The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [162]
"Not in the slightest," replied Burton. "Let me up, damn it!"
Oxford let go of the man's coat and Burton pushed himself out from between the stilts and got to his feet.
"So what exactly is it you need to do?"
"Restore, Burton!" replied the time traveller. "Restore!"
"Restore what?"
"Myself. You. Everything! Do you honestly think the world should have talking orangutans in it? Isn't it obvious to you that something is desperately wrong?"
"Talking orang-?" began Burton.
"Captain Burton!" came a distant shout.
Oxford looked up through the trees as the second flying machine drew closer.
"The mist has cleared and the sun is high enough," he muttered to himself. "I should be able to recharge."
"Charge at what?" demanded Burton. "You're speaking in riddles, man!"
"Time to go," said Oxford. He laughed. "Time to go!"
Burton suddenly dived at him.
Oxford twisted out of the way and, as the famous Victorian crashed past him, he strode away.
"Sir Richard Francis Burton," he hissed to himself. "That's all I bloody well need!"
Ducking under branches, he moved from bole to bole until he emerged from the woods back onto the golf course. Off to the south, he saw a horde of policemen and villagers milling about. A police whistle blew and a roar went up from the crowd. They surged toward him.
Oxford bounded away and circled the course. He only had to remain in the sunlight for a couple of minutes; it would be enough.
In enormous hops, he ran around the perimeter while the mob surged back and forth trying to cut him off.
He passed the edge of the trees again and saw Burton standing there. The man ran out to intercept him. Oxford bounded over his head.
"Stay out of it, Burton!" he shouted.
He took six more strides and sprang high.
At the apex of his jump, he ordered the suit to flip him to the next destination and, at exactly the same moment, realised that the second flying machine was too close, almost touching him.
He landed in the Alsop field on the night of September 30, 1861, with fragments of the machine accompanying him. He hit the ground awkwardly, floundered, and fell. Bits of twisted metal thudded into the earth around him. One piece embedded itself in his right forearm. He screamed with pain and yanked it out. Blood splashed over the scales of his suit.
Spring Heeled Jack rolled to all fours and hauled himself upright. He held his arm and winced. He looked down the sloping field and forgot the pain.
It was all so familiar.
There were the lights of Old Ford; there was Bearbinder Lane; and there was the cottage where Jane Alsop lived, and where he would now find her daughter, Alicia Pipkiss.
He had no reason to think that she was the girl with the rainbow birthmark, but all of a sudden that's exactly what he did think.
He smiled.
Something came spinning through the air, hit his stilts, and wrapped itself around them.
He toppled sideways and fell onto his injured arm. Another scream was torn from his throat.
What the-?
He looked down and saw that he'd been enmeshed in bolas-throwing weapons consisting of a cord with weights at either end.
Men rushed out of the trees. A lot of men. They threw nets over him.
Colourful birds exploded into the air.
In Old Ford, Constable Krishnamurthy saw the flock of parakeets rising upward. They wheeled around then flew westward. Firing up his rotorchair, he ascended on a column of boiling vapour and steered the craft toward the field. Some distance behind him, by the ruined farmhouse, six more rotorchairs rose.
To the north, west, and south of the field, Burton, Trounce, and Honesty also saw the birds. They ordered their men forward.
Not far behind Trounce's team, Laurence Oliphant turned to the twentythree red-robed figures and snapped: "Go! Attack! Feast!"
They threw back their hoods and howled.
Men piled onto Spring Heeled Jack, holding his arms away from his chest. They hauled him upright. He struggled wildly and became entangled in netting.