Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (22 page)

 
          
“I
feel sorry for the poor bear,” said Gonda.

 
          
So
did Thunstone, whose many adventures had never included the hunting and killing
of a bear. He had in his time known bear hunters who had assured him that bear
meat was delicious, tender, could even be smoked into savory ham or bacon. In
any case, killing bears in the Stone Age winter would be desirable, necessary.
Then, as in this century, hunger was the silent enemy in the cold months.

 
          
“And
that's what winter was like,” said Thunstone, gazing at the picture. “Down here
in the snowy foreground, again we have our row of little hands—enough, 1
imagine
, to make ninety fingers in all.
Yes,
and a couple of points more than that.”

 
          
“You
see things well, Mr. Thunstone,” said Ensley. “These four seasonal impressions
denote the progress of a year, and to count all the points gives us the number
of days in a year. Stone Age people were able to compute such matters, do you
agree, then? Some thousands of years after these pictures, others built
Stonehenge
, which accurately indicates the progress of
the year, which notices the phases of the moon, which foretells eclipses. Our
ancestors were not savages. They were, in their way, scientists.”

 
          
“And
you've never allowed anyone to see these wonders,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“I've
brought Gonda down here to look, to copy. And now I've brought you.”

 
          
“I
hope you'll let me bring my friends Spayte and Vickery when they come tomorrow.”

 
          
“Tomorrow,”
echoed Ensley, almost dreamily. “Who knows what tomorrow will be like? But
today, there is more to show you in this cavern.”

 
          
“More?”
said Gonda, standing back beside Hob Sayle.

 
          
“I’ve
never taken you past this point, my dear, but we'll go have a look now, all of
us.”

 
          
He
moved along, lantern in hand. He stopped again. “Look,” he said. “Look at
what's here.”

 
          
Hob
Sayle had brought his own lantern close. The two lights revealed a long, high
stretch of pale gray rock, patterned all over in a strange fashion.

           
“What is it?” Thunstone asked.

 
          
“What
would you guess?” asked Ensley in turn.

 
          
Thunstone
put his hand to the rock. “Here’s a sort of tally,” he said. “Here we have a
row of marks, one above the other, cut into the rock.”

 
          
He
moved his big forefinger along.

 
          
“Ten
of them
here,
like the ten painted marks in that Welsh
cave we were talking about. And an upright line running through
them,
and right next another arrangement of ten, and more
beyond that, and below and above.
Groups of ten and ten and
ten.”
He looked at Ensley.
“A tally of some sort.
A record.”

 
          
Ensley
smiled and nodded.
“As you say, a tally, a record.
Of
what, would you guess?”

 
          
“All
I can do is guess, but it’s a big record.” Thunstone looked at the long, high
spread of markings. He put his hand up to the topmost groupings. It was as high
as a tall man could reach, and perhaps twenty feet long, perhaps more.

 
          
“There
are thousands of markings, all in tens,” he said.

 
          
“And
if you look, you’ll see the tens grouped in hundreds,” said Ensley.
“And the hundreds in thousands.”

 
          
“Could
there be ten thousand of them?” asked Thunstone. “Is this a record of your ten
thousand years?”

 
          
“Not
quite,” said Ensley. “To be exact, nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,
if you care to count. A single tally mark more here,” and, stooping, he touched
one string of notches at the bottom of the far end of the display, “will make
it exactly ten thousand.” He straightened and faced them. “Ten thousand years,
Gonda. Ten thousand years, Mr. Thunstone. The last thirty years or so, I myself
have notched into the record, with a modern hammer and chisel.”

 
          
He
pointed his finger. At the base of the great arrangement of notches lay a
short-handled hammer and a cold chisel, dull gray in his lantern light.

 
          
“Ready
to supply the last notch, ready to make up the even ten thousand," said
Ensley. “Again, do you care to count and make sure?"

           
“I’ll take your word for it,"
said Thunstone, and Gonda nodded agreement in the halo of light cast by Hob
Sayle’s lantern. “But maybe you’ll explain now the full significance of these
ten thousand years."

