by W E Johns
The afternoon wore on, with the sun, a searing ball of fire, sinking all too slowly in the west. They had not the remotest idea of where they were, or even if they were walking round and round in the same area. It was all alike. Rock and sand. Never was there the slightest promise of the water they sought.
Late in the afternoon they thought they had come to a ruined town, and they ran forward eagerly, thinking that it could not have existed there without a water-supply. But it was only rocks, hundreds of tall, mushroom-shaped rocks, like a forest of gigantic toadstools; and more and more did Ginger appreciate the Tuareg description of the Region of Devils.
The heat in this petrified forest of fungi—as Biggles called it—was awful, but they stumbled on, wetting their lips at more and more frequent intervals from the fast-dwindling water-supply. It was that or madness. Already Ginger was walking through a dim yellow world in which ghostly figures marched beside him. Once he pulled up dead, convinced that in some mysterious way a line of camels had suddenly appeared: but they were only rocks, and he stumbled on, walking automatically. Presently flecks of vivid blue began to dance before his eyes. They merged until they became a quivering line, and he gave a shout, thinking that it was sunlight playing on water.
Biggles turned sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Can’t you see anything ahead?’ mumbled Ginger.
‘No,’ answered Biggles shortly. Then he laughed, a horrid cackling sound. ‘Only rocks,’ he said. ‘Rocks and sand.’
Ginger reeled on, knowing that he had been mistaken. He knew, too, that he was near the end of his endurance. Biggles realized it, and passed him the water-bottle.
Ginger shook it, and by the sound knew that it was nearly empty. He handed it back.
‘Drink it,’ ordered Biggles. ‘If you fall out we shall have to stay with you.’
Ginger allowed the precious drops—barely a mouthful—to trickle through his black, parched lips. He threw the bottle away.
Biggles picked it up and went on.
The sun sank behind the hills; at once the heat diminished and the relief brought a temporary respite. They came to a cliff. There seemed to be no way through it, and Biggles was about to turn when he saw a cave, a mere crack in the rock. ‘Let’s rest in there for a minute or two,’ he suggested. ‘It will be cooler.’
As they reached the fissure Kadar stopped suddenly, staring at the piled-up sand at the entrance. His eyes opened wide and an extraordinary expression crept over his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, and then stared again. With a quivering forefinger he pointed at the sand.
The others, leaning forward to look, saw a number of imprints on the sand such as a large bird might make, and while their weary brains were still trying to grasp the significance of the tracks Kadar uttered a hoarse cry and rushed into the fissure. Understanding at last, they followed. Just inside was an unbelievable pool of pale-green water.
In a moment they had all flung themselves down and buried their faces in the cool liquid.
Chapter 10
The Tombs of the Dead
After Ginger had drunk to repletion he smiled wanly and, looking about him, noted with some surprise that the silent pool was not, as he had imagined, a new discovery of their own. All around the edges of the limpid water lay signs of man’s intrusion, although there was no means of knowing whether they had been there for a month, a year, a century, or even more. Date-stones, a few gnawed bones, pieces of broken ostrich-shells, and a shattered spear-haft lay on the smooth hard sand, while in a corner—a gruesome sight—against the rock wall, in a semi-reclining position, reposed a skeleton.
‘That’s better,’ observed Biggles, sitting back. ‘We found this place just about in time. Queer sort of place to find water, isn’t it, Kadar?’
‘No. In the desert you sometimes find water in the most surprising places. This sort of formation is not uncommon. These pools are known to all who dwell in the desert, and have been known for countless generations. This one may have been here for thousands of years.’
‘But where does the water come from?’ asked Ginger.
‘Condensation on the hill above at certain times of the year. The moisture condenses on the rock, collects in pockets and cavities, and seeps down through the heart of the mountain—which is why it is so cool—until it arrives in an impervious basin such as this, where, since it can get no farther, it must stay.’
