The Lotus Caves

by John Christopher

  “It hardly seems worth it. We might as well get into the habit of sleeping during the dark times. He does.”

  Marty said: “He went out like a light, didn’t he? With the light. Except that he looked as though he were beginning to go off even before the light started dimming.”

  Steve said: “I suppose you become conditioned after seventy years. And more sensitive to the light as well. He’s probably aware of it dimming before we are.”

  It still seemed odd to Marty. Steve, though, switched back to the subject he had been on earlier: the possibility of swimming in the lake. Was it really possible that the Plant could make a special swimming place, and grow a tree one could dive from? It seemed incredible, but in view of everything else . . .

  They talked about this and the caves for some time before sleep claimed them. Once again it was Steve who fell asleep first.

  9

  The Worshiper

  MARTY WAS AWAKENED BY A HAND that shook his shoulder. He mumbled: “What’s the matter, Steve?” and then, coming awake, saw that Thurgood was the shaker. It was light again. Steve was standing just beyond Thurgood, who now said: “The Plant wants to see you.”

  “How did it send the message,” Marty asked, “—by flying-leaf mail?”

  Thurgood did not bother to reply. He started down toward the lake and the boys, after an exchange of shrugs, followed him.

  It floated just touching the grassy bank that formed the shore of the lake. It was about six feet square, and seemed to consist of overlapping flat green pads. They stood and looked at it. Thurgood said: “Climb aboard.”

  His voice was not exactly impatient but not quite so unconcerned and lackadaisical as usual. Marty said: “Is it a raft? It won’t bear us, surely.”

  “It will bear you,” Thurgood said.

  He put his own foot out and depressed the near edge, which was raised several inches above the surface of the water. It dipped a little, but not much. Steve stepped out on it and his weight scarcely seemed to depress it at all. Marty followed.

  He said: “I wonder what gives it buoyancy?” He bent down and probed between the surface leaves. “I think this lower part has pods, like seaweed.”

  “We’re moving,” Steve said. “But how?”

  Marty looked and saw the shore receding from them. Thurgood stood watching them. Marty called: “Aren’t you coming?”

  Thurgood shook his head without answering. The gap between plant-raft and shore was widening fairly rapidly. Old fears came back. A raft that moved of its own volition, taking them somewhere but they did not know where . . . there was a feeling of helplessness, of being in the power of something utterly strange.

  Steve said: “A current, do you think?” He knelt and put a hand in the water. “It seems absolutely still.”

  They tried to work out the mechanism of the raft’s motion but got nowhere. It was at least comforting to talk in objective terms, as a means of forgetting the strangeness of the journey. The lawn and the orchard fell farther behind, and it was possible to see that the cave and the lake did bend, that each extended to the right. Marty said suddenly: “We don’t have to do any of this. Just because Thurgood told us.”

  “It’s a bit late now to think about refusing.”

  “We could dive off,” Marty argued, “and swim back. The water’s not cold and Thurgood swims in the lake, or used to.”

  Steve said doubtfully: “I suppose we could. But do you think it’s wise to antagonize the Plant, whatever it is?”

  It was a point which was valid but which Marty did not enjoy contemplating. They were in its grasp, subject to whatever incalculable whims it might have. There might be some way of fighting it, of killing it even and finding a way out, but until they knew more about its nature and its capabilities, defiance would be both rash and foolish.

  Steve said: “The light’s different over there. Brighter. Do you see?”

  It was reflected on the water and the cave wall from a source still hidden by the bend. As the raft took them around, it increased in strength. They cleared the last part of the curve, and saw it: a column of golden light that hung down from the cave roof. No, that was wrong. It did not descend, but rose. At the bottom there was an island, and the light came up from that, a honey-colored searchlight so bright that it almost seemed solid.

  The boys were silent. Was it hot, Marty wondered? It looked as though it might be—a pillar of fire which could sear and scorch the flesh. Perhaps this was a trap and Thurgood had deliberately led them into it. Perhaps he was not even Thurgood at all, but a phantasm produced by the eerie, incalculable being which lived here. Their raft and they might drift on, to a fiery death—in the burning maw, maybe, of the ruler of the caves.

  He wondered if he should not even now dive into the water and swim away, but even as he thought of this his fear left him. The column of light was still more dazzling as they approached it but no longer terrifying. He was puzzled by that. It was not because of a change in anything he could see. The difference was deep down in his mind, a sense of peace and assurance. If it were a furnace they were drifting toward, it would not hurt him. He was sure of it.

  The island was clearly visible, less than thirty feet distant. Its shore scarcely rose above the water’s level, but all around it was surrounded by huge fronds, of more than a man’s height, which swayed in a gentle continuous motion. They were deep red in color, so deep as to be nearly black. The light which formed the column was contained by them, and here and there spilled through in spears of brightness.

  The raft touched land and automatically, not thinking what they were doing, the boys stepped on shore.

