The next morning, as soon as the curfew was lifted, Michael and I headed to the dry goods store in the south-west corner of the Plaza. We approached Senora Luna hesitantly, conscious that after her ordeal yesterday she was unlikely to be particularly receptive to visitors from the Governor’s hacienda. She still seemed pretty dazed by recent events and listened with a distracted air to our rather convoluted and not-entirely-coherent explanation for wanting to search her property. But, as Bob had foreseen, as soon as we were able to point out the hidden door she agreed quite readily to its destruction and we assuaged any guilt we felt about bringing further disruption to her life by leaving a generous contribution to the church collection in exchange for Father Esteban agreeing to come along and perform a blessing on the site as soon as was practically possible.

     Once that business was dealt with, Michael and I were quite naturally keen to leave Santa Marta as swiftly as possible but Don Pedro’s hospitality was not so easily shaken off. In the immediate aftermath of the failed hanging the Governor had been surprisingly subdued, the sting of his humiliation on the platform at the hands of Juarez spoiling any sense of satisfaction he might have felt at the ultimate demise of his nemesis. But he had the tyrant’s knack for quickly throwing off any sense of shame and before the day was out he was back to his unbearable worst and busy planning all kinds of triumphal farewells for us. For reasons we couldn’t possibly disclose to Don Pedro, Michael and I preferred to slip out of town with as little fuss as possible and we had a hell of a job persuading him to knock the marching bands and farewell feasts on the head.

     Eventually however, we succeeded in shaking off the guard of honour and managed to meet up with Luisa’s cousin, Raphael, who had agreed to escort us to the outlaw’s camp deep in the forest where we spent the night saying a rather more heartfelt goodbye to the bandits. The next morning, we faced a long trek over a broad, featureless plain before we had finally left Santa Marta far enough behind in both distance and time to come upon a railway station. It was a rather rundown kind of railway station, so windswept and remote that I half fancied I could hear the plaintive wail of a distant harmonica as I looked along the dusty, deserted platform, but it held at least the promise of a train which might carry us on towards some form of civilisation.

     I was still hunting out the most comfortable spot on which to stretch out when I got that familiar feeling, a certain sense of something in the air which suggested that, despite all appearances, we were not alone.

     “Is that you Bob?” I called out into the ether.

     I presume you are referring to me.

     “Who else?” I cheerfully responded. “What are you doing all the way out here Bob? Don’t you have narrative business of your own to be getting on with now?”

     I certainly do. But I thought I would take the trouble of escorting you all the way off my narrative patch, as it were, if only to ensure you don’t tangle yourself up in any more awkward subplots along the way. Don’t worry, I shall ensure we part company just as soon as we reach the nearest metropolis.

     “That’s assuming we ever do reach any kind of metropolis,” remarked Michael, gazing dubiously up the track to where the horizon disappeared into a haze of heat. “Are we absolutely sure that trains do in fact stop at this station?”

     Unless my background data is faulty this is indeed an operational railway. The trans-continental express makes a scheduled stop here twice a week.

     “Twice a week!” exclaimed Michael.

     Fortunately, your timing on this occasion is rather good. Barring landslides or hold-ups along the way, the next train is due to stop in a little over five hours.

     “Five hours!” I exclaimed.

     I thought you would be glad of the opportunity to rest. Neither of you appeared to get much sleep last night. At least you both seemed to be enjoying yourselves at Juarez’s wake.

     “True, though probably not nearly as much as Juarez himself,” Michael observed. “For a dead man he certainly knows how to have a good time.”

     “And why not? You’re dead and you still enjoy a good party. I mean, anyone who saw you dancing last night with Raphael would certainly think so,” I casually remarked with a slight lift of the eyebrow.

     “I’m surprised you were able to tear yourself away from Juarez long enough to notice,” countered Michael, raising an eyebrow of his own in return.

     Oh, I think we’ve already established that, whatever the distractions, Natasha is always likely to notice…

     “Anyway,” I interrupted, hastily moving the conversation along. “Surely, it’s a good thing that Juarez has a long and productive after-life to look forward to? I know he can’t wait to start haunting Don Pedro.”