 
          
“Those
marks record the length of a sleep, a very, very long sleep.
The
sleep of Gram."

 
          
“Gram?"
Gonda cried. “But you are Gram."

 
          
“Only
a namesake,” said Ensley, with an air of patient explanation. “Didn’t I speak
of the god Gram at dinner? To be sure I did.
Very well.
Gram lives but he sleeps. These marks record the passage of the years of his
slumber. Do you see now?"

 
          
Thunstone
stood silent. Ensley faced toward him.

 
          
“I
persist in feeling that you find my statements hard to believe, Mr. Thunstone.”

 
          
He
waited. Thunstone did not speak.

 
          
“I
see," said Ensley gently. “I see. You’re too polite to say that you find
all this extravagant.
Perhaps, if I showed you where Gram
sleeps away his hundred centuries?”

 
          
“I’d
be interested in seeing such a place," said Thunstone.

 
          
“We’re
on our way there. The passage makes another bend, here ahead. Just follow me
along."

 
          
As
before, he led the way and Sayle brought up the rear. Beyond the turn, just
past that sea of markings, the rocks on either side were closer in, making the
way narrow.

 
          
“Bring
your lantern up front, Hob," ordered Ensley. “Now, what do we find?"

 
          
The
way ahead narrowed again, sharply. It seemed to be closed by an arrangement of
broad squares, the size of books. The borders of the squares were heavy bars of
rusted iron. It was like a cell front in a prison.

 
          
“Gram
sleeps there," said Ensley. “Come close. Don’t be afraid; he won’t stir
for any noise you make just now."

 
          
They
were all at the grid of bars. “Hold up your lantern, Hob, and keep it
high," directed Ensley.

 
          
He
set his own lantern down on the rocky floor and fumbled at something on the
grid. A harsh grating resounded, as of a lock opening. Ensley caught the barred
door and dragged it toward him and against the side of the cavern.

 
          
“Now,”
he said, “look in and see what you see.”

           
It was a rough-walled cavern, more
or less the size of the room Mrs. Fothergill used for office and parlor. At the
rear, hard to see in the gloom of the place, rose what looked like a great dark
boulder as big as a small car, shaped like a huge loaf of burnt bread.

 
          
“There
are candles inside,” Ensley was saying.
“One on that little
shelf next the big case there, where Gram is at rest.
Go and light it
for us, Gonda.”

 
          
He
took her by the elbow and urged her forward. She took several hesitant steps
past the door.

 
          
“I
can see the candle,” she said, “but I haven't a match.”

           
“Here,” said Thunstone, following her
in and holding out his matchbox.

 
          
Behind
him rose a whine of rusty hinges.
Next moment, the scrape of
the lock again.

 
          
Thunstone
whirled around and lunged at the bars. They creaked and sang at the impact of
his big body, but they did not yield. They had been locked in place. On the far
side of them, Ensley had drawn a couple of paces away. His bright electric
lantern gleamed in his left hand. In his right he held a key nearly the size of
a hairbrush.

 
          
“You
can’t get out,” he said. “Neither you nor Gonda. Those bars were put up in
Queen
Victoria
’s time, but they will hold.”

 
          
“Unlock
this damned door!” shouted Thunstone.

 
          
“No,
that would spoil everything. There are excellent reasons for you two to stay
where you are.”

 
          
“Well,
I’m not staying here.” Thunstone seized the thick bars in his hand and shook
the door so that it grated on its hinges. “There’s such a thing as law in this
country, and you’re breaking it by locking us up.”

 
          
“What
the law will be in this country, after
midnight
tonight, is an interesting conjecture,”
said Ensley mildly. “Shall I explain?”

 
          
“Do,”
said Thunstone, and again strained at the bars.

 
          
Behind
him he heard Gonda make a noise, a sort of strangled swallow. Out in the
corridor, Hob Sayle held his lantern well to the rear of Ensley.

