The Murdoch Files: Volume 1

By Jeannie Meekins

Murdoch - the stereotypical hero of all B-Grade stories - is an idiot.

The Murdoch Files: Volume 1 follows Murdoch's adventures through the genres of the 1940s and 50s. The world is black and white - with occasional patches of primitive colour. It is a time when action and adventure were high: where danger and death were all part of the days work; where men were men and women . . . weren't.

From the darkest jungles to the magenta planet, Mars. From the desert sands to the high seas. From medieval castles to modern cities. Join Murdoch as he haplessly battles his way in and out of trouble, winning the hearts of women along the way, and attempts to make the world a better place for all of us.

This volume contains the first 12 Murdoch adventures:
Murdoch of the Jungle
The Big House
Farewell my Big Sleeping Little Sister
The Treasure of Sienna Padre
In The Wars
The Song of the Six Gun
Murdoch of the High Seas
Murdoch and his Three Thieves
Sir Murdoch of the Large Table
The Day That It Came From Up There
Rocketship XM-25B to Mars
The Attack of the Killer Roaches

Murdoch’s adventures are also available as individual books.

These satirical stories are written in the tradition of B-Grade stories, complete with all the stereotypes, creativity and effects – flaws and all.
The characters are purely fictitious. Any similarities with any person, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
The stories are not meant to offend. If you may be offended, please don’t download.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeannie Meekins
• Release date: Oct 4, 2014

Jeannie Meekins

Jeannie Meekins is an Australian writer who lives with her children and a couple of cats who think they own the computer. And if her dog could read, he’d be jealous, so it’s lucky that he can’t. Jeannie has also written over 10 books for children, many available through LearningIsland.com

Book preview

The Murdoch Files

Volume 1

The Murdoch Files

Volume 1

Text copyright (C) AT Davidson 2002 – 2011

Smashwords edition (C) 2014

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If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your u se only, please go to Smashwords.com or any online bookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

These satirical stories are written in the tradition of B-Grade stories, complete with all the stereotypes, creativity and effects – flaws and all.

The characters are purely fictitious.  Any similarities with any person, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

The stories are not meant to offend.  If you feel offended, please don’t download this book, or delete it from your system.

Contents

Murdoch of the Jungle

The Big House

Farewell my Big Sleeping Little Sister

The Treasure of Sienna Padre

In The Wars

The Song of the Six Gun

Murdoch of the High Seas

Murdoch and his Three Thieves

Sir Murdoch of the Large Table

The Day That It Came From Up There

Rocketship XM-25B to Mars

The Attack of the Killer Roaches

Author

Murdoch

of the

Jungle

In the corners of our vision there are occasional bursts of light where this odd film presently playing in our heads must be slightly damaged. We hear drums beating. It is some time during the mid—to late—nineteen thirties. The world is, of course, in black and white and dark vertical lines intermittently track downwards as we view the scene before us. But we sit back, knowing full well that whatever happens is only there to, at best, entertain us, or, at worst, cause us to fall asleep. A continuous crackling sound, like cellophane being crumpled, accompanies these interferences. Sometimes the crackling gains in volume, while at others it fades. There are four figures making their way through a jungle, parting the shrubbery before entering a clearing. Closely following the first man to clear the shrubbery (a fellow whom we presume to be the native guide), is a man carrying a machete. It is more a prop than it is of any use. He is, of course, The Hero. His name is Murdoch. Just that; he has no other name. Occasionally people address him as Mr. Murdoch, or Sahib, but that is all. If he does have a Christian name, then he himself is unaware of it. He stops, turns and then speaks to one of his party.

‘I don’t like the sound of those drums, Professor . . .’

‘Well, it’s hardly Beethoven, but it has a consistent beat.’

