Maxim Gunn and the Stolen Waters

MAXIM GUNN

THE STOLEN WATERS

Nicholas Boving

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2007 Nicholas Boving

eBook ISBN 978-1-896448-03-9

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CHAPTER ONE

Far out to sea in what is known as the Bermuda Triangle, off the Island of Little Bimini, it was dark and unnaturally still. It was as if the sea was waiting for something, and held its breath.

A million miles beyond the moon, a spinning lump of space rock the size of a boxcar, swept on its inexorable path that would bring it into contact with the earth. It travelled at unimaginable speed, and yet in total silence, unobserved by anyone on the surface of the planet with which it was destined to collide.

It swept past the moon in a long sweeping arc, already feeling the insistent tug of gravity, and its speed increased.

The meteorite, caught in the pull, swung round the earth once like a weight on a string, unable to escape the force that held it, and then it touched the outer fringe of atmosphere a hundred and fifty miles above the surface, skipped once like a stone on a pond, and then plunged into the thickening soup of oxygen and nitrogen.

Speed and air resistance heated it like a blow torch, until it glowed white hot and began to burn up, leaving a fiery trail in the heavens.

It plunged steeply, glowing brighter as it scorched the sky with a white burn mark, getting ever lower.

The meteorite streaked across the Pacific Ocean, across the coast that was to become California, across the deserts of pre-historic Arizona and New Mexico, where its passing was heard as a distant rumble by the few primitive people who lived there. It crossed the plains and mountains of Texas, skimmed the Gulf of Mexico, terrified animals and sleeping tribesmen in the Florida Everglades, and moments later, with an explosive force that threw boiling water and superheated steam ten thousand feet into the night sky, thundered into the waters of the West Atlantic Ocean.

The meteorite, by then no bigger than a small car, plunged, still white hot, through the shallow waters near the Grand Bahamas Bank, and struck the sea bed with the power of an atomic bomb.

The Earth shook and protested at the outrage.

As the column of water and steam shot skyward, the hole caused by the meteorite’s impact closed over with a thunderclap of sound, and waves, a hundred or more feet high, a giant Tsunami spread out like ripples on a giant’s pond.

Soon, in the way of all things in nature the wound seemed to heal. The waters settled, and the cloud rose higher like a dark beacon, unseen in the night, and the Earth breathed out again, the moment quickly forgotten.

Then it came, a slow swelling of the water, pushed from beneath by unbelievable forces, until the surface was domed over an area of more than ten square miles. For long minutes the water boiled and heaved, and then, with a giant sigh, the level dropped, leaving no more than gently swirling vortexes to mark its passing.

None of this was seen by anyone as there were no ships in those days. It caused no damage, and went unnoticed by anyone but a few primitive Indians on islands where the seismic shock threw up tidal waves.

Far beneath the surface it was a different story.

In the closed environment of the submarine world of Cleito, all hell had broken loose, and the inhabitants were fighting for their lives - and losing.

What had been felt on the surface as no more than a mild earthquake, registering no more than three or four on the Richter Scale, had had its epicentre directly beneath their fragile life supporting dome, and the centuries old structure had finally succumbed to countless years of neglect and lack of repair.

First there had been no more than a crack near the base on the northern side - in itself not unusual - and although it was cause for concern among the people, they knew it could, and would be patched up as it had been in the past. The death blow, however, had been the return weight as the surface dome had subsided. Millions of tons of water had collapsed back crushingly against the already weakened structure, and the base crack had widened until the pumps could no longer handle the inflow. And still it might have been alright if another crack had not zigzagged away from the base, shooting skywards across the roof like a craggy finger of doom. Pressure injected water squirted through the new crack with murderous force, destroying everything struck by the blasting jets. Centuries old buildings were reduced to rubble in a matter of seconds. Carefully tended aqua-gardens were swept away in a welter of mud, wiping out the already low food supply, and, as a final death blow, the power generators shorted, killing the pumps and leaving their world in stricken darkness.

In the panic that ensued, the people drowned and were crushed as they fled screaming in terror from the disaster beyond their wildest nightmares. Their world was coming to an end; it was their Armageddon, prophesied but not talked about.

