Cosmic Camel Page 5

  Ulan Nuur jolted upright and strode off. The wind tried to rip Donal from his seat; but Ulan Nuur plodded steadily through the blinding, screaming storm.

  At first he went at a surprisingly good pace. But it didn’t last for long. Donal felt him slowing.

  The camel’s stride faltered. He staggered, and regained his footing: staggered again, and lurched down on to his knees. His flanks were heaving.

  “Let us get off!” Donal shouted in his ear. “You can’t do it. The storm’s too much.”

  Ulan Nuur’s husky reply was almost hurled away by the wind.

  “A camel never gives up.” With a great effort, he heaved himself back up on his feet.

  This time, he had taken only three or four more steps when Donal felt him stumble once again. Donal was thrown forward against his neck.

  Then he realised that it wasn’t the camel that had fallen – but the ground beneath him that had given way. Ulan Nuur’s feet were sliding down a slope that he couldn’t even see.

  The camel skidded faster, lost his footing altogether and careered out of control. Donal and Brola were tipped off his back, and slithered after him until the three of them came to rest in a sandy heap.

  “Must be another crater,” Donal croaked. “Are you all right, Brola?”

  “No!” she moaned.

  He raised his head. He felt bruised all over; but at least there was a little shelter here, and the storm was reduced to a half-hearted gale. He could pick out the steep, smooth sides of the crater they had fallen into; but there was no water at the bottom of this one, only sand.

  Ulan Nuur coughed in an embarrassed way. “I thought we would be better out of the wind,” he explained. “This will do for now.”

  The lemming wriggled out of Donal’s shirt.

  “Ouch,” it said reproachfully. “Lots of ouch.” It sat up, rubbed its head with its paws, and twitched its nose. “Hole,” it said, snuffling in the sand.

  “Dig a hole if you like,” said Donal wearily. “But it won’t help.”

  “No – Hole!” said the lemming emphatically. “Lots of hole! Very lots! Very down. Big big big BIG.” It scraped at the black sand, which suddenly began to pour away beneath it as if going down a funnel. A dark crack appeared in the ground, into which the sand was disappearing.

  “Hole, innit?” said the lemming. It squirmed through the gap and was gone. Donal scrabbled at the crack excitedly, shovelling sand away with his hands.

  “It might be a cave,” he said. “There might be water!” He imagined it; underground pools, cold as night, trickling streams, wet rock…

  He licked his dry lips. “Help me, Brola! Look – this rock’s all shiny. It doesn’t look like rock at all. It’s silver – it’s metal…”

  “Can’t be,” said Brola weakly. “No metal in the desert.”

  “See for yourself!”

  Brola crawled feebly over to him, and stared down at the gleaming surface. She ran her hands across it. Then she smiled.

  “The Dome,” she murmured, and collapsed across it.

  Donal pulled her away with a gasp. For where she had touched the metal surface, it began to split apart with a thin, tearing sound. He was looking down a rapidly widening chasm, while a waterfall of hissing sand poured over its edge.

  Soon the gap was a metre across. And inside was pure darkness, as deep and black as space.

  Chapter Twelve

  Donal didn’t hesitate. No matter what was down there in the dark, it couldn’t be worse than the sandstorm. Carefully lowering himself down through the gap by his arms, he dangled his legs into the hole. His feet slid down a pile of sand, and then, to his relief, came to rest on a sloping floor.

  The hole was not deep. He reached up to catch Brola as she half-slid, half-tumbled after him.

  “Ulan Nuur?” cried Donal. “Try and get down too – it’s your only chance!”

  Coughing and snarling, Ulan Nuur kicked at the opening. “I don’t like holes,” he growled.

  “Ulan Nuur, please! You can’t survive the storm up there! Just think of it as a camel house.”

  “A very low one,” grumbled the camel. He stamped nervously round the opening, until its edge gave way and tipped him down the gap.

  He landed in an undignified sprawl of legs. “Brragh!” he spat, shaking himself.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  “Yip,” said the lemming’s voice. “Nice hole. Nice ’n’ big.” Its voice echoed as if this was a much larger space than Donal had realised.

