocated.

Boudica feels sharpened finger-nails plucking at the seat of her undergarment; With control of her own body gradually returning, she frowns in objection.

Her 'combination' is of the latest style, with tailored legs and just a touch of lace above the knee. The seam that runs front-to-back between the legs is held closed by a row of small buttons in mother-of-pearl.

The witch must be unaware of a button's function, as Lady Gordon soon hears the reptilian hisssing sound of razor-sharp flint slicing through silk. By unseen hands her undergarment is opened at the seat, then cut all down the legs and peeled away, leaving the noblewoman lewdly exposed.

The Lady's slim patrician bottom, upturned and rendered bare, is to be the next canvas for the witch's brush. Again the priestess takes her time, drawing complex designs in varied colours, and with precision; while muttering continually in her frog-like voice dark magic spells.

As her work proceeds, the paralyzing effect of the toxin ebbs, and Lady Gordon becomes able to tug at her bonds -- if still only with a pitiful feebleness. Muscles tense along her widely-spread thighs as the wet brush glides along them.

To Boudica's intense disgust, the final application the witch makes is not of colour merely. Thick and greasy, the paint applied to her nether regions emits a powerful odour: sour, musky, and badly over-ripe. The reek grows stronger as the noxious stuff is warmed by her body's heat.

The priestess staggers to her feet, and offers a prayer toward the heavens; Then with a mean, thin-lipped smile into the eyes of her helpless victim, she shifts the Bowie knife that she'd placed upon the blackened soil, so that its gleaming edge sits poised below Boudica's throat. Finally she shuffles off, leaving her disciple to watch over their captive.

Lady Gordon is able to bend her neck now, enough to cause the forked stick beneath her chin to fall away. When her gaze meets that of the young minder standing alongside, the girl's cherubic face splits into a wicked grin: a youthful mirror of her priestess-matron, and a very portrait of Innocence corrupted by malignant Evil.

While the Lady was prepared for whatever cruel fate might wait in store, night has fully fallen, and the tribe has been developing their impromptu celebration into a proper event. In the midst of the open space at the center of the village, a bonfire has been built; Its flames, leaping up toward the darkling purple sky, illuminate a performance of ritual dance. All around the fire, scores of the tribe's warriors leap and gyrate in its ruddy light, clashing spears against shields made of painted hide in time to the beat of drums, and to the high-pitched songs and rhythmic clapping of their women.

Tugging with a slowly -- too slowly -- returning strength against her bonds, Boudica cranes her neck left and right, seeking her companion. On the far side of the open space, she finds her.

Ana looks back toward her Lady with eyes made red by weeping. Even at this distance, the pony-girl's long legs can be seen shaking in fear.

A particularly small native man stands beside Anabelle: It is Miss Smith's self-appointed warden and tormentor. Lady Gordon squints in fury at the little bastard, who holds casually the long blow-gun by which she'd been envenomed, and with which he's dared to strike her sweetheart.

The pony-girl still wears her harness, boots and bridle, and stands with the backs of her mittened hands pressed to her chest, guarding her modesty. Curious natives had pulled loose the knotted ribbon at the front of Miss Smith's chemise, and now, unless held up, the garment would slip low and expose her bosom. Her hair has been picked partly loose from its neat coiffure. So carefully and lovingly groomed just a few hours ago, Anabelle presents now an impression of piteous dishevelment.

My poor Ana! Would that I'd been able to leave some signs for Allan to follow. Could even the legendary skill of Quatermain track us here, over stony trails where I could see no spoor?

The Lady glances down to her own knife, with its glinting edge placed meaningfully below her throat.

Perhaps, by daylight. But if Allan and Umbopa can find us at all, I fear they'll be far too late.

She observes that Ana is unbound, and that Miss Smith's single small minder is barely paying his charge any mind. The tribe, focused now upon their ritual celebration, appears for the moment to have lost interest in the hoofed giantess, who they must take to be a docile beast of burden.

Lady Gordon pulls again at the restraining ropes. There is not an inch of slack.