     He had better not start before the Varga family have had chance to leave town. It would completely ruin all the hard work we have done in resetting the narrative if Abuela Varga were to catch a whisper of Juarez’s resurrection before she goes.

     “Don’t worry, he swore to me he would lay low for a couple of weeks,” I reassured him. “But to be honest, if I hadn’t been able to persuade him that he could be even more trouble to Don Pedro as a vengeful spirit than he was as a live bandit I doubt he would have ever agreed to go along with our plan in the first place.”

     “You must be pretty pleased with how your story turned out,” remarked Michael. “Everything went exactly as planned.”

     Yes, on the whole I am very satisfied with Abuela Varga’s telling of the story. Her tale will undoubtedly have quite an effect on the young Ramon Varga, her little Moncho.

     “I still can’t quite believe we managed to carry it off,” I confessed. “I was sure I was going to fluff my lines.”

     “I thought you played your part with great conviction,” declared Michael with just a hint of the kind of condescension you might expect from a seasoned professional reviewing the performance of a valiant amateur. “That look of fear on your face when Don Pedro lunged at you with his sword was quite a remarkable piece of acting.”

     “Acting, bollocks – I was bloody terrified!” I retorted. “You would have been too if you’d seen Don Pedro’s face up close. I swear that for just a moment he would have gladly stuck me right through if only he could have been sure of getting Juarez with the same blow!”

     That was undoubtedly a tense moment. It was admittedly a rather fine line as to whether or not a dim awareness of the utter ignominy that the murder of an honoured guest would bring upon Don Pedro was quite enough to overcome his burning desire to be rid of Juarez. Luckily, we made the right call.

     “Luckily?” I spluttered. “I don’t remember any mention of luck having anything to do with it. I thought that with your narrator’s foresight you knew exactly what you were doing.”

     A narrator’s foresight can only carry them so far. In any truly compelling drama the main characters always retain a degree of autonomy. It keeps the story alive. In this case I was obliged to weigh up the dominant traits of Don Pedro’s personality and make a judgement call. I assumed you understood and were on board with that.

     “Well, you assumed wrong,” I flatly told him. “If I’d had any idea of the risk I was running, I would have stationed myself on the other side of the platform and let Redgrave come between Don Pedro and Juarez.”

     “Why thanks,” murmured Michael.

     The story wouldn’t have worked with Michael in that role and you know it. You had to be the one Juarez pulled onto his horse. Firstly, for the sheer romance of it, and secondly, it was only you in your voluminous skirt who could conceal enough blood about your person to make the ‘shooting’ of Juarez look convincing.

     “Well, frankly, that’s another thing I wish I hadn’t signed up to,” I grumbled. “Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is waddling around in the sweltering heat with a bag of pig’s blood tucked underneath your skirt? That stuff really starts to smell after a while.”

     Sooner or later everything in the sweltering heat of Santa Marta starts to smell. If anyone noticed the stench, they probably just assumed that a combination of the noonday sun and the tension had had an unfortunate effect on your glands.

     “Gee thanks, that makes me feel so much better,” I muttered.

     A somewhat awkward silence now descended over the station. I slumped down onto a bench in order to silently fume over just how close I had come to being kebabbed for the sake of Bob’s story. Michael took to pacing distractedly up and down the platform. After a while he stopped and peered uncertainly down the deserted track.

     “How long did you say before we can expect a train to arrive?” he asked.

     Five hours and fourteen minutes. Approximately.

     “Does anybody have any good ideas for how we might pass the time?” Michael asked with a heavy sigh. “I don’t expect a game of eye-spy will keep us occupied for long,” he added, throwing a despairing glance around the barren landscape.

     You might like to take this opportunity to review the progress of your narrative and, who knows, perhaps even make a few plans for the future. It’s fairly evident from your story so far that planning ahead is not exactly your forte but you must occasionally pause to consider what might come next.

     “I don’t think ours is really that kind of story,” I replied, somewhat defensively. “We just follow the coordinates on the inter-dimensional travel drive and then deal with whatever we find when we get there.”