Murdoch wears riding pants and a shirt with epaulets on the shoulders. The shirt is snug and shows his physique to great advantage. He does not wear a hat of any description; he is of the belief that should he do this he will suffer either a personality disorder, chronic dandruff, or perhaps both. He has dark, wavy hair and has a solid, jutting chin, which, of course, has a deep cleft in it. Directly behind him walks the old, academic-looking man whom he has just addressed, Professor Mortimer. He wears wire-rimmed spectacles. His face is thin and lined and he wears (to great effect and with striking dignity) a white goatee beard. He also dons a pith helmet and is dressed in a similar way to the others, with the addition of a light, many pocketed khaki jacket to complete the ensemble. Walking directly behind the elderly man is a young lady. Blonde, wavy hair cascades from under her pith helmet which has a leopard-spot printed scarf secured around the crown. We know her name is Eleanor and that the professor is her father, although he looks more likely to be her grandfather. She too is wearing riding pants and a shirt much the same as Murdoch’s, but filled to tautness in somewhat different places. She is pale skinned and has remarkably large breasts. Traipsing ahead of them all is a man who is Indian in appearance. He wears a turban, but no shirt with either epaulets or breast pockets. Instead of riding pants, he wears straight, calico cut-offs, frayed at the bottoms. His name is Arboy. The jungle itself is in a location that has not been made known to us, so we don’t know its name at all. We will probably never know. It looks (by the thick vegetation) to be Burma, perhaps—or maybe it is Florida? Then there is some confusion and Eleanor shrieks and everyone stops and takes a few steps back. The machete Murdoch carries drops to the ground. A large python has slithered down from the canopy of trees and has coiled itself around Murdoch’s upper torso . . .

‘Oh, my God . . . Murdoch!’ screams Eleanor, her hands thrown up to the sides of her face. ‘What a horrible thing. Oh Lord!’

‘There, there, my dear,’ Professor Mortimer says, taking her in his thin arms and consoling her as he watches Murdoch battle with the reptile. Her face is pressed against his thin chest.

‘Mr. Murdoch will be fine.’

Murdoch struggles valiantly. The python has gained purchase with the thin whip end of its tail anchored at Murdoch’s crotch. It squeezes tightly.

‘Unggghhh . . . h-help me, Arboy!’ Murdoch grunts. But Arboy is no fool. He has turned and is running towards the relative safety of the dark, unknown jungle.

‘Sorry, Sahib, but I’m not going to be tangling with that big snake and that is for sure!’ he calls back over his shoulder.

The struggling Murdoch, encased in reptile, frowns.

‘You’ll pay for this, Arboy!’ Murdoch screams before his attention is once more directed to the python, which has its head pointed directly at his eyes. He reaches up and, in an heroic pose—legs spread wide and with one hand clasping the snake’s lower coils—he grabs the python behind its jaws and holds its head a safe distance away. Its tongue flicks outwards.

*

Meanwhile, Arboy is thrashing through the jungle. He stops a moment to catch his breath and—bent forward at the waist, hands clasping his knees—he hears something rustling in the bushes to his left. Slowly looking up, he sees a large, ferocious looking tiger. Arboy becomes all eyes. His mouth opens and he tries to scream, but no sound issues forth. Instead, his paralysis breaks and he hurtles back the way that he came. Broken foliage flies through the air in his wake.

*

In the meantime, Murdoch struggles and grunts as the python begins to constrict his chest. There is sweat pouring profusely from his brow, but it is a very manly sweat and in no way indecent.

‘P-Professor . . . a little h-help . . .?’ he pleads.

The professor still consoles Eleanor and holds her very close to his chest as she shakes her head in denial at the horrible sight. He then looks up to face the struggling Murdoch and, with his arms still gripping Eleanor, the professor offers the besieged Murdoch this advice:

‘Grab the animal at the point at which it is anchored to you,’ he says. ‘That would be your, um . . . crotch, I believe, Murdoch . . .’

Murdoch does this. ‘Ooohh.’

‘Now,’ the professor continues, ‘keep holding its head with one hand, while, with the other, gently unfurl it from your body.’

Soon Murdoch’s struggles pay off and he flings the python to the ground. He then lifts one heavily booted foot, takes aim and brings it down several times with terrific force, smashing the reptile’s skull to pulp.