  Picking Brola up, Donal carried her away from the wind and swirling sand, into the echoing dark. As he felt his way forward, his footsteps rang hollowly on a hard, sloping floor.

  After a few metres he put Brola gently down. The floor was smooth and cold, like metal. The instant Brola’s body touched it, Donal was amazed to see the darkness lighten until they were surrounded by a ghostly, silver-grey glimmer. It reminded him of the Skywheel.

  He stared around. They were in a huge, curved dome, bigger than the school hall. The floor wasn’t level, but sloped down from the entrance, for the whole dome was tilted. Sand blown in through the crack trickled past Donal’s feet to gather in a thick drift at the lowest point.

  Slowly Donal walked further in. The noise of the storm faded, leaving only the whisper of sand around his own echoing footsteps. He stopped in the centre and gazed up at the curved roof of the dome. It was covered with markings.

  So were the walls. Carved signs and pictures decorated every surface. In many of them, he recognised the Meerie. They were unmistakable – little round bushes with waving hands.

  The pictures were interesting; but pictures wouldn’t keep them alive. They needed water. Perhaps some might have gathered at the lowest point, thought Donal. Turning to scan the floor, he caught his breath.

  Further down the dome was a low metal platform, its surface pitted with smooth dents like small, shallow bowls. It was the same shape as the pitted stone that had held the Meeries’ Skywheel – but on this platform rested not one, but at least a dozen silver spheres, the size of tennis balls. Many more spaces lay empty.

  “The Skywheels!” Donal cried. “We’ve found the Skywheels!”

  “Some have rolled away,” said Ulan Nuur, ambling down to the lowest part of the dome. “Here are more of them,” he declared, “sitting in the sand.”

  “Lots of shiny eggs,” piped up the lemming. “Funny nest.”

  “Don’t touch them!” warned Donal in swift alarm. “Lemming? Get away from there!”

  If the Skywheels were in working order, he didn’t want one to suddenly blow up inside this enclosed space. The lemming scampered anxiously away and took refuge on the camel’s foot.

  Donal knelt beside Brola. “We’ve found the Skywheels! Brola? Can you hear me?”

  Her limp Greengrass was slowly fluffing out, reviving in the cooler air. Donal helped her sit up, and she opened her eyes wide. Then she spread her grey fingers to touch the silver floor.

  “The dome,” she said faintly. “I’ve found the dome! And it knows me! It’s lit up for me. It’s programmed to recognise us Meerie. And I discovered it! Me, Brola!”

  “It was Ulan Nuur really, and the lemming,” said Donal, but Brola didn’t hear. She gazed round in delight, wiggling her fingers and rippling her Greengrass in excited waves.

  “Oh, it’s mine, it’s here, my wonderful dome!”

  Donal stood up and scratched his head, feeling more donkey-like than usual.

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said. “Why is it here? I thought you said the Gyzols had stolen your Dome and the Skywheels? But we’re miles from the Gyzol city. We’re miles from anywhere.”

  “They hid them!” said Brola fiercely.

  “Why?”

  “Because they hate us, of course.” Brola hurried over to inspect the decorated walls, and clapped her hands. “Look! Here are the records, just like in the stories!”
She touched each picture in turn, fascinated.

  Donal felt suddenly exhausted, and very thirsty. Ulan Nuur had lain down, so Donal flopped down next to him and retrieved his flask from his rucksack. He couldn’t bring himself to swallow the cloudy water – especially when he remembered the tiny animals he’d seen swimming in it – but he rinsed his mouth, grimacing, before spitting the water out again.

  His rucksack still held an apple, slightly nibbled by the lemming, and two sandwiches. Donal ate half the apple, which seemed blissfully sweet and juicy. None the less, he stopped himself from finishing it, and offered half to Ulan Nuur. The lemming eyed the sandwiches expectantly until Donal threw it a corner of one.

  Then he leaned back against the camel, letting a wave of relief wash luxuriously over him like a warm bath as he realised exactly what this discovery meant.

  “We did it,” he murmured. “We found the Skywheels!”

  “Ahem.”

  “You found them, Ulan Nuur – you and the lemming! If it wasn’t for you, we’d still be out in that storm. But now we can go home.” Brola would surely know how to fly the Skywheels safely back; and then they could use one to get home to Earth. “We can go back to the Zoo.”

