They inched toward each other, shook hands. A more restrained and tentative reacquaintance than he’d shared with Tangeni, but harder to grasp. More filled with questions. With wonder. The boy had become the man Cecil had always dreamed of meeting. But it was not Edmond. It was Billy, the surrogate son of time travellers.
“Join me for a brandy?” Cecil asked.
The lad saluted, then placed his arm over the old professor’s shoulders, leading him to Tangeni’s cabin. “Aye, though I have to admit, I still prefer sarsaparilla. Don’t tell anyone, though.”
Inside the cabin smelled of incense and candle wax, while two amber oil lamps hung from the low, panelled roof. Three wooden chairs with cushioned seats faced each other in the centre, around which four tables had been arranged in a semi-circle. The latter were full of boxes and folders and curious archaeological specimens.
Tangeni noticed him studying the paraphernalia. “The expedition is all but underway, my good professor. You are the last to join-if you have no objection, of course.”
He pursed his lips in mock contemplation. “Hmm, I will have to cancel my appointment with the barber first.”
His two friends laughed. Billy poured them each a brandy.
“If it be to rescue Verity and Embrey, or even to find a small piece of that puzzle, I will gladly outdistance a thousand Phileas Foggs until we achieve it. To where do we fly?” Cecil asked.
“First to Marseilles.” Billy plucked a fancy pipe from a drawer in one of the tables, packed it with rich-smelling tobacco from a leather pouch as he spoke. What an extraordinary transformation the lad had undergone. He was now an eloquent and self-sufficient young gentleman, not to mention ingenious for having orchestrated such a daring rescue. “Our sponsor awaits us there. We have over two dozen men and women ready to venture where few have ever set foot, including most of our aeronaut friends who survived the time jump.”
“Smashing. And where lies this untamed land, may I ask?”
“In a remote region of Central Africa,” Tangeni said. “That is where our next adventure begins, and a perilous one at that, if even half the legends are to be believed. It is a trail that leads into the bowels of the earth.” He handed Cecil a flat, granite rock about the size of a fist. Inscribed upon it was the Embrey family coat-of arms! “The clues all point to Eembu and Embrey, to something extraordinary having occurred in a world far beneath our feet.”
“McEwan’s antediluvian realm?” Breathlessly, Cecil swigged the remainder of his brandy and asked for a refill. “And time travel? Has Professor Sorensen-”
The African lifted his eyebrows. “He will have to explain that to you, I’m afraid. He has yet to emulate your great feat, but he says he is close to a breakthrough-one that could be the key to rescuing our friends marooned across time. He requires your collaboration.”
“And he shall have it.”
Tangeni raised his glass. “Cheers, Professor. Here’s to your escape, and the return of old friends.”
“Hear! Hear!” Cecil and Billy responded in chorus.
On the wall next to the starboard oil lamp hung a framed photograph. The date was marked 1907. It featured the entire crew of the Empress Matilda, arm in arm, forming three ranks. On the back row he recognized Kibo, the proud engine man wearing his smart waistcoat; Djimon, who had lost his life in the diving bell; and the two tall Kenyan women, Reba and Philomena. The middle row was full of faces he recognized, some of whom he might yet see again. And in the front row, centre, the unmistakable duo, whose great friendship and resourcefulness had triumphed over the direst moments of their prehistoric adventure, crouched side by side, grinning joyously. Verity’s cropped red hair and beautiful face were indelible, her spirit insuperable. And Tangeni had proven his loyalty to her across two epochs.
On the left of the photograph hung a small portrait of Lord Garrett Embrey, the most impressive man Cecil had ever had the privilege of calling friend. Despite his youth, Embrey was already worthy of his father’s title and others higher still, for he represented all that was best about the English under pressure. Despite all that had transpired to kill his compassion, he had never lost sight of the meaning of family.
He was a man after Cecil’s heart. And they would meet again soon.
Let God stop it if He must.