‘Good Lord man,’ Professor Mortimer screams. ‘Why did you do that?’ It might have given you a good bite, true, but it wasn’t poisonous or anything. It was a—’

‘Yes, I know Professor,’ Murdoch interrupts. ‘It was an articulated python . . .’

‘Re-ticulated python, Murdoch,’ Mortimer corrects, shaking his head.

‘Well, it was a snake, anyhow,’ Murdoch mutters defensively, smoothing down his shirt.

In the meantime, something crashes through the shrubbery behind the group. Passing Professor Mortimer and the lovely Eleanor, who has now moved away from the protection of her father’s chest, this something thrashes towards Murdoch in a blur. It drops to the jungle floor and fastens onto Murdoch’s leg. This something, we then see, is Arboy.

‘SAHIB! TIGER . . . TIGER!’ he screeches.

Lovely Eleanor covers her ears. The professor steps forward, with a smile playing on his lips. ‘My dear fellow,’ he begins, shaking his head, ‘that’s quite improbable. There have been no tigers reported in these parts for years.’

The professor speaks down to the servant, treating him like a frightened child. Again, we wonder on the locale.

‘But, Sahib Professor,’ Arboy says, looking up at Professor Mortimer. ‘I was seeing him. He was being so very close to me.’

To demonstrate how close the tiger was to him, Arboy positions his hands about a foot from each other and, looking down at them, he adjusts them in and out slightly until he is happy with the distance. Arboy is also sweating. But of course it is nowhere near in as manly a fashion as Murdoch and, therefore, slightly indecent.

‘No,’ the professor says and continues to shake his head, ‘you couldn’t have seen a tiger, my Sikh friend. It’s not possible . . .’

‘Bwana Professor,’ Arboy cries and scrambles to his feet, ‘who is it that you are calling sick?’

*

Meanwhile, in the jungle, the large male tiger that Arboy had, in fact, encountered, paws its nose.

(The translation into English from Tigerese, is handled by Doctor Aloysious Smythe-Smythe. O.K, D.I.P.S.T.I.C.K. of Hollywood University)

‘Hell, it’s a real jungle around here. I can’t seem to get any peace. I am feeling a little bit peckish though. And that fella with the head injury did look kind of tasty.’

But the tiger shakes its head and thinks better of it. Not sure of how many humans make up the party, he decides to skirt around them and watch them for a while. He disappears into the shrubbery.

*

‘So, Arboy, you’ve come back, have you? Think better of it—huh?’ Murdoch sneers, hands on hips, fingering the pistol in its holster, which, during his encounter with the python, he had completely forgotten he carried.

‘No Sahib. I am still being scared of snakes,’ Arboy pleads, still at Murdoch’s feet. ‘I have been telling you, I came back because of the—’

‘. . . Non-existent tiger,’ Murdoch finishes. He looks across at Eleanor and the professor and, smirking, raises one eyebrow. They all laugh. All except Arboy, who frowns, lowers his head and looks down at the jungle floor.

Murdoch is, at length, a compassionate and understanding man. He merely disciplines Arboy with a hard shove of his foot to the servant’s shoulder, sending him sprawling backwards onto the jungle floor. Again Murdoch laughs, joined in by Eleanor and her father (who looks even more like her grandfather). After composing themselves, they stand looking at each other, sniggering and nodding. Arboy eventually gets to his feet and dusts himself down.

‘You’re a good safari leader, after a fashion, Murdoch,’ the professor says, regaining enough of his composure to light his pipe, ‘but time is wasting while we stand here amusing ourselves. I suggest that we move on before darkness falls.’

‘Yes, you’re quite right, Professor,’ Murdoch agrees. ‘How far do you think it is to the ruins?’

The ruins Murdoch speaks of are the sole reason for this treacherous journey. Said ruins are those of the lost civilisation of the Abracadabra’s. Professor Mortimer has been studying this ancient civilisation for many years and has finally been able to pin-point exactly where the ruins lie, which he believes to be in a three to five hundred mile radius of where they stand, give or take two hundred miles or so. The safari has been a long and arduous one. Murdoch lifts his pack from his shoulders and removes a packet of Lucky Strikes, shakes one out and lights it with a match, which he strikes against the now standing Arboy’s upper thigh.

