“Accident?” said Jeffries, glancing around with indifference, now he could make out more detail in the lichen-light.
“This One’s antennae were damaged,” said Chandar, squatting and beginning to root though a pile. “This One can no longer sense odours. In Khungarrii terms this One is…” it seemed to struggle to find the right words.
“Ah. Scent blind. Unfortunate for you.” Jeffries was becoming impatient with the small talk. After cornering Chandar into revealing what it knew about Croatoan, he didn’t appreciate this new delay.
“No, GarSuleth wills it. To Khungarrii this one is pitied, unable to perform its duties, so I have undertaken new studies. Liya-Dhuyumirrii Sirigar allows this one to pursue its interest in Urmen, now this One only sees the world in the way they do. This One believes it gives it some insight into their old way of life.”
“Where did you get these artefacts of yours?”
“Scentirrii would occasionally come across such things and bring them back. Once they were deemed to be of no harm or interest they were disposed of on the midden heaps, but this one retrieved them. This one can only speculate as to some of their uses. This One thought you might be able to enlighten it.”
The old fool had been hoarding these things, not knowing what they were and no doubt extrapolating ludicrous theories about indigenous Urman culture on that basis. Jeffries wandered over to a niche in which was a pile of small metallic objects. Chandar followed, watching his reaction eagerly.
Jeffries stood before the niche, for once nonplussed, all thoughts of Croatoan suddenly expunged from his mind. Fingers trembling, mouth dry, Jeffries picked up the least of the trifles; a small round metal disc, and turned it over in his fingers.
“What do you think it is? A charm, a ward perhaps?”
It spoke volumes to Jeffries that the Chatt didn’t recognise a coin when it saw one. He studied the copper disc between his thumb and forefinger. He heard the blood rush in his ears and his fingers trembled fractionally with every pulse beat. This… this was a Roman coin, a denarius, if he wasn’t mistaken and, judging by the pug ugly, bull-necked profile on the obverse, from the reign of the emperor Titus. He struggled to keep his outward composure calm. Somehow, this all made sense. Somehow.
“In a manner of speaking,” he croaked, having to cough and clear his throat as he shuffled through the pile of similar coins. “Do you have anything more?”
“Yes,” Chandar’s stunted middle limbs seemed gripped by spasms as if exhibiting childish delight. It led Jeffries to another pile of items and began sifting thorough them, looking for a choice find. With each new presentation Chandar made, it became harder for Jeffries to conceal his disbelief at what he saw. There were more coins, bone pins, a crushed and dried out leather sandal, a scattering of medieval brooches and pottery, a small carven Celtic cross, Elizabethan silverware, crockery and scraps of cloth, and what seemed to be medical tools; an incision knife, a spatula; the items came one after the other. With a lurching sense of vertigo, it became clear to Jeffries that they were not the first humans to visit this world from Earth. Even as he thought this however, another, more damning, hypothesis began to form in his mind.
The more Jeffries saw, the more he became convinced that there had been incidents of human displacement in history before. What had happened to those people? Well, that was a stupid question. If their own experiences were anything to go by, then most of them would have been killed, struggling to survive their first few days. But the survivors? Could these troglodytic Urmen be the descendants of others who had arrived here from Earth in the past? There were many legends of mass disappearances throughout history. For all the soldiers’ hopes, for all their desires and dreams of Blighty, it appeared that there may not actually be a way back to Earth. But what did that have to do with his Great Working? With Croatoan? That he couldn’t yet see, until his gaze fell upon what should have been an impossible object, or at least, until a few minutes ago, an impossible object. The sight of it caused him barely to suppress a gasp.
“Where… where did you find this…?” he rasped, picking up a weathered, hand-carved wooden sign that proclaimed boldly the legend, ‘New Roanoke’.
With that one name, the matter of Croatoan burst once more into the forefront of his mind. Croatoan, the fallen angel who communicated with the renowned Elizabethan Magus, Doctor John Dee. Several of his disciples were reputed to have been among the first English settlers in Virginia in 1582 when they attempted to found the colony of Roanoke, financed by the secretive School of Night. When the supply ship returned later, the colony had disappeared. The only clue they found was the word ‘Croatoan’ carved into a gatepost. That the opening of the New World was conceived of as an occult operation was an idea Jeffries had been aware of for a long time, he just didn’t think they meant this new world, although he could certainly see how it fitted the bill as prima materia.
It was becoming clear to him now, beyond all doubt, that Croatoan was linked to the disappearances. Was the colony really an audacious early attempt at the very magickal operation he had performed, well away from prying Protestant eyes, where the necessary bloodletting could be practiced on the native population without being hampered by the moral imperatives of society?
Whatever the truth, it would seem the same fate had befallen the settlers of the lost Roanoke colony as befell the Pennines. From the weathered sign he held in his hands, it was clear that they too had been transported to this world in response to their Working. Here, they had sought to found a new colony, a new Roanoke, who worshipped Croatoan. If the Battalion’s own experiences were anything to go by, then not many would have survived their first few weeks without help. He rounded on Chandar. “Tell me about Croatoan. That’s the bargain. Tell me about Croatoan.”
Chandar hissed at the mention of the name, but resigned itself to its side of the bargain.
“According to the notes of the Perfumed Chronicles it happened many, many queens ago. In the spinnings of the dhagastri-har queen — the forty third queen of Khungarr — a herd of Urmen passed into the lands of the Khungarrii and, seeking refuge in Khungarr, which they received willingly, they brought with them into our midst their own god… Croatoan. They began trying to convert the Urmen of Khungarr to their god and, as a sign, pointed out a bright spot in the sky that they claimed was their god come to smite down GarSuleth.” Here Chandar made a brief gesture of reverence as if to protect itself and its god from its own heretical words. “The light grew brighter, brighter than all the other dew drops that shine in GarSuleth’s Web and Urmen turned against the Khungarr. The liya-dhuyumirrii declared that GarSuleth would cast the false god from the Sky World. So it came to pass that the false god was hurled down in fire and the entire world felt his fall. Croatoan was consumed in flames and consigned to the underworld by Skarra. With their god destroyed the majority of Urmen turned rightfully to GarSuleth. Those that would not were, likewise, cast out and his worship declared heretical by Chemical Decree from the queen.”
That Croatoan was woven into the fate of the Khungarrii was more than Jeffries had dared hope for. As all these thoughts circled round his mind, his eyes fell on a piece of parchment sat in a niche, pinned to a board of bark. Chandar looked on proudly as he studied it. It looked like a map. He must have made a noise because Chandar picked up on it.
“Does it mean something to you?”
“Hmm?”
“The dhuyumirrii studied it but it has no scent of meaning to them. The glyphs we cannot decipher.”
“Did you not think to ask one of your Urmen?” said Jeffries, irritated at having to deal with these interruptions as he struggled to get to grips with all that he was seeing.