  The peace and assurance were still in Marty’s mind, but there was something else as well: a deep sense of awe. It was the sort of feeling he had had at times in seeing the lunar dawn flare between the eastern mountain peaks; in looking at the full misty globe of Earth or at the scattered diamond dust, spreading across the ebony velvet of space, which was the suns of the Milky Way, uncountable in number, unfathomably remote. He remembered that at one time he had had a vague idea that if they could get to the heart of the Plant it might be possible to kill it. He did not know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the notion. As if this radiance could be harmed . . . as if anyone could ever wish to harm it. Then the fronds opened in front of them, and he could see the full glory.

  He had to turn his head away, it was so bright. But his eyes came back, irresistibly drawn, and gradually he found that he could tolerate it, and make something of the shape before him. It pulsed in a rhythm, like a heart beating, but all the time emitting the golden light in which they were both now bathed. A sort of hemisphere, rising out of a surface dark red like the fronds, a small breathing sun embedded in crimson cloth.

  And yet, although he was looking at it, in a strange way he was part of it, and it of him. The radiance reached through his eyes deep into his mind. There it formed thoughts and words, which he could hear though he knew his ears played no part in the hearing.

  “Welcome,” the thoughts said. “Be at peace.”

  “We are,” Steve said beside him.

  He heard that through his ears; Steve had spoken aloud.

  The Plant said: “We summoned you here to learn how you came to Us.”

  It was funny how there was the impression of real words, of an actual voice, resonant and majestic. The remark itself was more a statement than a request, assuming compliance. Somewhere inside his consciousness, Marty felt a flicker of uncertainty, a hint of refusal. This was alien, and one should be wary. It only lasted a fraction of an instant before being submerged in a new wave of conviction that there was nothing to fear or resent or mistrust. The Plant knew what was best for them and only sought to do them good. He was ready to do anything the Plant wanted, tell it anything it required to know.

  But Steve was already telling the story—of their jo
urney through the foothills to First Station, the finding of Thurgood’s journal, the search for the impossible Flower and so at last the crash of their crawler through the roof of the topmost cave.

  The Plant said: “Do others of your kind know of this?”

  Presumably it meant had they sent a radio message back because Steve had said there were only the two of them. Steve took the same meaning, and said: “No. We weren’t in touch because they would have hauled us back. We weren’t supposed to take the crawler out.”

  The Plant would know of radio from Thurgood, of course. Thurgood would have told it about First Station, the tiny experimental outpost which, in those early days, was not expected to survive. The anti-technology riots would have been raging about the time Thurgood was lost.

  “The Bubble,” the Plant said. “Tell Us of that.”

  Steve did the telling, outlining the present size and scope of the colony, describing the mines and the observatory. Marty listened, in a happy state of relaxation. He wondered vaguely why, since it could put thoughts as verbal messages directly into their minds, the Plant did not take information from them the same way. It was probably because human thoughts were too diffuse and confused to make sense except when one consciously put them into speech. The human mind was so weak and puny altogether, compared with the wisdom of the Plant.

  Steve had finished. There was a pause before the thought-words came again.

  “We will care for you. Your happiness will be part of Our harmony. With Us all things are in harmony. Name your desires, and We will grant them.”

  Marty said: “Can you help us to get home?”

  “That is impossible.”

  “We only need to get the crawler outside, and we’ll be all right. I’m pretty sure it’s undamaged. Even if there is anything wrong, we could radio for help from the Bubble once we’re in the open.”

  The answer was not so much a verbal statement as a sense of finality and negation. Marty still argued: “You can make trees grow anywhere you like. You could grow one under the crawler, lifting it up. And there is that hole in the roof of the cave which opens up for the Flower to go out. You could push the crawler through, with us inside.”

  “Impossible.”

  “But I don’t see . . .”

  He could feel that the presence in both their minds had somehow turned from him and toward Steve. The thought-voice said: “Name your desires.”

  Steve said: “Mr. Thurgood said that at one time there was a swimming place in the lake, with a tree to dive from. I was wondering . . .”

  “It will be granted.”

  Negation was replaced by benevolence and assurance. It was wonderful to feel so safe, so completely protected.

  The Plant said: “Be at peace in Our presence. Enjoy yourselves, nourish yourselves, in Us. We seek your happiness. For now, you may leave Us. We will summon you again at another time.”

  • • •

  The plant-raft bobbed by the shore of the island, and moved away as soon as they were aboard. The tall fronds closed, and all that was left of the brilliance were the small lances that shone through and the column of golden light lifting to the ceiling and reflecting from it.

  Marty felt confused. In his mind there was an afterglow of the protecting warmth which he had known in the presence of the Plant, but mixed now with doubts and queries. Trying to sort it out, he said to Steve: “When I asked it to get the crawler out for us and it said impossible, do you think it meant it couldn’t do it, or wouldn’t?”

  Steve asked: “Does it matter?”

  “I think so. It’s the difference between wanting to help us and not.”

  Steve said: “It could do it if it wanted to.”

  “Then it’s not as friendly as it seems.”