 
          
“Suppose
we go back to how things were here, those ten thousand years ago,” began
Ensley. “Almost exactly ten thousand years ago, within short hours. There were
only these caves here then, and they were the
temple
of
Gram
.”

 
          
“He
was worshipped,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“Yes,
he was worshipped indeed. The hunting community that lived here—in fairly snug
huts and roofed-over hollows scattered over this part of what has become
Claines—worshipped him. He was helpful to his worshippers. Showed where good
game was—deer, cattle, wild geese.
Showed where to spear fish
in pools and streams.
When other tribes made war, Gram helped his
worshippers win. Yes, he was worshipped. Those old, old paintings you have seen
were painted to his honor and glory. And he accepted sacrifices made in
gratitude/' Ensley paused, as though to time his next words to sink in. “Human
sacrifices," he said then.

 
          
“What
kind of human sacrifices?" asked
Thunstone.
“Prisoners of war?"

 
          
“Oh, no.
Prisoners were never taken in war in those days.
The sacrifices were people of the tribe, special people.
People
who could dream dreams, see visions."
Again a pause.
“People like you, Mr. Thunstone, and Gonda, too."

 
          
Again
Gonda made a wretched sound in her throat. She seemed to try to speak, and to
fail at it.

 
          
“Was
Gram visible?" Thunstone asked, close against the bars. “What was he like,
if people saw him? Like you, the Gram of today?"

 
          
“Nothing
so
matter-of-fact as that. He was a god, you see. He
was very tall and broad, twice the size of a mortal man.
Shaggy
with hair, like a beast, but not a beast.
On his
head—horns, the branched horns of a stag.
An
impressive figure."

 
          
“You
talk as though you've seen him."

 
          
“I
have. I can look backward through time. Ten thousand years ago, I'd have been a
logical sacrifice to Gram."

 
          
“You're
descended from him," said Thunstone, as though making a charge.

 
          
“If
that’s true, I can hardly assemble a genealogy when there are no written
records anywhere." Ensley seemed almost to be chatting, as though they
were sitting together upstairs with glasses of brandy. “But back then, ten
thousand years ago—”

 
          
“You've
assured yourself that I've been there," broke in Thunstone.

 
          
“Simply by observing you, listening to you, putting quite a column
of twos and twos together.
Gonda has been back in that time, too.
And I with her."

 
          
“I
didn't notice you there."

 
          
"But
I noticed you. I saw you kill two men, two highly respected community members.
That act should logically forfeit your own life, Mr. Thunstone. Well, then, all
three of us have the gift of seeing back in time, adventuring back in time.
That's why I speak to the point now."

 
          
Gonda
had come to Thunstone’s side. She, too, held the bars with her slim hands.
"Gram," she said, "you can’t leave us penned up here."

 
          
"I
fear that I must," he replied gently. "This is the end of
that
ten thousand years we keep talking about.
At
midnight
, the end."

 
          
"You’re
crazy," Thunstone said.

 
          
"Don’t
use that word to me," Ensley snapped. "You wanted me to tell you. Be
still and I’ll do so."

 
          
Thunstone
said no more, nor did Gonda. Ensley cleared his throat and began to speak
again.

 
          
"Gram
looked
after his own
. In those Stone Age days, he
provided that the hunters found
meat, that
the women
could gather fruits and berries and nuts and seeds; saw that there was wood for
fires in the cold seasons. That no conquering enemy should conquer here. And
then, Gram grew weary. He said that he would sleep for ten thousand
years."

 
          
"There
you go again," said Thunstone, wishing that his arm was long enough for a
grab at the lapel of Ensley’s beautifully cut coat.
"Ten
thousand years again."

 
          
"Once
more in all patience I ask, let me explain," said Ensley. "Gram had
prospered his people, had savored the grateful sacrifices they had made, until
a certain time was accomplished. What the time was, or why it had to end, I
can’t fully explain, but Gram lay down to sleep. He said he would sleep for ten
thousand years. A count must be kept, and you have seen that it has been kept.
Each year, the stone image made of him by the priests of the tribe must be turned
over, so that he could rest easily."