It certainly would seem that my number has come up. Yet sweet Anabelle might still get away! If she could just get clear, on their short legs these hunters could never match her speed.

All at once the drumbeats cease, and the dancers fall still. From somewhere in the silence the shamaness faintly can be heard, croaking an invocation.

Clearing her throat, Boudica seizes the moment of relative quiet.

'Run, Ana!' She shouts in hoarse voice, guessing that the natives are as ignorant of English as she is of their tongue.

'Break free and run, my love! Make your best speed along downhill trails, to our camp! Don't look back!'

'!-!-!' The witch's apprentice yaps, scolding the Lady to be quiet. Then the girl laughs, revelling in her prisoner's helplessness.

Across the wide space, Miss Smith forgets her own affronts, and silently thanks God to see Boudica stirring. Her Lady's voice fuels the flickering flame of Ana's spirit, which by terror had quite nearly been extinguished. But, though hearing the command, and by training and by nature inclined to obey, the pony-girl stands as though her hoofs have taken root. Her soul rejects the abandonment of her beloved as pure impossibility.

So brave and selfless! Anabelle thinks behind her bit, blinking back fresh tears. Even now! One of such great spirit should not die here -- And treated so dishonourably!

In her gentlest of hearts an anger kindles.

When the witch concludes her raspy prayer, the drumming resumes, now in a slow, steady rhythm that evokes a funeral march, or the throbbing pulse of Leviathan. A hundred dancers stamp their feet in time.

Lady Gordon tugs again at the unyielding bonds, as her own pulse pounds in unaccustomed fear -- less for herself than for her innocent ward.

Whatever doom rushes now to claim me, my life I've lived as I felt right. But Anabelle's has just begun! If only she had the assuredness to make her own escape. How can I inspire her?

'SCOTS GREYS!' The general's daughter shouts, in the most militating tone that she can muster.

Across the sea of stamping miniature warriors, Anabelle's ears twitch. Memory flashes, vivid as a painted picture: Of that triumphant moment back in England when she'd embraced her God-given size and strength, as she strutted on her hoofs into Harold Gordon's fancy ball. With Boudica in the saddle, costumed as an officer of that most celebrated regiment, the Royal Scots Greys; In defence of her Lady's honour Anabelle had, for an hour, set aside fears of exposure and derision, and lost herself in the role of one of the proud chargers from which that gallant corps takes its name.

What a glory, that evening!

'SCOTS GREYS!' The Lady calls out clear, striving to project not just voice but her very will across the space.

'The night is dark but set aside your fears, and harken! Women we may be -- but British women! Daughters of an island small, yet indomitable, in spirit and pride in honour we're the match of any man.

'So, arise, great heart! Shed weakling fear, and arise! Assume formation, and prepare to meet the enemy! Line will attack!!'

Something stirs in young Miss Smith, that she's never felt before. The beating of native drums is joined now in her hearing by another sound. One that does not in fact vibrate the air, but that rises from within her Highland heart: bagpipes.

Pipes, pipes, pipes. A swelling storm of them -- a hurricano. Among the rocky craigs and heathered glens of ancient memory, in her mind they echo.

Pipes of War, screaming and skirling.

Her knees have stopped shaking, and filling her lungs with a deep breath the ginger beauty draws herself up to her full height. The late-rising courage of Miss Anabelle Smith is awake at last.

'Alba gu bràth!' Lady Gordon shouts the Greys' famous battle cry! 'Scotland forever! RUN, ANA, RUN!!'

Drawn by a force like gravity, Miss Smith leans, and then steps forward. When her surprised minder reaches to clutch at the hem of her chemise, she looks back to take careful measure, before kicking him in the chest. The blow-gun goes spinning off into the night as the clout from her blocky hoof propels the wee villain several yards through the air, to where he falls writhing, hugging bruised ribs.

Without gloating for a moment over her fallen guard, Anabelle begins to move... Not toward escape, as Boudica had intended, but on a direct route toward her Lady.

