I could not possibly outrun the mangabeys, but at least I presented a moving target and they, I instinctively felt, would be restricted in their mobility if they wished to bombard me with further durians - though in this I was to underestimate their cooperative efforts, indeed I made a mental note for a PhD thesis along the lines of Aggression in Golden Bellied Mangabey Troops, to be subtitled the Collective and the Inventive mind resource in higher mammals. A quick search in Louise's files would surely provide me with the necessary information without my having to pass years in the field studying the beasts in their none too homely habitat. Their conservation status, I could not help feeling as I fled before them, was a matter of Least Concern.
My rapid descent was an education in itself for my path was obstacled by the IUCN critically listed Astrochelys yniphora, more colloquially known as the Angonoka tortoise, in numbers that, in some parts, merited the Sallustian disapprobation "infesta", and compelled me to some inelegant leaping that tested the limits of my Shona skirt to literally, I'm afraid to say, breaking point. Hoopoes in uncharacteristically high concentrations - IUCN rating of least concern, but the presence of this magical bird is always welcome especially when seen so far from its normal habitat and despite any implications this might have as a global warming indicator - feasting on Black-backed meadow ants (IUCN rating extinct, but here present in an abundance that instated them as humble but important members of the food chain). My respect for hoopoes necessitated some deft manoeuvring, but as these animals are more agile than the bulky testudi, half of the labour involved in avoiding fatal mutual impacts fell on them and momentarily as I passed through dense clusters of the beautiful creatures the air was filled with their gracious flight - a sight which I was able to record on my Hasselblad despite the ambient harassment of the mangabeys and the looming uncertainties of my reunion with Louise.
My plan was to escape from the unexpected environment of the caldera to resume my quest on the partially wooded glaciofluvial deposits on which Balmoral Castle stands. Partially wooded was something of an understatement for Louise, as HM's predecessor, in a conservatory mode well ahead of her time, had preserved a wide swathe of ancient pine forest, an environment inimical to Giant Elks, even the antler versatile Louise. But I first had to rendezvous with my mount whose response to my electrical halter was yet to reveal itself. If I were to execute too rapid a descent there was a danger that I would emerge on the little-modified plateau surface in an exterior condition in relation to the pod, and worst of all, without the protection afforded me by my disguise, for a mangabey of outstandingly audacious character had torn my headscarf and perm from my head, a preliminary I was certain to more drastic action that might well recall, in its bloodthirsty horror, street scenes from pre-Renaissance Italy or our own native uprisings so masterfully and yet so treacherously handled by one of HM's predecessors. There was no verbal reasoning with the mangabeys, their hail of missiles were but pinpricks compared with their earlier durian storm, but an accumulation of pinpricks can bring down the largest prey. Delay meant death or surrender, too precipitate a descent risked exposure, arrest, disgrace, failure, the loss of livelihood and the prospect of homelessness or prison and there ahead of me loomed a dense durian grove, the trees heavy with missiles for the mangabeys. My mission, I could hear myself reporting in a paraphrase of a famous statement made by an akitsumikami in similarly trying circumstances, has not necessarily ended in my favour. The durian can reach heights of 50 metres or 100 cubits and the fruit, for me a personal favourite that any post-mortal paradise should offer in unlimited quantities, was also the desideratum of Panther tigris jacksoni, amongst other beautiful but potentially lethal creatures if encountered at street level, so to speak. I was sure by now that this endangered creature would inevitably be established in large numbers in this regal highland retreat, feasting on once rare ungulates with its favourite fruit as an epidorpic chaser. The presence of the trees, fine and gracious in themselves, carried a hint of menace not only because of their associated fauna, but as a reminder of the fate of durian gorgers in general whose renal function is lost to such an extent, once they have satisfied their unsatisfiable desire, that they succumb to hyperkalemia and without the obliging services of a durian aware medic equipped to deal with their case they are lost. I had reached another Lagrangian point immobilised between durians, tigers, mangabeys and geologists, I stood rooted, oblivious of my tormentors as Louise with a superb galloping action, her elegant hooves springing amongst the angonokas without touching a single one of them, with a cloud of hoopoes about her, swept past my position in the direction of the durians. I was too relieved to react. The mangabeys scattered sensing that I had an ally more powerful than their collective malice.