     That approach may have worked for you so far but, as I warned you back in the stables of Don Pedro’s hacienda, stiffer challenges lay ahead. I fear a strategy of blithely winging it may no longer suffice. And while it is not usually my policy to interfere in other people’s stories, as we are stuck here together for a few hours, I am prepared to put my wealth of narrative expertise at your service and offer what help and guidance I can.

     Michael and I exchanged a glance. There then followed a full minute and a half of increasingly expressive “no, you say something” looks between us before Michael finally, reluctantly, took it upon himself to respond to Bob’s generous offer.

     “Look, we’re very grateful for all your help,” he rather deferentially began, “but, to be honest, we don’t really see any need to change our ways. We’ve heard what you have to say about Valentine and Kenneth and their doings but, as far as we’re concerned, our focus remains on finding Sturridge. You wouldn’t really expect us just to drop him and go chasing after some original idea now, would you?”

     Considering that, as a supposedly objective narrator, Bob didn’t really go in much for expressions of emotion, it was impressive just how much of a sense of exasperation he could convey with just his words when he needed to.

     Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to give up on Sturridge! He will always be central to your story. But by entering the landscape, Sturridge has, however inadvertently, placed the original idea at its heart in jeopardy and therefore his story will never be complete until the original idea is secure. And what I am trying, with infinite patience, to convey to you just now is that it is one thing to outwit the likes of Don Pedro with a plan you have come up with on the hoof but you will find yourselves in a whole new league when you come up against Valentine and Kenneth.

     I responded with a kind of half-snort, half-raspberry that I felt pretty accurately conveyed precisely what I thought of the threat posed by Valentine and Kenneth.

     “Don’t you think you might be giving Valentine and Kenneth just a little too much credit there?” Michael somewhat more diplomatically replied. “I’ll agree that was a pretty rotten trick they played on Sturridge but I fail to see anything truly exceptional in their villainy. And, not to blow our own trumpets, but we’ve already tangled with gangsters and spies and all-powerful Emperors…”

     “And ravenous zombie nuns,” I threw in.

     “Not forgetting the ravenous zombie nuns,” Michael conceded with a nod of acknowledgement in my direction. “Should our paths cross, I imagine we’ll probably find a way of handling whatever Valentine and Kenneth might throw at us.”

     Don’t be fooled by appearances, there’s more to those two than meets the eye. They’ve already destroyed the Explorer’s Club.

     I couldn’t help issuing another snort. “What, Colonel Pendlebury and chums? Seriously, my Auntie Val could probably have done for him and she’s got an arthritic hip and an irrational fear of all forms of soft cheese.”

     You shouldn’t make the mistake of judging the Explorer’s Club by all that remained when you encountered it. Before Valentine and Kenneth became involved, the Explorer’s Club was a venerable institution with a distinguished history that reached into almost every corner of the landscape. And within the space of a couple of adventures that pair had completely torn it apart and in one way or another destroyed the lives of all its members. Now, thanks to their brush with Sturridge, they have the original idea at the heart of the landscape in their sights and I shudder to think how that might end.

     “Hmmm,” I murmured, somewhat chastened by Bob’s heartfelt words but still not entirely convinced.

     If you don’t mind my saying, I think perhaps you fail to recognise the threat they pose because it is one powered by obsession and, never having experienced that kind of emotion yourself, you are unable to see just how potent it can be. But take it from someone who has been around the narrative block and seen pretty much all there is to see in terms of human behaviour. I can tell you that once a man succumbs to that kind of all-consuming obsession, once he allows a single passion to absorb all his energy, then there’s nothing he won’t do for it. I think the powers that be understand this and that’s why they got involved.

     “Okay, well firstly, I’m not all that sure that Valentine really is so obsessed with the original idea at the heart of the landscape,” I retorted. “It’s not like he even thought of it before Sturridge came along…”

     No, you misunderstand me. I’m not talking about…

     “And, secondly,” I pressed on, determined to make my point, “I’m not sure I place quite as much faith in the judgement of these so-called powers that be as you do. You’re saying they wouldn’t have pitched us into the landscape unless this was a really big deal but I happen to know that we are not the only duo to have been sent on a mission like this. In the course of our travels we’ve found out from Felicity Fortescue that she was teamed up by the powers that be with the composer Franz Liszt and packed off into the landscape in search of some pal of hers who’d got herself into some kind of trouble.”