The loosened front of her chemise Miss Smith allows to sag. A single thought -- arising from compassion, suffused with anger, and then catalysed by the call to battle -- has quickly swelled to fill her mind, to the exclusion of modesty or any other self-concern: To the Queen!

A pair of tribesmen see Ana's minder rolling in the dust; Laughing at his mishap, they move casually to block her way.

Lifting her armoured knees high with each step as she gathers speed, Anabelle knocks the little men onto their backsides as she rushes past.

To the Queen!

By twos and threes, the tribe grows gradually aware of the strange creature's rebellion, and a handful of the bantam warriors make to confront her. Overlapping shields of painted hide to form a barrier across Ana's path, they point their char-tipped spears at her eyes.

The fighting spirit of Miss Smith's forebears, slow to ignite, burns now in her veins like liquid fire. From head to hoof she is inflamed with the special recklessness of one who feels the thrill of battle for the first time.

Shouting past the bit between her teeth, and with leather-sheathed forearms held before her to deflect the sharpened sticks like so many blades of grass, Anabelle slams through the half-height shield wall without breaking stride! Pint-sized braves are smashed aside like bowling pins by the force of her charge.

To the Queen!

A spear has nicked Miss Smith's plump cheek but spurred on by love and fury she never felt its sting. Strands of her coppery hair, picked loose from its braids by her captors and floating in the breeze of her speed, glow with the bonfire's light like a flaming aura.

Dozens more spearmen hurry now to form tiered ranks against her. Peering over their shields, they see the huge, fiery, beast-woman-thing -- pale as Death! -- rumbling toward them at a gallop, their comrades scattered prostrate in its wake, and brave warriors begin to doubt: Have they lassoed a demon? Men in the front rank glance to their fellows beside them, and to the rear.

Anabelle's hoofs tattoo the earth as she flies, heedless as a meteor, toward the native phalanx bristling with spears. Moments before impact, her surging battle-fury erupts in another shout; This one she imbues with all of her operatic power.

A soprano blast of incandescent RAGE!

By the bit that hobbles her tongue Miss Smith's war cry is transformed, into a sound unlike any heard before from human lips. Weird and prodigious, the scream is suited more to some dreadful beast come to life from myth: a great terrible gryphon with axe-beak and dagger-talons, bent on mayhem, or a leathery-winged wyvern swooping to its prey.

Her shriek rips wide the curtain between waking world and nightmare, at a volume that assaults the ears like the steam whistle of a train.

Few men of any size could stand against such super-natural force! Panic sweeps in an instant through the native ranks, and their close formation cracks, and breaks, and parts before the Hell-spawn's charge even as the sea parted before Moses. In the mad scramble of disordered troops, some stumble and fall -- Desperately they crawl to escape the thundering hoofs of Wrath.

Breathing hard, Anabelle reaches her captive love, as the tribe withdraws beyond the bonfire to regroup and reconsider. Lady Gordon's nubile minder has scurried away too, seeking the skirts of her priestess to hide behind.

The sight and sound of Miss Smith's rampage has left Boudica amazed! But the heroine's hands are encased in mittens; She cannot untie the knots.

With a steel-shod hoof Anabelle kicks at one of the stakes that hold her Lady's arms outstretched, again, and again, until it comes loose. With one hand at partial liberty, though still made clumsy by neural toxin Boudica manages to take up the Bowie knife, and saws laboriously through all her bonds; while Ana stands guard above her, holding the tribe at bay with a baleful glare, nostrils flaring.

At last, Boudica is free!... But still so enfeebled that she's barely able to raise herself up off the infernal apparatus. By degrees, the Lady works to straighten her spine; On wobbly legs she arranges the dangling tails of her ruined undergarment to veil her painted bottom.

Suddenly, shouts and murmurs rise from the natives, who have turned to face the other way. As the British women watch, the tribe falls as one to their knees, and bows before their god.