Nothing more was said for a minute or two. The weary travellers were content to rest in the refreshing shade. The dim, unearthly green light that diffused the fissure was a pleasant change after the glare outside. Soliloquizing, Biggles realized that men had probably rested there in the same way for countless generations, perhaps since the birth of time. At last, seeing that the dusk was gathering in the gully, he rose to his feet.
‘We must try to get back to Algy,’ he said, ‘although how that is to be done is more than I can imagine. Having found water, and knowing what it is like to be without it, I am loath to leave it, but we cannot exist on water alone. We need food. Still, we have learned our lesson. When we leave here we will blaze a trail, either in the sand, or by marking the rocks, so that we can find our way back again.’
‘I think it would be better to wait here for a little while longer,’ suggested Kadar. ‘We shall travel more easily by moonlight.’
‘I think you’re right,’ admitted Biggles.
So they sat down again and waited until the moon was flooding the gully with its cool light; then they moved towards the entrance. Reaching it, Biggles was about to step forward when he hesitated, peering at the ground a short distance beyond the mouth of the cave. Then he took a pace outside and looked up.
‘That’s funny,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘What is causing that shadow to move?’
‘What shadow?’ asked Ginger.
‘That one.’ Biggles pointed to a wide area, reaching for some distance back, where the ground was darker than elsewhere. A stain seemed to be converging slowly on the fissure, and as they stood staring a slight sound became audible. It was a faint rustling, like the autumn wind among dead leaves.
‘What the dickens is it?’ asked Biggles again in a perplexed voice, and with just a hint of alarm. ‘It seems to be alive.’ His voice trailed away.
Kadar stepped forward, peering at the edge of the moving shadow. Suddenly, as if he had been thrust violently, he stumbled backward.
‘They are scorpions!’ His voice was hoarse with unutterable horror and loathing.
‘Scorpions!’ Biggles echoed the word incredulously.
‘Yes. Thousands of them. Millions of them. I didn’t know that scorpions drank water, but that must be why they are coming here—unless it is for us.’
‘Good heavens! Let’s get out of this!’ cried Ginger, his voice rising to a high crescendo.
‘Yes, but where can we go?’ asked Biggles desperately. ‘We can’t get through that lot. One scorpion sting is bad enough, without—’ He dashed out and looked up the face of the cliff.
‘There’s no escape that way,’ he muttered, hurrying back to the others at the entrance to the cave.
For a moment they stared at the slowly approaching shadow of death— for a single scorpion sting can be fatal— the leading edge of which was now not more than half a dozen paces away. Unnoticed, a few of the poisonous creatures were in advance of the rest, and Biggles jumped aside only just in time to prevent one from climbing on to his shoe. He brought his heel down viciously on the crawling horror. ‘No, you don’t, you brute,’ he muttered, and backed away hurriedly to the rear of the cave, where he struck a match from the box which he carried in his pocket. ‘Thank goodness!’ he said in tones of heartfelt relief. ‘There’s a way through here; we’d better see how far it goes.’
The others had joined him, and now stood staring rather apprehensively at a narrow black aperture in the farthest recess of the fissure.
‘Don’t for heaven’s sake let us get lost in here. That
would be worse than being lost outside,’ said Ginger anxiously.
‘I’d rather be lost than eaten— anyway, by scorpions,’ declared Biggles. ‘I’m not staying here.’ He took his note book from his pocket, and tearing out several leaves, rolled them into the form of spills. Lighting one of them with a match, he started off along the cave with the others following close behind.
He had not gone very far when the spill was knocked out of his hand, being, of course, extinguished. But before it went out he had a fleeting impression of a dark shape bearing down on it.
‘What the deuce was that?’ he cried, fumbling hastily for another match. In the momentary silence that followed his words, a curious, leathery, fluttering sound could be heard; it was not unlike running water in the distance.
‘Bats!’ said Kadar.