 
          
"The
Dream Rock," said Thunstone.

 
          
"Yes.
And at the end of the ten thousand years he would wake up to new deeds.
New powers.
The world would be his world again."

 
          
"
Which means now
”

           
"Yes, now.
Tomorrow,
in the first moments of morning after
midnight
, when the Dream Rock is
turned.”

 
          
"And
you believe all this?” said Thunstone.

 
          
"I
believe. Don't you?”

 
          
"What
will the world change into?”

 
          
"Wouldn't
some sort of change be good?” Ensley flung back.

           
"Change back to ten thousand
years ago?” Thunstone challenged.

           
"Might that not
be
a good change?” said Ensley. "Something other than
this modern civilized world, this desperate, insane world, that teeters on the
edge of destroying itself? The world of Gram and his people again, that
survived and improved and prevailed.”

           
Thunstone made no reply to that.
Ensley chuckled,
then
went on: "When the Dream
Rock is turned over there,” he said, "Gram will waken and rise from where
he sleeps. Rise and find you two here, you and Gonda.”

           
"What have I done to you?”
Gonda whimpered. "Why do you trick me in here and shut me up?”

           
"I've explained that, Gonda,”
said Ensley, with an air of gentle patience. "Gram will want you both when
he wakens.
Thunstone for food, logically.
You—maybe for love.”

 
          
She
began to cry.

 
          
"Ensley,”
said Thunstone, "you'll wind up paying with your life for this.”

           
"Many will wind up paying for
this with their lives,” said Ensley. "The world has changed so greatly
since Gram went to sleep. Think how it will change when he rises up.”

 
          
"How?”
growled Thunstone.

 
          
"Wait
and see.”

 
          
Thunstone's
hand quested to the lock. It was of massive iron, set solidly into the barred
door, with a keyhole big enough to admit his forefinger. Thunstone dragged at
the lock. It did not even budge in its place.

 
          
"You're
a very strong man, but you’ll never force that,” said Ensley. "Hob and I
saw to it and the hinges too, not long ago. You can't get out without this.” He
held up the key triumphantly. “You’ll be there when Gram wakes.”

 
          
He
began to back away along the corridor, with Hob Sayle.

 
          
“I’ll
get out, all right,” promised Thunstone grimly.

 
          
“Hob
will be on guard hereabouts at all times,” returned Ensley. “Later in the
evening, he’ll bring you something to eat and drink. But don’t try to grapple
him through the bars. He won’t have the key, won’t be able to open the door.”

 
          
The
two backed away farther.

 
          
“You
have hours as yet,” Ensley called. “Why not tell each other the stories of your
lives?”

 
          
The
lantern looked dim by then.

 
          
“Quick,
let’s light the candle,” said Thunstone to Gonda. “Where did I drop those
matches?”

 
          
Stooping,
he groped along the rocky floor and found the box. He struck a match and held
it to the wick of a candle as thick as his wrist, stuck in its own wax to a
projection of the wall. The flame rose, clear and lean and lemon yellow, like
the petal of a flower. It gave them a soft radiance.

 
          
Gonda
had sat down on a lower shelf of rock against the wall. She seemed to crouch
there, to cower. She lifted her face. It looked ghostly.

 
          
“And
now what?” she asked in a dead voice. “How are we to get out of here?”

 
          
“We’ll
see,” said Thunstone. “Someone or other said that if you get into a place, you
can get out. We’ll see.”

 
          
He
turned this way and that, making a study of their prison in the gentle light.

 
          
At
the rear of it, opposite the barred door, was a hollowed niche and within that
the dark boulder. That stone seemed to be a dozen feet long and six feet
high,
and it almost filled the recess.
Coming
closer to see his best, Thunstone saw that on top of it lay a separate slab of
rock, like a lid.
He put both hands to that, and heaved. It seemed to
stir. He took his hands away and put his ear to the lower mass.