At the limits of the bonfire's light, its flames are reflected in the eyes of a gigantic ape. His massive head and shoulders are silhouetted by moonlight. Standing erect to loom over the palisade that surrounds the village, turning slowly his domed head left and right, the horrid black apparition snorts up into cavernous nostrils the smells of woodsmoke, and of musk.

God save us! Miss Smith prays in earnest. He must be ten feet tall!

Ana's fury, incompatible fundamentally with her kind nature, already had been cooling, and what's left is dissolved by the advent of the beastly Goliath. Pivoting on her hoofs, she offers the saddle to Lady Gordon: a wordless suggestion to her mistress that they Flee!

Boudica places a hand on the leather seat that waits at near her shoulder-height, and with the other grasps a strap on Anabelle's harness to use as an aid in mounting. But with the stirrups cut away, and weakened by the lingering effects of the toxin, the normally-nimble equestrienne struggles to climb up.

With her brow knitting in frustration Lady Gordon mutters a curse for her cowardly poisoner. Again she tries, with mighty effort, to will herself up into the saddle, but without success.

A roar so loud and guttural that it raises dust off the ground calls her attention back to the ape. The creature's eyes, burning with reflected flame, have seized upon the British ladies, identifying them amidst the hellish scene as subjects of his special interest. His lips draw back, exposing yellow fangs that drip with salivation as his expression shifts: from a domineering ferocity into what might be taken -- if one were to grant that the mind of such a beast might resemble those of his distant human kin -- as thirst for lechery.

Lady Gordon makes one more futile attempt to haul herself up, but finally must admit that she's unable to mount. Salvation represented by the saddle waits before her -- at a height that, by inches, she cannot achieve.

The noble woman knows her duty: If she and Miss Smith are unable to escape together, Boudica must not by her own weakness cause her companion come to harm. She sees no other choice but to strike her sweet Anabelle a sharp slap on the bottom, to drive the poor girl off, away from impending doom.

It was my folly led us here, and I alone must bear the consequence.

Tears cloud the Lady's vision. Her soul is rent with grief for a love so pure that now must end, though never until this moment appreciated to its full; Her breast is stabbed with agony by the need to cause her dear the slightest pain. With hand drawn back, Boudica strives to harden her heart so that she might deliver the blow, and to compose some last phrase with which to send her beloved away.

As the Lady hesitates, Anabelle's leg bends. Ignoring the discomfort that the movement causes when performed in her stiff corset-harness, the pony-girl dips low, until her knee touches the red earth.

A sob bursts up from Boudica's chest: of relief that she will not have to strike, and in grateful awe of Miss Smith's devotion. Her own leg is so weak that, even with the saddle lowered, the Lady must employ a hand to assist in lifting the half-dead limb up and over. Finally, she gains the seat, and wraps both arms about Ana's shoulders. Within this embrace Boudica can feel her companion shivering, and knows how deep the mild young woman must have delved within her self to find such courage.

'Oh, Ana.' The Lady's tears flow. 'My good, dear girl.'

Now Anabelle must attempt a challenging manoeuvre: to lift both her own weight and her rider on the strength of just one leg. The difficulty is compounded by her corsetry, and by the exertions already demanded of her over the course of this long, tortuous day.

With a great heave, and stagger... By Providence or determination Miss Smith is lifted. Turning away from the leering Gargantua, she sets off toward the village gate, with Lady Gordon clinging to her back.

Lured by the odorous grease that the priestess had slathered over Boudica's private parts, only to see his promised 'bride' now carried off; The ape beats his bass-drum chest and bellows in outrage! Tearing through the wall of thorny brush as though it were paper, with monstrous purple member swinging rampant he tosses or tramples half a dozen of his worshippers, before launching in pursuit of pony-girl and rider.

In three earth-shaking leaps he closes half the gap!

Ana does not dare to glance behind, fearful that one more glimpse of the ladies' awful pursuer might freeze her bones in terror. Plunging down the moon-lit jungle track she leans into her speed, until the flowered wreath flies off Boudica's head, blown away in the wind of her filly's haste! The Lady feels behind her the tattered remnants of her 'combination' flapping like pennants in a gale.