     “And don’t forget what Henry James told us when we met him at the Midnight Hotel,” threw in Michael. “His entry into the landscape came about under very similar circumstances.”

     “Exactly!” I exclaimed. “Who knows how many more of us there are out there?”

     I’m afraid I fail to see your point. Are you complaining that your story isn’t quite as original as you might have hoped? Because if there was one thing I thought that we had established it is that true originality is a very rare commodity. That really rather explains the significance of the original idea at the heart of the landscape, just in case you were wondering.

     “No, I get that,” I somewhat irritably retorted. “That’s not my point. Well, not entirely anyway. My point is that Felicity Fortescue was sent into the landscape by the powers that be because her mate had got herself mixed up in some kind of plot that supposedly threatened the very existence of the landscape itself. But by the time Felicity found her pal, the plot had fizzled out of its own accord and her mate was ready to go back home anyway. It seems like the powers that be had got themselves in a tizzy over nothing. Now then,” I argued, standing up, arms crossed, by way of a challenge, “who’s to say the same thing won’t happen in our case?”

     Perhaps it will.

     “Oh,” I said, promptly sinking back down again, somewhat deflated. I hadn’t expected Bob to give in so readily.

     And perhaps it won’t.

     “Well, that’s helpful,” murmured Michael.

     The thing that you must bear in mind is that this is the landscape of the imagination. Apocalypses and Armageddons are ten-a-penny here. The landscape is chock-full of nefarious villains, natural disasters and man-made catastrophes. And because this is the imagination, 99 times out of 100, the danger is more or less contained. The villain is foiled, the disaster is averted, life goes on the same as ever… at least for those not directly involved.

     “Well, there you are then,” I said somewhat uncertainly, not quite seeing where Bob was going with this.

     But then there is another kind of story. The kind where the threat is not so much of the imagination as to the imagination. This is precisely where the powers that be come in. Their whole purpose is to stand guard over the landscape as a whole. They see no need to concern themselves if nations or even whole civilisations within it should fall but they will take action if something threatens the existence of imagination itself.

     And, yes, the powers that be are mythical unknowable beings with a wisdom far beyond that of any mere mortal but that does not make them infallible. So, I’m sure there have been occasions when they have sprung into action to counter a threat that subsequently turned out to be no more than a storm in a teacup. But I think you will find that on the whole their track record is actually pretty good. Therefore, if they have taken the trouble to interfere in Sturridge’s story then I think the very least you can do is to give some serious consideration to the threat. You need only read the letters I have already sent you to realise that Valentine and Kenneth’s actions have already sent some very disturbing ripples across the landscape.

     There was a brief, thoughtful silence whilst both Michael and I chewed over Bob’s ominous words.

     “I suppose you probably know more about this sort of thing than we do,” conceded Michael, “so if you say the threat is real then I won’t argue. But if the stakes are really so high then aren’t the powers that be acting rather negligently if their only tactic is to throw Natasha and I at the problem? I mean, they throw the pair of us into the landscape with barely a notion of what we’re supposed to do or how we’re supposed to do it. Surely there are people they could call on who would be better equipped and better prepared to take on this kind of threat? No offence Everingham,” he added with an apologetic glance in my direction.

     “None taken,” I assured him. “I think that’s a very good point. And let’s face it, it’s not just us, is it? I mean, it’s one thing to send me and Redgrave into the fray but who the hell ever looked at Henry James and thought he’s just the man to call on in a crisis?”

     “They seem to have the ability to call upon people from almost any location and any era,” mused Michael, “and yet it’s almost as if they throw these partnerships together at random.”

     I can assure you their choices are not random. The reason you and Natasha were chosen is the same reason Felicity Fortescue, Franz Liszt and even Henry James were chosen. All of your missions begin with the need to locate someone from the real world who has become lost in the landscape of the imagination. Therefore, on each occasion the powers that be are bound to choose the people they assess as most likely to track down the individual concerned.