Some fought each other in blind fear. Others prayed feverishly and vainly to their gods. And others, paralysed by fear, waited dumbly for the end.

In a part of the great structure, off limits to all but a few, and unknown to almost all, a handful of grim faced members of the warrior elite, struggled to ready one of the two remaining undamaged life pods. Behind them along a dark dripping tunnel they heard the screams and despairing cries of their doomed people, turned deaf ears and hardened hearts, and got on with the task. Time was short. In another hour at the most the water level would rise and make escape impossible, and like everything else in Cleito, the life pods had also suffered from neglect.

While the male members struggled to free rusted clamps and start water dampened systems, the women loaded food, weapons and dozen upon dozen small white globular shapes, carefully packed in protective cocoons of dried seaweed, all the time chattering anxiously and throwing fearful glances along the tunnel.

Finally it was done. The pods quivered as systems came to life, lights glowed eerily inside them, and the rusted fastenings clanged free. One warrior, whose name was Lok Ipo, taller and stronger than the rest, issued a sharp, harsh command, and within minutes he and his people were aboard with the doors shut and sealed. He stood by the door, the last to enter, head low in the cramped interior, and spoke briefly; words of strength and hope, mixed with bitterness and anger and a touch of sorrow. They listened, as they had always listened when he spoke. Then he raised his hand in a brief salute, went forward to the control console and began the escape sequence.

The chamber began to flood, until, pressure equalized with the surrounding sea, the outer doors fell free and the pods eased forward. The two strange looking craft moved away, the Cleitan survivors peering through port holes at their fast collapsing home until it was lost in the churning murk created by the earthquake. They showed no emotion, sitting stone faced, and then the ports were closed. The journey had begun.

Somewhere in the West Atlantic one of the pods foundered, and the other, its power failing and navigation systems all but useless, continued to drift, caught in the Gulf Stream where it wandered north east helplessly for many days.

Three weeks after the disaster, the pod grounded during a violent storm, and but for the strength and skill of Lok Ipo, would have foundered and sunk as the waves pounded it against the rocks of the small island. But somehow he managed to bring it through a gap in the rocks, until, buffeted numb, and weary beyond belief, the survivors straggled ashore into the dubious protection of a cave.

And there they stayed for the whole winter and spring, building themselves a new home with the supplies aboard the pod, and planning; for theirs was not a race to accept defeat gracefully, and they had a terrible longing for vengeance against the Drylanders.

Generations came and went. Slowly the Cleitans increased in number, but it was a slow process for theirs was a long lived race, and all the while they learned, preparing themselves for the day when that vengeance could begin, and they built and extended their new undersea home.

CHAPTER TWO

The north-west coast of Scotland had always been a special place for Maxim Gunn, and one to which he went when he felt the need to be alone for some kind of spiritual renewal, and of course to fish.

Fishing for him was an art. Occasionally he ate what he caught, but he was more likely to be satisfied with the challenge of landing a fish with tackle too light for the job, and then throwing it back to live and fight another day.

This particular day the trout had not been much in evidence. He’d had a couple of bites, lost one and had his line broken by another, and was at that moment walking along the wide reach of Sandwood Bay totally at peace. To his right, the Atlantic Ocean, having skirted the Butt of Lewis, thundered its final energy in a magnificent display of rolling breakers and wind whipped spray, tinged pink by the lowering sun. To his left, sea birds wheeled and hovered above marram-covered dunes and Sandwood Loch.

He reached the southern end of the bay, climbed the dunes, and stood for a few minutes savouring the salt scented wind, and then cut across country to where he had parked his car at the end of the bumpy track, well satisfied with his day, and with little else on his mind but a bath, a drink and dinner.

By the time he reached the hotel, the weather had undergone one of those magical quick changes so common to that part of the world. The red gold sunset had turned to anger, emphasised by dark rolling cloud. The brisk sea breeze had picked up, carrying with it a chill spatter of rain, and as he hurried through the front door there were white caps breaking at the harbour heads.

As he took off his jacket, hung it up and dropped his rod and creel in a corner, the door to the bar opened and the landlord, a big, raw boned man by the name of MacAlister, came out carrying a bottle of wine.

A good day, Mr Gunn? he asked.

The day was near perfect; the fishing . . . Gunn waggled his hand.