Bursting through the gate, the ape bounds on all fours down the trail, hard after the escaping pair. His fists the size of Christmas hams quake the path, close behind the pony-girl's churning haunches.

And then closer.

Gusts of hot, foul, growling breath warm the Lady's neck...

But this relict survivor of a lost age is built to smash and rend; His speed over distance cannot compete with human or equine. And Anabelle Smith is fueled, not by quick-burning lust, but by Love inexhaustible.

--

Lady Gordon in silk dressing gown smiles down upon Anabelle, who lies draped in rumpled sheets upon a feather bed. The Lady would join the ship's company in the First Class salon for morning coffee, but will wait, allowing her companion to rest until she wakes. Boudica is glad to see Ana sleeping soundly; The girl has been haunted on too many nights of late by evil dreams.

The Lady notes a subtle contrast between the bleached sheets and Miss Smith's complexion, which had once been quite as pale. A lightly-freckled wash of the healthy colour that Anabelle was gifted by the equatorial Sun continues to linger.

Her gaze falls upon the scar on Ana's cheek. The injury has healed as well as could be expected, but a fine, inch-long crease will remain.

The Lady feels a pang upon her own heart: as though the mark on Miss Smith's cheek were mirrored there, by a stain of regret for the careless risks she'd taken, which had exposed her sweet companion to such dreadful danger.

In truth, the little nick only adds character to her beauty, the Lady feels sincerely. In the course of an adventurous life Boudica has collected more than her share of cuts and scrapes, along with a few wounds that have pierced deeper.

I hope that Ana, too, comes to see it thus.

Miss Smith at first had found the scar, neatly drawn as it is, to be a cause of anguish. When the last bandage was removed, and she'd studied her cheek in a vanity mirror, her eyes had filled with tears.

'Wear it as a badge of honour, my love.' Boudica softly had reassured her, with arms around her sweetheart's shoulders as they gazed together into the reflecting glass. 'Each time you see that tiny mark, let it remind you of the brave heart that beats within you.'

Anabelle had at first not found much comfort in this advice. But day-by-day, as the nightmares came less frequently, and the Lady proved that her affection endures undiminished -- or even has increased -- Miss Smith has begun to accept the souvenir of Africa that she'll wear on her countenance.

Now, while the young woman's eyes remain closed, she stirs, and smiles; Ana's plump cheek dimples in a manner that Boudica finds even more adorable now than before it had been marked.

'You're awake, lovebug?'

'Mmm. I've been lying here hoping that you might rejoin me.'

'I have already slept sufficiently, darling. Have you as well?'

Ana's eyes the young woman now unveils, twin flashes of emerald.

'Yes, quite well enough. I did not mean to suggest that we should sleep. The gentle rocking of the ship makes it so pleasant just to lie here...'

'I recall a time,' Boudica notes wryly. 'Not long ago, when you found the prospect of travel by sea so terrifying that I was forced to take measures.'

'Thank you, Milady,' Anabelle purrs. 'For curing me of that silliness.'

She shifts her well-proportioned bulk across the bed, creating an inviting space.

Coffee can wait. Still in her dressing gown, Boudica lays herself down atop the sheets, facing her companion. She strokes Anabelle's arm, exposed above the coverlet: appreciating once again the young woman's meaty strength, voluptuously enrobed in soft, smooth femininity.

Miss Smith's eyes peer into those of her mistress a foot away. As the Lady watches, the gleaming gems grow clouded with unease. Ana's smile fades.

'Milady... What will happen when other travellers encounter... the tribe of little men?'

This is the first time that Anabelle has broached herself the subject of their nearly-fatal misadventure. Boudica welcomes the discussion, through which she hopes her companion might begin to consign those nightmarish events to the past.

'I cannot publish an account,' she replies. 'Complete and truthful, without considerable embarrassment to both you and me. But Mister Quatermain and Umbopa will spread the knowledge, through their guild of hunters, that the place is guarded by a uniquely dangerous tribe and to be avoided. One would hope that the advice of such authorities might be respected -- Though of course, there is always someone who takes such a warning as an invitation to explore.'