     “And that’s us, is it?” I returned doubtfully. “I still can’t see it myself. I mean, I may have got my orienteering badge when I was in the Brownies but that hardly makes me Sacagawea, does it?”

     It certainly doesn’t but, as this is the landscape of the imagination, it’s not that kind of tracking that’s required. Surely you have recognised by now that travel through the landscape of the imagination is not the same as travel through reality. Your progression through the landscape is dictated as much by your cultural background and your imaginative outlook as it is by your physical attributes. Here, two people might set out from the same spot and walk in the same direction at the same speed for the same length of time and arrive at two very different destinations. It’s the reason why the only reliable map of the landscape is the one that you draw for yourself.

     Both Michael and I threw an instinctive glance towards his map case which was currently propped together with my bag alongside a rickety platform bench.

     As soon as Sturridge disappeared into the landscape, I’m sure the powers that be weighed up all their options and judged that you were the duo with the best chance of getting and staying on his trail.

     “Basically, they figured that, imaginatively speaking, one me plus one Redgrave equals one Sturridge?” I clarified, furrowing my brow as I tried to work out whether I ought to be flattered or insulted by this equation. On the whole, I decided I was mostly flattered but with one or two caveats.

     More or less.

     “Well, I suppose it’s a relief to feel that there was at least some kind of rationale behind our selection,” noted Michael, though there remained a touch of uncertainty to his tone.

     To be perfectly honest, given the idiosyncrasies of imaginative travel, the process of putting together a posse in the landscape will always be rather more of an art than a science. Which is why I think we can perhaps make some excuse for the selection of Henry James.

     “I’m not sure there’s ever any excuse for Henry James,” I muttered.

     Michael threw me a mildly offended look, presumably on Henry’s behalf.

     I can’t believe that this constitutes any great surprise to you. Has it never occurred to you that for people who are travelling at random across a landscape that is constructed from every aspect of human imagination you always seem to be pulled in a certain, how shall we say, cultural direction? To be more specific, that most of your adventures so far have followed a notably Western, more specifically European template?

     “Santa Marta isn’t in Europe,” I somewhat weakly protested, a little embarrassed to admit that I’d never really taken the trouble to consider such matters.

     But I would argue that your adventure there still constituted a very European kind of story.

“I suppose, when you put it like that…” murmured Michael, who looked every bit as deflated by this realisation as I did. After all, nobody likes to be told that what they had thought of as their great culturally-immersive trek into distant lands has in fact consisted of nothing more than a series of visits to a few well-worn tourist traps.

     You shouldn’t feel too badly about it. When it comes to the imagination everyone has to start somewhere and everyone carries a certain amount of cultural baggage that draws them towards particular concepts and ideas. And in some respects that works to your favour. Without that pull you would never have managed to pick up Sturridge’s trail. The landscape is just far too vast. Surely you can see that.

     “Hmm, I suppose,” I reluctantly conceded.

     On the other hand, the longer you spend in the imagination the more likely you are to find those cultural ties loosening. There’ll always be a pull towards certain stories and ideas but with each new adventure the cultural elastic stretches further. And now that you’ve spent a bit of time splashing around in the shallows, you’re probably better set to handle whatever comes next.

“Splashing around in the shallows? Is that what you think we’ve been doing?” said Michael, raising one mildly offended eyebrow.

Imaginatively speaking, of course. But, as I say, it all stands you in good stead. The fact that you’ve survived this far means you have at least some chance of coping when the real adventures start.

“The real adventures?” I repeated.

But, oddly enough, Bob didn’t seem to pick up on either the alarm in my tone or the frankly terrified expressions that had now settled on both mine and Michael’s faces. He seemed to be under the impression that his words had been entirely reassuring.

     Well, on the whole I think it’s rather a good thing we found the time to have this little chat, don’t you? It’s always easier to face the future with a firmer grasp of what one’s up against, wouldn’t you say?

     Michael and I shared a look. There was a lengthy silence.

     Now then, how about that game of eye-spy?

The End… For now…

Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape will return!