  “It has to protect itself,” Steve said. “If news were to get back to the Bubble . . . it has no way of protecting itself. The rock is no defense against explosives and rock drills.”

  “Why should it need protection? Who’s going to attack it?”

  “People.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Nor did the Antarctic whale.”

  “That was exterminated because it could be used as food.”

  “And don’t you think someone could work out a way of using the Plant as a food supply, too? Fresh fruit for the Bubble. And fruit that keeps you young for well over half a century. I can imagine a lot of people being interested in that. Two billion of them. They’d tear the caves to bits to get hold of it.”

  Marty was silent for a moment. He said: “We could promise not to say anything about it.”

  “And do you think it could trust us? Would you, in its place?”

  It was a good point. Marty said: “So we’re going to get no help from the Plant, as far as getting home’s concerned. In fact, it would probably try to stop us if we tried anything ourselves.”

  Steve said vaguely: “I suppose so.”

  “We’ve got to do something.”

  “There’s no hurry, though, is there? We have air, water, food—everything we need.”

  Marty supposed he was right about that. The urgency had gone. They no longer had to depend on a dwindling supply of canned food in the crawler. They were safe from starvation. Nor was it just safety. His mouth watered as he thought of the fruit in the orchard, and he realized he was hungry. Thurgood had bundled them onto the raft without giving them time to have breakfast.

  • • •

  Thurgood did not ask any questions about their interview with the Plant—did not even refer to it. But he did not talk much at all; normally only when questions were put to him. Even then he was not very communicative. After they had been up to the orchard, Marty found him lying on the grass by the lake, and asked him: “When you crashed through into the caves, was your crawler damaged much?”

  Thurgood remained silent, his eyes fixed on the glowing mossy ceiling. Marty repeated the question, and he finally said: “I don’t think so. It’s a long time ago.”

  That was true enough. Marty said: “Did you ever try to get out?”

  “Get out?”

  He seemed surprised. Marty said: “Out of the caves. To get back to First Station.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  It was said with a genuine lack of comprehension. Marty realized that he was so accustomed to the life here that he could not contemplate any other. He remembered reading in a book once about a man who had been kept a prisoner in a small cell for twenty years, and when after that they came to let him out had begged not to be released: in the end they had to take him out by force. In Thurgood’s case it was nearly four times twenty years, and instead of a cell it was a world of ease and plenty. Probably he had tried to get out at the beginning, but the idea was so unfamiliar now and unwelcome that he had forgotten ever doing so. In any case, they could not expect much help from him.

  Steve, who had gone farther along the lake shore, called Marty and he went to him. Steve said: “See that!”

  The shore was no longer featureless. A tree was growing out of the grass. It was like watching a speeded-up film: you could see it, slowly but unmistakably, budding, lifting, extending. It was already a couple of feet high. And there was more than that. Under the luminous water it was possible to see that something else was growing out from the shore in a long encircling arm.

  “It’s making the swimming place,” Steve said. “You coming in, Marty?”

  Steve pulled off his clothes and waded into the water and Marty followed him. It shelved quite rapidly, and within a few feet of the shore they could lower their bodies and swim. The water was warm and buoyant—probably loaded with salts. The arm, if it grew up to the surface, would form a circle about thirty feet across. There was no real point in that, of course, but Steve had asked for it, conditioned—as Thurgood would have been before him—to the idea of art
ificial barriers. He trod water, looking down, and fancied that a change might be taking place at the bottom, also. The light seemed brighter there than elsewhere.

  They swam for a time and then came out and lay on the grass, their bodies drying quite soon in the warm air. Thurgood had watched them for a while but had made no suggestion of joining them. He did not want to do anything, really, except eat and sleep and idle about. Marty felt a chill at the thought of becoming like that, but reminded himself how long the man had been here. They would find a means of escape long before there was any question of changing so: they must.

  He lay and racked his brain for ideas. There was a small rock drill as part of the crawler’s equipment: one might be able to attack the wall of the cave with that. But one might be driving into miles of solid rock—there was no way of knowing—and the Plant would be aware what was happening. Thurgood had said it was aware of everything that went on in the outer caves, and there was no reason to doubt that . . . Or what about somehow managing to hang on to the bud of the Flower just before it thrust out into space, so that one got carried out with it? That was even more pointless than the other. The Plant would just not lift the Flower with one of them grabbing it. In any case, merely to get outside was not enough. They must have the crawler or, at least, its radio.

  Eventually he gave up trying to think and let his mind drift. It was more pleasant lying and doing nothing—not even thinking very much—than he had imagined. Everything was on hand, after all: the orchard, the lake with its swimming place taking shape. He could see without moving that the tree was considerably larger than it had been. It was thickening as well as growing tall.

  Steve said: “I’ve been thinking.”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if we could get the Plant to grow trailing vines from the roof which we could swing on? Remember that jungle film on TV last year?”

  Marty said: “I don’t see why not. In one of those other caves there were plant things hanging from the roof.”