Murdoch strikes a rugged pose. ‘Then you think that we’re headed in the right direction?’ he asks the professor.

The professor nods and places his hand over the bowl of his pipe.

‘Oh, yes, most definitely so, Murdoch. I know that it’s very unscientific, but you might say that I can almost smell the place. I have a lucky feeling.’

Eleanor lifts her much more light weight, daintier back-pack from her shoulders and, opening it, crouches down and takes out a packet of Virginia Slims. She too lights up. In the thirties and forties, cigarette smoking did not cause lung cancer.

Arboy looks about at the surrounding shrubbery, smiles and then absently fashions himself a cigarette out of a banana leaf he had found earlier.

After enjoying their tobacco break, the party continue on their way through the jungle. With their period of respite at an end now, Arboy listens closely for anything that may be following them. The problem is they make so much noise pushing their way through the thick foliage that nothing more than snapping of branches and the odd curse word can be heard. Arboy, however, is feeling more at ease now.

The tiger paces alongside them, unseen, sometimes only a paw’s length away.

(In Tigerese.)

‘I don’t know. I’m getting a little fed up with these humans. I’m pretty sure that they’ve no idea of what they’re doing or where they’re going. My stomach is grumbling a little though. They’re very boring, but who knows? I may get a laugh out of them yet. If not, well . . . there’s always dinnertime to look forward to.’

*

‘Professor, the sun will be setting soon. I suggest we look for a clearing to make camp for the night,’ Murdoch says. The professor agrees and Eleanor tells them that this jungle is perfectly dreadful. She does not look forward to another night out of doors. She has found that the mosquitoes are attracted to her soft, scented skin. Arboy is nonplussed, but would like to tell Eleanor to please not speak any more. He is frightened that the tiger (which the old white sahib claims does not exist) might hear them. Also she is giving him a big headache with her whining voice.

For another half hour they crash and hack their way through the growth, until the sun sinks in the west and long shadows take on an eerie malignancy.

‘It’s getting dark,’ Eleanor informs them. They are all carrying flashlights, which are turned on.

‘Yes, Eleanor, we know,’ her father (who now looks more like her great-grandfather) says to her. No clearing in sight, Murdoch halts the party and begins (with Arboy’s help) to hack away at the seemingly impenetrable growth with machetes, in hope of creating some kind of a clear area.

‘Why, this is absurd,’ Professor Mortimer says, his arm around Eleanor’s waist. ‘It will take forever to clear this satisfactorily so as to make it suitable for camping.’

Puffing on his pipe, he then shakes his head from side to side and laughs.

Resting now, while watching Arboy hack away at the jungle, Murdoch throws back his head and joins in their laughter.

‘Look at it this way, Professor . . . we can only but try.’

Night:

Against all odds, we see that quite a large area of jungle has been cleared and a sleeping Arboy is lying prostrate a polite distance from a small campfire. So close to the fire that he must surely soon scorch, Murdoch sits on a convenient rock and swishes his coffee around in his enamel tin mug, absently staring into the flames.

Professor Mortimer is snoring under the cover of the two man tent that he and Eleanor share.

Also facing the fire, but not anywhere near as close, Eleanor sits on another convenient rock across from Murdoch. Her hands are in front of her, palms facing outwards, in hope that the fire’s heat might warm them. Murdoch brings the hand not holding his cup of Java up to his face and rubs the bristles of his chin. He looks deep in concentration.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Eleanor says.

‘Huh?’ Out of reflex, Murdoch cries out and his hand jerks upwards, releasing the mug which, describing an arc, flies up through the air and then behind him, coffee splashing his pants and boots on its travel. The mug comes to rest, striking something—a rock, he guesses.

Arboy moans.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Eleanor says with her hand over her mouth, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Murdoch clears his throat. ‘Frighten? Who . . . me?’

Eleanor pushes herself up from the rock she is sitting on and walks gingerly over to our hero. She sits beside him and brings out her handkerchief.