At that moment something hit Ginger a hard blow in the face; instinctively he struck at it, but only succeeded in barking his knuckles against the wall of the cave.
Another match flared up, disclosing a host of dim shapes passing in a steady stream down the natural corridor over their heads towards the exit. One detached itself from the rest and made a dart at the match, but Biggles was ready, and he dashed it violently against the wall with a lightning sweep of his hand. It hit the rock with a thud and fell to the ground, where it lay fluttering. An unpleasant fetid smell became noticeable, but no one commented on it.
Biggles lighted another spill and went on. ‘While there’s only a single corridor we can’t very well lose our way, at all events,’ he exclaimed hopefully. ‘There may be another way out somewhere. Let’s keep going. Never mind these stinking bats. First, scorpions, now bats— my word! The Tuareg knew what they were talking about when they named this place the Region of Devils.’
The sandy floor now began to rise under their feet, but they went on, sometimes striking at the bats when they came too close to be comfortable, and keeping a good look out on either side for turnings. In this way they travelled for a considerable distance, and then, with surprising suddenness, the bats all disappeared. Kadar ventured an opinion— that was probably right— that as bats feed at night they had all gone out. Anyway, they had certainly disappeared, and presently Biggles called a halt.
‘I don’t think we need fear the scorpions any longer,’ he said, ‘so the only point in going farther seems to be the hope of finding another exit— not that we shall need one if the scorpions are considerate enough to retire to wherever they came from when it gets light. By the way, we had better be careful about picking up stones, or we may get stung; if I remember rightly, that is where they like to sit. There is one thing about going on, though: as it is dark outside we might pass an exit without seeing it, so it would perhaps be a better plan to stay where we are until it gets light.’
Everyone was tired, but nobody felt particularly like resting. They did, in fact, sit down on the sand for a time, but they soon found that in their precarious condition sleep was out of the question, so they abandoned all thought of it.
‘We’ve been going uphill ever since we left the pool,’ observed Biggles thoughtfully, ‘so if we do happen to strike an opening it should be on fairly high ground, from where we ought to get a view of the surrounding country. We might possibly be high enough to spot the machine. Poor old Algy will be in a state by this time, I expect, but we can’t do anything about it.’
After that another silence fell, in which Biggles passed the time usefully by folding a bunch of spills, using nearly all the pages of his note-book for the purpose. Several matches still remained in his box, and as Ginger had a petrol-lighter, there seemed to be no reason why they should run out of illumination.
‘We’ve been to some queer places in our time, but I doubt if we ever passed a night in a stranger place than this— the middle of a mountain in an unexplored desert,’ said Ginger, after a long interval.
‘It will be a long time, I hope, before I pass another night in it, anyway,’ replied Biggles. ‘This silence gives me the jitters; it’s like being in a tomb.’
Ginger shivered. ‘That’s a cheerful remark to make, I must say,’ he returned indignantly. ‘You’re too near the mark to be pleasant, and I shall feel happier when I’m out of it. I’m ready to push on a bit farther if everyone else is.’
Everyone appeared to be more than willing, so they stood up and prepared to move on. Biggles struck a match, lighted a spill, and they started off, but they had not travelled very far when Biggles, who was leading, gave a sharp exclamation.
‘There’s something ahead,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite make out what it is, but the cave seems to open out considerably into a sort of hall.’
A few more paces revealed that that was indeed the case, and they all stopped, staring about them in wonderment, not that they could see very much in the dim light of the flare. All they could perceive was that they were in a lofty chamber, almost like a church, the extremities of which were lost in gloom. Biggles took several new spills, opened them fanwise between his fingers, lighted them from the one already alight, and held them aloft. His eyes first went to the ceiling; then they travelled slowly down the walls.
‘For a natural formation, this place seems to be extraordinarily free from stalactites and things,’ he murmured. ‘What the—’
There was a short silence in which they all stared at the lower part of the walls, which appeared to be hollowed out in the form of a honeycomb. In other words, they seemed to consist of a great number of small cavities, or compartments. And that was not all. There was something in each compartment.