'I may be acquainted with one such.' Miss Smith comments with twinkling gaze.

Lady Gordon cocks a brow at the subtle barb, but she's pleased to see that Ana is recovering her good humour.

'Be that as it may... Such daring types now at least will know to go prepared.'

Anabelle lies quiet for a time, pensive. Then she brightens.

'How long will we stay in Bombay?'

Boudica will be ready to aid Ana's recovery from past frights with further talk, when the time is right. There's no need now to dwell.

'A fortnight, perhaps. I must wait there for an agent who's been sent from London with papers for my signature. As I mentioned at Mombasa: My solicitors cabled that they'd reached a settlement with Harold. They've sent someone by ship with the papers, to meet me. I shan't bore you with the details but suffice to say: Once those papers are signed, my cousin will not annoy us any longer.'

'Good! That vile--'

'Banish him from thought, dear, as I intend to do soon. There is a university at Bombay, where I thought we could seek out the resources to prepare your botanical discoveries for publication. And I know an idyllic spot, just a few hours from the city by train, where we might spend a day or two riding about.'

'I would enjoy that very much.'

'As would I.'

Boudica's fingers trace now over the round massif of Ana's powerfully curved hip.

'India is a fantastic place.' She resumes, after a brief rêverie. 'Where one might spend a lifetime exploring. However, once the papers are signed I'm inclined to continue farther east. With ports of call at Trincomalee, Singapore, and Hong Kong, we might make our way to Shanghai. Have you ever attended a performance of opera in the Chinese style?'

'Never! I would like to.'

'Well then we must. Beyond Shanghai... Since I was a girl, I've aspired to travel across the width of Asia in the footsteps of the Venetian Polo, along what's called the 'Silk Road'. I'd always thought to make the journey eastwards, setting out from Istanbul or the Levant. But the reverse should prove at least as interesting...'

The girl has earned a right to choose for herself what risks she'd hazard.

'How would you feel, Ana, about undertaking an adventure of that scope? Across the steppes where once the hordes of Genghis roamed, to Kashgar with its markets and minarets... From there westwards over mountains to the metropolitan oasis of Samarkand... Thence through Persia, to Baghdad of the Thousand-and-one Nights... Across the Euphrates, and then the sandy desert to Palmyra...

'The route from China to the Mediterranean stretches over four thousand miles, with high passes along the way. I'd hire horses, carts, or camels to speed us through the most dangerous territories, but would hope to traverse some fractions of that distance on our own feet -- or hoofs, as it were. And, no doubt, in the course of such a journey situations will arise that I've not foreseen.'

The Lady's gaze is drawn again into Ana's eyes; The limpid green wells seem bottomless.

'Would it please you, my love, to accompany me on such an epic quest?'

Boudica feels her pulse quicken, thrilling strange with realisation that her hopes hang on the girl's answer.

Anabelle smiles once again, dimpling her cheeks in the new, slightly asymmetrical manner that her mistress finds frightfully endearing.

'Milady, if your hands on the reins would guide me, with delight I would bear you to the Moon.'

--

FIN.

At the date of this writing, the most distant spring that feeds Lake Rweru -- the True Source of the Nile -- remains to be identified.

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The author invites your comment!

And tips his hat to the memory of H. Rider Haggard, creator of the characters Allan Quatermain and Umbopa, and a pioneer in the genre of adventure romance that inspired this tale.

Also to Agnes Herbert -- author and sportswoman -- whose travelogue 'Two Dianas in Somaliland' provided both invaluable detail and a rare feminine perspective on British safari expeditions c.1904.

And to Cecily, for saving Agnes from the lion.

A tip of the cap also to SirJeff, for the labor of love evinced in his curation of the most extensive collection of classic ponygirl art on Ye Olde World Wide Web.

And a very special thanks to my editors, whose encouragement and suggestions were essential to the completion of this project.

B. F.

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