‘Oh, I really am sorry,’ she says, wiping at his trousers. His strong hand grabs hers as she is rubbing the handkerchief against his upper thigh and he lifts it away.

‘No need for that, Eleanor. It was an accident. Really, you should be trying to get some shut-eye.’

‘Oh,’ she sighs, ‘if only I could, what with the mosquitoes and all of those strange animal cries. Oh, I don’t know why I came along on this safari. I’ll really just hold all of you big, strong men up . . .’

‘No. Don’t say that, Eleanor. Why you’re no trouble at all.’

‘I wish I could believe that,’ Eleanor says, her back to us. We see Murdoch who, although a razor hasn’t kissed his face for three days, looks exceptionally clean-shaven.

‘You must believe that, Eleanor. Really, you really won’t hold us big, strong men up. In fact,’ Murdoch pulls her closer to him, ‘you’re no trouble at all.’

Murdoch hitches his thumb over his shoulder, indicating Arboy, who, although having just been struck by Murdoch’s mug, still manages to sleep peacefully behind them at a good, servant’s distance.

‘He’s the problem around here, I’m afraid. Not you, dear Eleanor.’

Now we know we are about to see Eleanor in close up. We have previously not had that pleasure. She is just about to speak.

‘Oh, it’s really nice of you to say that, Murdoch. But I know that you’re only trying to save my feelings.’

We feel as though someone has rubbed our eyeballs with Vaseline. Eleanor’s face is blurred and out of focus. Technical difficulties we think. But, damn it, we have missed out.

Once more we see Murdoch’s striking, square-jawed features quite clearly as he speaks.

‘No, I don’t say things to be nice, Eleanor. In fact, I’ve been told on many occasions that most of the things I say are, on the whole, quite unwholesome and inane.’

Eleanor lowers her eyes, but we only see her in what is now a mid distant side shot of the two.

‘Oh,’ Eleanor says. ‘Perhaps I really should be going off to bed.’

Eleanor begins to rise but Murdoch reaches out and grips her hand tightly. There is an awkward silence, then Murdoch pulls her back down towards him and their lips meet. She sits astride his knees; his arm supporting her back. It is a very striking pose.

‘Oooooh . . .’

The ooh-ing is Arboy shifting in his sleep and turning over. His turban is well wrapped and serves him well as a quite comfortable pillow. The two lovers start at the sound and watch until he settles down. Then they gaze steadily into each others eyes. Eleanor’s breasts are thrust forward, crushed against Murdoch’s well muscled chest.

‘I really must be going,’ Eleanor whispers.

We get another close-up of Murdoch. ‘Oh, must you?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I must,’ she replies.

Again Eleanor’s visage is completely blurred. She gets to her feet and enters the tent. A light comes on behind the canvas. We see Eleanor in silhouette. She removes her pith helmet and raises both arms to primp her hair. Then she reaches towards the ceiling of the tent and there is a clicking sound as the light switches off. Murdoch watches the tent for a moment longer, smiles and then sighs. He frowns and looks around wondering where his cup of Java has disappeared to.

I’m just an ordinary Joe trying to earn a living, that’s all, he is, in all probability, thinking.

Then he frowns and shakes his head. He stretches and then yawns as he reaches forward and shakes free an army blanket from his pack. It looks extraordinarily large and far too large to have been able to fit in there. He then lies on the ground, his head resting on the empty, yet somehow full and amazingly soft looking pack. The light from the fire plays on his face for one minute and twenty seconds and then it peters out. When it is totally dark, thin white vertical lines and tiny explosions of light play down and across our vision accompanied by a crackling sound which disappears as it becomes—

Mid-morning:

Arboy strides on ahead of the safari, machete lashing this way and that, clearing a path for the four-strong party. It is, of course, a marvellous day. The party has been crashing and lashing through the jungle since six a.m. But to Arboy it seems that they are still no closer to the ruins of this fabled Abracadabra the old white sahibs speaks so much about.

Eleanor is refreshed and quite beautiful as she strides through the jungle, bosom jutting forward.