The moment was one to savour. The tropical warmth, the sub-Arctic light, the mystery of vanishing species reappeared, the vast assemblage of native plants amongst the suites of channels and deposits below me, and Louise spurning the turf beneath her hooves heading directly for the durians. I was not alarmed, perhaps the mangabeys had put my adrenal glands to such a test that they had no more to give, and now aware of her performance amongst the Arran whitebeams I had no concern for her safety. I raised the remote as in a dream, swept the screen clear of debris and with fingers that could not be allowed to tremble programmed Louise to wheel, gallop, halt and kneel - wheat, ghostwhite, honeydew 4 and cyan/aqua - as from above I could hear the geologists descending, I could even distinguish individual words amongst their cries, it was just possible they would discover my ruined headpiece and draw some drastic, but delaying, conclusion from it. Louise was at my side her lateral door swept invitingly against her haunch. Almost sobbing with relief I shed my sodden Shona skirt, my reeking hacking jacket and wearing only my studded wellies and Pretender-cravatted blouse I took my place in the relative security of the pod. Here I felt I would be safe from mangabeys and tigers, even from prying geological teams.
At first I could do nothing but lie back and enjoy the temperature and oxygen controlled environment of Louise's interior, and the silence. It was only at that moment of stillness that I became aware of the insulting cacophony I had had to endure for the last 30 minutes, a brouillage that made the parrot house at Whipsnade seem like a Carthusian dormitory. I took slow deep breaths, I began to long for extended periods of deep meditation. Just before it was too late I recognised the symptoms of spontaneous clinical withdrawal from the material world, a state that was highly desirable in itself, but equally inappropriate to the circumstances
Louise's ears were automatically programmed to detect and follow interesting sound patterns particularly human speech (here lay one of my lines of approach to eavesdropping on HM) and it was a cry of horror that broke in on my Poe-like descent into a crypt of the mind. They must have found the scarf and attached hairpiece, so reminiscent of the chatelaine of Balmoral (we had modelled it on over a thousand detailed photographs taken over the full 60 years so that it acquired what we liked to think of as an essence of Queen) and which, in its sullied state would imply a full and drastic scalping of the royal head. What they would make of the discarded hacking jacket and tattered Shona skirt I thought it best not to linger in witness. Initially these objects would confirm their worst fears. Autopsy would reveal something nearer the truth and a simple telephone call to the Castle would allay their fears but give rise to more problems on my side. It was time for me to move on.
Exhausted though I was I programmed Louise to rise, canter, fold back her antlers and negotiate the durian grove for, just as the entrance to this enchanted world had been blocked by the whitebeams so was the exit guarded by the these colossal representatives of the family Malavaceae. For those interested in such technicalities the sequence was rawsiena, chocolate 1, azure 4 and navajowhite 3, the last a programme outside her normal palette as it accessed commands from an external source. There were times when I wondered how necessary I was to the running of my ship.
Louise performed magnificently negotiating the trees like an expert downhill skier, confident and elegantly in control of every hoof step, the tigers mere buttery blurs too astonished to consider her as prey, perhaps even intimidated by her bulk. At last the trees gave way to open space and we made the transition through an almost undetectable screen of Ghost Glass onto what had once been the shores of the great Iapetus Ocean.
Here, much to my astonishment, Louise made an unauthorised halt and surveyed the scene of unparalleled beauty that was spread out below us, the Castle a minute speck in the distance, the forest and the plateaux fanning out above and behind it like the tail of a comet. Her head was lowered in a posture that was far from submissive and then with a great cry of "Pollinctor! ____________ ______!" she launched herself like a war horse onto what I was only too aware was a terrain of truncated plateaux marked by the Kame and kettle topography left by a stagnant ice sheet. As we plunged heaving east I cast a visual back at the world we had left behind. There was no trace whatsoever to be seen. A dome of ghost glass skilfully simulated the appearance of the original terrain. Louise and I had fought our way out of the unknown and now we were about to face the known, or what we fondly believed to be the known.
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