  “Oh,” said the camel.

  “We did it, Ulan Nuur! We actually did it!” He scratched the camel’s matted fur, and thumped its shoulder affectionately. Surely even Toby couldn’t have fulfilled a quest better?

  Ulan Nuur munched his half-apple, watching Brola through his long eyelashes.

  “Skipping around like a calf,” he grunted.

  “She’s made a quick recovery, hasn’t she? She’s happy now,” said Donal. “It does seem odd that the dome is buried here, though, under the desert.”

  “It has been here a long time,” said Ulan Nuur thoughtfully. “A very long time indeed.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It smells old. It feels old. It is buried deep. West of the Gobi desert,” reminisced the camel, “lie ancient villages two thousand years in age, and more, hidden beneath the sand, until the Karaburan sweeps their shroud away and reveals them, like visions from the past.”

  “Yes, but…” Donal sighed. There didn’t seem much point trying to convince the camel, yet again, that they were far from the Gobi desert. “The Dome can’t be that old,” he finished.

  Just then Brola began to squeal. At first Donal thought she was hurt, but she was squawking with excitement. “It’s here, our whole story, every bit of it, just like they said! Come and look!”

  Donal trudged tiredly over to her, and stared at the rows of pictures etched on the walls. They were framed by repeating symbols that he guessed must be some sort of writing.

  “It’s like a comic strip,” he said. “What does it say, Brola? Will you read it to me?

  “Read?” Brola looked baffled. “What’s read? I don’t understand.”

  “See that writing, there?” Donal pointed at the symbols, thinking the translator must have garbled his words. “What does it mean?”

  “Those are just patterns,” Brola said impatiently.

  “But I’m sure they’re writing–” began Donal, before she interrupted.

  “I don’t know writing. You’re talking nonsense. Look at the pictures! They show the glorious history of the Meerie!”

  Donal studied the pictures. They were strange. The Skywheels were clearly drawn, with Meerie crowded inside.

  But there were also pictures of squat, round houses; only the Meerie didn’t have houses… and there were roads, and lumpy vehicles with three wheels, and boats, and bridges... only the Meerie didn’t have any of those either, as far as he knew.

  “What are all these?” he asked Brola.

  “Oh, just scribbles. But look at us!” She pointed proudly at the Meerie, waving from their Skywheels. “Here we are, travelling past the stars. Here we are, landing.” She moved on to the next picture. “And this is us, planting the Greengrass in our new home!”

  “You new home?” asked Donal, confused.

  “Here, stupid!”

  “Here? But then – where had you come from?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Brola. “Somewhere far away. Before I was born. Just some planet.”

  “Another planet? I thought this was your planet! Which one are you from?”

  Brola shrugged dismissively. “I don’t know. I forget.”

  “You forget? How could you forget?”

  “I told you,” said Brola, “it was before I was born.”

  “Well, didn’t your parents tell you? And what about all these houses and roads and things? What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snapped Brola. She marched away from the pictures to contemplate the Skywheels on their slab. “Just wait till Nolga hears about these!” she said smugly. “I found the Skywheels, all on my own!”

  “Will they still work?” asked Donal anxiously. “We will be able to get home, won’t we?”

  “Of course they’ll work, stupid…” As Brola spun round, her voice trailed away.

  The satisfied smile froze on her face. Her eyes widened, and her fur trembled.

  “What is it?” Then Donal heard it: a stealthy clicking, like the quiet crack of ice on a treacherous pond. He had heard that clicking sound before, out in the desert.

  He whirled round. Long, ink-blue, spiky legs were descending through the entrance: legs that jointed the wrong way. Legs that clicked as they moved.

  Legs that looked as if they belonged to giant insects. The Gyzols.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Murderous beasts,” hissed Brola.

  Donal stood transfixed and staring. A body followed the legs. Unfolding many joints, it straightened up with a series of loud clicks. It was over two metres tall.

  It was a Gyzol; and more came behind. All carried curved sticks or heavy, silver clubs.

  Ulan Nuur scrambled to his feet with a snort of alarm. Brola shrieked wordlessly and dashed forward. Scooping up handfuls of sand, she hurled them at the angular figures.