Equally refreshed and beautiful, Murdoch strides purposefully a few paces in front of her. To the rear walks Professor Mortimer. He doesn’t look quite so good.

Throughout last night’s broken sleep, the professor had suffered a succession of disturbing dreams concerning the discovery of the ruins of the Abracadabra. It has become an obsession with him, this discovery, and he often finds no solace at all in night’s nocturnal relaxation. With ever increasing regularity, his dreams have taken on the form of visions. In these visions, he is, at the last minute, cheated out of his right of being recognised as the first to have uncovered the ruins and the fabled treasures the ruins are said to contain. When these apparent visions began a year or so back, the faces of those destined to cheat him out of his glory were indistinguishable. But last night’s vivid dream had finally brought their countenance to light.

We see that he absently fingers the pistol holstered to his side.

Arboy then hesitates, then stops.

‘Hoy, Arboy . . . what are you doing, man? What’s the hold up?’ Murdoch frowns.

Arboy stands stock still. Then he crouches and runs a finger across the jungle floor and brings that finger to his nose. He sniffs. Eleanor turns to Murdoch and frowns. Murdoch’s gaze is fixed on the crouching Arboy. Professor Mortimer looks on, absently lighting his pipe.

‘It is smelling, Sahib . . .’

‘Smelling of what, man? Have you picked up a scent . . .?’

Professor Mortimer continues to look on and wonders whether he had been too hasty in assuring the Indian guide that there were no dangerous wild animals in the area. Actually, he had only said that to keep them from panicking and abandoning the safari. He knows little about the wildlife here. He peers at Arboy suspiciously.

‘Waste, Sahib.’

‘Waste? What do you mean waste, man?’ Murdoch frowns.

‘Excrement, Sahib.’

‘What the devil are you talking about, my good fellow?’ Professor Mortimer intervenes, approaching the servant guide. Arboy rises and faces the professor. His eyes are wide. He looks nervously at Murdoch and Eleanor, then back at Professor Mortimer. He shakes his head and one can clearly see the fear in his eyes.

‘We have been coming too far into the jungle. We are not knowing where we are.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’ the professor asks.

‘I am meaning that we are in deep—!’

Murdoch immediately excuses himself from Eleanor’s side and, walking towards Arboy, pulls out his pistol, grabs it by the barrel and strikes the servant guide across the back of the head with the butt. Arboy groans and collapses bonelessly to the ground.

‘Good Lord, man . . . why did you do that?’ Professor Mortimer asks as Murdoch holsters his weapon and gazes down at the now unconscious Arboy.

‘Jungle fever, Professor. I’ve seen it many times before.’

‘Oohhh . . .’ Eleanor begins to weep, ‘p-perhaps he is—sniff—right. We d-don’t seem to know where we—sob—are . . .’

‘Now, now, my dear,’ the professor says and begins to walk towards Eleanor, offering comfort. But Murdoch beats him to it. He wraps one muscular arm around her shoulders and holds her close. With his free arm he begins to pat at his pockets, in search of a handkerchief. He has no luck. Eleanor reaches into her hip pocket and brings out hers. She offers it to him and he accepts it and begins gently dabbing at her eyes.

‘We must be brave, Eleanor,’ he says to her in a cheerful, devil-may-care way. ‘It wouldn’t do to just let all of this unpleasantness get the better of us—would it? I’m sure that we shall find what we’re seeking soon—very soon.’

There is going to be another close up of Eleanor. But . . .

Yet again it is blurred. Perhaps we are weeping too?

Eleanor’s large right breast is squashed against Murdoch’s chest. He rubs his hand up and down her upper left arm, consoling her. Then he shakes out the handkerchief (which is amazingly stain free, considering last night’s coffee episode) and brings it toward her nose. She smiles at him through her tears and blows. He bunches the still relatively clean handkerchief in his hand and smiles back at her.

‘There . . . feeling better?’

Eleanor smiles and nods her head.

Professor Mortimer looks upwards, sighs and shakes his head. Behind him, on the jungle floor, Arboy groans.