Then a good dinner of salmon will give you revenge. He showed the bottle, a good hock. If you’ll excuse me, I have other guests tonight. You’ll have company in the dining room.

Gunn smiled. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.

MacAlister nodded. And you’ll have the salmon?

Mrs MacAlister would be mortally offended if I didn’t.

Not mortally, but she might not speak to you for a week.

And I’m not much for a diet of porridge and haggis.

Fifteen minutes later he walked into the dining room, bathed and changed into a tweed jacket and slacks, and carrying a generous Glenmorangie malt whisky. There were two other people seated at a table near the fireplace. MacAlister was pouring the wine and looked up.

Mr Gunn, he said. The Laird would be honoured if you would join him and his daughter.

Gunn hesitated fractionally. He didn’t particularly want the company of strangers, but knowing it would be extreme bad manners to refuse, inclined his head.

I would be delighted, he answered, and crossed the room.

The girl, who was in her early twenties: dark hair and blue eyes betraying her Celtic heritage, smiled as he approached, and indicated the vacant chair.

I am Morag Dewar, and this is my father, Ian. Please do join us.

Gunn shook the outstretched hand, surprised at its firm hardness.

My name is Maxim Gunn, and thank you.

The Laird, who had watched the introduction with a look of mild amusement, said. You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up, Mr Gunn, but as my daughter says, you are very welcome. It’s not often we get visitors in this part of the world.

Gunn had noted the wheelchair the moment he came into the room, and now that he was close and could study the man’s face, he saw the lines of constant pain etched deeply; though whatever sorrow or accident had caused him to be confined, was hidden behind a mask of humour that twinkled from the crow’s foot lined smile in his grey eyes.

Dewar slapped the chrome arm of his chair. A car accident, he said by way of explanation, and then dismissed the subject. You are holidaying here?

Gunn sat down. Yes. I come to these parts fairly often. I find the peace very restorative.

A buffet of wind rattled the windows, and rain spattered noisily against the glass. The girl smiled. Not very peaceful tonight.

Gunn shrugged. The weather is part of it. I like the uncertainty. And it’s clean weather; not like the cities.

The grey eyes twinkled approval. I take it you’re having Mrs MacAlister’s salmon? Good. Then we’d better have another bottle of wine, Hamish, he said to the landlord.

Gunn enjoyed the dinner thoroughly, skirting round the Laird’s gently probing questions as to what he did for a living, and indicating only that he had been in government service before taking up personal business a couple of years previously.

You’ll have to forgive my father, Mr Gunn, Morag said at one point. He’s become incurably nosey since being in that chair, and reticence only makes him worse. If he doesn’t find out something about you, I’m afraid he’ll only invent the worst.

Gunn laughed and refilled their glasses as MacAlister removed the plates and brought cheese and coffee.

There’s not much to tell. Government work is usually pretty dull, and mine was no different. Let’s just say I was an investigator of unconsidered trifles.

Which firmly puts me in my place. You know, titbits only make him worse.

Gunn switched the subject. I take it your family has been here for a long time, he said.

Dewar nodded and helped himself to a chunk of brie.

We consider the Norsemen newcomers and upstarts. I think there have been Dewars in these parts since the Romans left Britain.

A slight exaggeration, his daughter said. But our present house was built in the times of James the First, in about 1420.

And there was another on the same site before that, the Laird growled, Going back to Duncan, the son of Malcolm Canmore.

Gunn was suitably impressed, and said so. It’s hard for me to imagine such continuity. It must give you a great feeling of belonging.

Well it certainly gives you roots, Mr Gunn.

Gunn saw the Dewars to their car after dinner, and then went for a nightcap.

You could have cut the atmosphere in the bar with a blunt knife. Outside, the weather had clamped in with a vengeance, and the fishing boats had come into harbour; the result being that there were about fifty boisterous, raucous and slightly fuddled men crammed into a room meant for about twenty at a pinch. This was the other side of the hotel, away from the guest quarters.

Gunn found himself a corner of the bar, got his drink, and watched the sweating barman dispense whisky and witticisms with equal rapidity. There were more genuine characters per square inch in that small room than Gunn could have found anywhere outside its counterpart in some place like Halifax or Honolulu.