  The Gyzols took no notice. Half a dozen of them had already descended into the dome, and more were following: tall blue-black shapes with too many arms and huge, dark, multi-faceted eyes. Insect eyes.

  The Gyzols turned to face them in a line and began to stalk forward, joints clicking.

  Donal took a step back in revulsion. He glanced round for a weapon, but could see nothing to throw apart from his flask, or the Skywheels – and he dared not touch those.

  The Gyzols weren’t interested in him or Ulan Nuur. Instead, they advanced on Brola. Their eyes changed colour from inky blue to blood-red, and their curved sticks glittered in their upraised hands.

  Brola squealed in terror and ran over to the camel. “Ulan Nuur! Help me! You promised to help me!” she shrieked, darting behind him.

  “Urrarrgh!”

  With a dreadful throaty battle-cry, the camel charged. He seemed to be all thrashing legs and wildly waggling humps as he thudded noisily past Donal. Long teeth bared, neck arched, he galloped headlong at the Gyzols.

  The curved sticks whistled through the air. Donal ducked as one flew past his head.

  But Ulan Nuur fell, stumbling to his knees. A stick had hit him on the foreleg. As it clattered to the ground, Donal saw that it was made of jagged black glass, as sharp as a dagger.

  Blood pooling round his knee, Ulan Nuur tried to climb back onto his feet, and failed. His leg buckled beneath him.

  “Ulan Nuur! Save me!” bleated Brola, cowering on the floor. The Gyzols gathered round her, lifting their silver clubs threateningly. The camel raised his head and gave out a mournful moan.

  Do something, donkey-brain! Donal railed at himself. What did you come for if you’re not going to help?

  But he didn’t know what to do. He only knew that whatever he decided was bound to be wrong.

  “Donkey, donkey,” he muttered. He picked up his flask, ready to hurl it at
the Gyzols.

  Then he hesitated and dropped it again. Instead he ran towards the aliens.

  He stopped between them and the cowering Brola. Standing still, he held his hands outstretched to show he wasn’t armed. They lowered their clubs a fraction.

  “Wait!” he called out. “Stop! We mean peace!”

  His clip-board hurtled past his ear. Brola had just thrown it at the Gyzols. It hit one in the chest and bounced off without appearing to cause it any damage.

  But the Gyzols raised their clubs again, their eyes shining like dark jewels.

  “Kill them!” Brola shrieked. Donal was terrified. He wanted to run; but none the less he stayed put.

  “Please stop! Don’t hurt us,” he cried. “All we want is the Skywheels and then we’ll go. We don’t mean you any harm–”

  “Yes, we do!” squealed Brola, just behind him.

  Stepping forward, one of the Gyzols whirled its silver club and brought it swiftly down towards her. Instinctively, Donal threw himself in its path. The club smacked against his head.

  Donal’s senses spun. Staggering, he lost his balance and felt himself begin to fall. He was vaguely aware of Brola’s voice shouting: “Kill them! Kill them!”

  “No,” he said, his voice echoing strangely in his head, “no killing,” and then both Brola and the Gyzols seemed to spin away in a fuzzy dance.

  He wanted to go to sleep. Everything was turning grey. Before he hit the ground, he had already closed his eyes.

  *

  Donal awoke to the trickle of cold water running across his face. He must be in bed, under a leaky roof… no, he was in the zoo, with the rain pouring down…

  “Wake up,” said the camel’s rasping voice. Donal felt sand underneath his hand, and he remembered.

  Opening his eyes, he tried to focus them. A pair of huge, blood-red eyes looked back. A thin, sharp claw held a bottle to his mouth, dripping water.

  Donal managed to half sit up. Shakily he took the bottle and gulped from it. The water tasted faintly metallic, but no worse than that. Anyway, he didn’t care if it was poisonous, he was so thirsty. Water ran down his chin.

  After a while the Gyzol took the bottle back and with a series of loud clicks stood up, unfolding itself to its full height. Donal looked around.

  A dozen Gyzols stood at a distance, surrounding him like a prickly hedge. The camel lay next to him, his head drooping, with the lemming perched on his leg.