‘I’d best attend to Arboy quickly, Eleanor,’ Murdoch says, freeing her. There are dark coffee stains on her upper arm.

To their side—about two yards distant—the large, male tiger looks on:

(In Tigerese)

‘Boy, is that human something! No wonder they’re fair game for any animal that has a taste for human meat. I may concentrate on him if I feel the urge to indulge. The old fellow looks a little tough. He’s probably all gristle. The female would make a good appetiser, however.

‘But, then again, she kind of looks all . . . blurry the closer she gets. It might be some kind of strange skin disease or something, perhaps. I don’t know how much longer they’ll be able to go on. I think they’ll crack up soon. The only one who seems to have any idea at all, is the one wearing the bandages on his head. He might make a formidable enemy. We’ll see. I’ll just follow for a while longer . . .’

Afternoon:

Arboy has his hands tied before him and a makeshift gag in his mouth. He still walks ahead of the party, hacking away at the undergrowth with the machete clasped in his bound hands. The gag is Eleanor’s slightly soiled handkerchief. It is, however, most probably not soiled at all now. It is a truly amazing piece of cloth.

‘I still think that it’s absurd, Murdoch,’ Professor Mortimer is saying. ‘What good is Arboy to us with his mouth gagged and his hands tied?’

‘It’s the only way to break the fever. Arboy is bound to know his way through the jungle, Professor, and that is no gag, whether he is bound and gagged or not.’

‘But, if there’s danger . . .?’

‘Well, if he turns and runs, then we’ll know—won’t we?’

The professor sighs and shakes his head. Murdoch’s strange logic defies description. He thinks it is perhaps his own fault that they are in this predicament. After all, it was he who chose Murdoch to see them through the jungle. Still, the ruins must surely be close. And he knows the faces of his detractors in the visions now. Yes, perhaps he should have selected another guide to lead the safari. But it is far too late at this stage of the journey to harbour regret and second thoughts.

Ahead of them, Arboy stops and turns. His eyes are wide. He lifts both bound arms upwards as though pointing to something ahead of them.

‘What is it?’ Eleanor gasps.

‘It’s okay Eleanor,’ Murdoch assures her. ‘If it was a wild animal then rest assured Arboy would be a blur passing us now.’ He smiles and they all chuckle.

‘Go ahead, Arboy!’ Murdoch commands and points ahead to indicate that he move on. But Arboy, face sheened with sweat, only frowns.

‘Perhaps we should remove the gag, Murdoch?’ the professor suggests.

‘No, he’ll only frighten Eleanor needlessly again, Professor. It’s more than likely that he probably only wants to stop and relieve himself.’

‘Well then, shouldn’t we inquire?’

‘He has the fever, Professor, remember? Jungle Fever is a nasty little bug, I tell you. No, Arboy must not spread his silly fears if we are to go forward and find your ruins. It would not be to our advantage to—’

‘Murdoch!’ Eleanor says. He ignores her and continues.

‘— to listen to such trifle. Why, it would only hold us up all the more. I know people like Arboy. They’re a superstitious lot—’

‘Murdoch, for God’s sake, look!’ the professor says, pointing at something in front of them. Murdoch follows his thin arm.

‘—and they—’ he finishes, his jaw dropping.

He sees the danger immediately. Eleanor moves close nearby. In a moment of blind panic, he has thoughts of pulling her in front of him to use as a shield, but thinks better of it.

Four natives, spears aloft, threaten them in a strange, gruff tongue.

Arboy has backed towards the rest of the party, but is unable to help, as his hands are tied and his mouth gagged. Professor Mortimer reaches for the gag to untie it, but Murdoch stops him.

‘No Professor,’ he says, shaking his head while clasping the older man’s arm. Mortimer winces at Murdoch’s grip and gasps.

‘L-let me go. You’re hurting me, you fool!’ the professor yells.

The natives look on, frowning and shaking their own heads. What strange people, they think. Murdoch draws a deep breath, sticks out his chest and walks towards the natives.

‘Agga Chi Moola-Moola—aracherigartha!’