Kadar solved the problem. ‘You said just now that this place was like a tomb,’ he said, instinctively dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘That’s exactly what it is. I have seen a place something like this before. We are in the tombs of the dead.’
Ginger experienced that unpleasant creepy feeling at the top of the spine sometimes described as the hair standing on end. ‘Crumbs!’ he muttered in a thin voice. ‘Let’s hop it.’
Biggles lighted some more spills to replace those that were nearly exhausted. ‘That looks like one of the bodies fallen out,’ he said, pointing to a huddled form on the floor. ‘Perhaps the poor blighter was buried alive.’
Kadar, his archaeological instinct aroused, stepped eagerly towards it, but he had not taken more than two or three steps when, to the consternation of everybody, the figure suddenly sat bolt upright. The skin over its eyes rolled back, exposing the whites, and for a fleeting instant the yellow light of the flares played on a wrinkled, leathery face, a hairless head, and a thin, scraggy neck. Then, with a wild screech, the figure leapt to its feet and bounded across the floor. What became of it no one saw, for at the screech Ginger had let out a yell of horror; Kadar leapt back as though shot out of a catapult, and coming into violent contact with Biggles knocked him over, with the result that the place was plunged into darkness.
To Ginger it was a moment of supreme horror, a ghastly nightmare from which he could not awake. He could hear Biggles muttering as he groped for his matches, but the sound was almost drowned by a terrified whimpering sound which he presently identified as coming from Kadar. Then a match flared up, revealing Biggles just scrambling to his feet, and Kadar with his arms folded over his face.
‘Come on, let’s get out of this perishing place,’ muttered Biggles. ‘I don’t believe in spooks, but if this place isn’t haunted I’ll eat my helmet.’
The others picked themselves up, and, while they stood collecting their scattered wits, the silence was again broken, this time by a peculiar whispering sound that seemed to come from the far end of the chamber. Hardly had it died away when there was a queer swishing noise that increased rapidly in volume, and, a moment later, from the narrow cave from which the airmen had emerged burst a black torrent of bats.
For a moment Biggles stared at them uncomprehendingly, never dreaming of danger from that direction; but as one deliberately swooped at him, and another attached itself to the side of his face with its
teeth and claws, he understood. He tore the repulsive creature from his face and hurled it to the ground; then, turning, he raced for the far end of the hall, shouting to the others to follow him.
They needed no second invitation, and they all bolted incontinently, to discover that the chamber diminished rapidly to a small tunnel, at the entrance of which they arrived just in time to see the mummified figure bounding along it on all fours.
‘Keep going!’ yelled Biggles, and, whirling round, fired two shots from his pistol into the thick of the bats that were following him. Then, lighting matches as he went, he hurried after the others, who were stumbling along by the feeble light of Ginger’s petrol-lighter.
The noise made by the bats as they poured into the tunnel was incredible, and certainly alarming, and Biggles was wondering feverishly what he could do to stem the attack when a narrow slit of crimson light appeared ahead. For a second he could not imagine what it could be, but then he realized with joy that it was the dawn, and that the passage must end there. Which, in fact, it did, and the fugitives dashed out at a speed that nearly cost them their lives; for the passage terminated in the side of the hill, which, while not exactly a precipice, was too steep for safe negotiation at the pace they were travelling.
Kadar, who was in front, saw the danger first and let out a warning cry, and in a moment they were all slipping and sliding on the hillside, grabbing wildly at anything their clutching fingers could find to check their precipitate descent. With bruised hands and torn finger-nails, they finally managed to pull themselves up, only to sit and stare in amazement at the sight that met their eyes.
‘The Tuareg are right,’ announced Biggles with absolute conviction. ‘This is, without doubt, the Kingdom of Devils.’
