by Don Wilcox
“I don’t hear them yapping,” I said. “They don’t yap except when they’re about to go for you. Then they yelp like a flock of geese. I heard ’em one night and I kin tell you I rowed like a demon to git away Never let up till I got clean around past the Mad Hermit’s. Then a few days later I heard what happened.”
“Another skeleton?”
“Two of ’em.”
As we pushed on back around the promontory, I turned these weird notions over in my mind. “Strange no one’s taken the trouble to exterminate these pests,” I said, but the old fisherman shook his head. He was sure anyone who ventured into the cavern and glimpsed a pair of skeletons locked in each other’s arms would turn into yapper bait on the spot.
“Nobody but what has sinful thoughts sometimes,” he said, and he was so deadly in earnest that it was almost comical, “and I’m not havin’ mine in reach of them deadly beasts.” No use trying to shake him from his phobia, so I turned to other subjects. I asked about the Mad Hermit, and he rowed me in close to shore so I could glimpse that curiosity.
The Mad Hermit proved to be a heap of bones and rags sitting on a stone in front of a small cave that penetrated the rugged rocks of the promontory. We were close enough to see his large white eyes following us as we rowed by. Libinger hailed him but he didn’t move.
“Pleasant guy,” I said. “Good fisherman?”
“Never knew him to fish,” Libinger muttered. “I reckon he lives on what the sea tosses up to him.”
The yappers were still gnawing at my mind, I guess, for I said, “Funny the yappers have never got him.” Libinger jerked his thumb Over his head, saying, “They’re clean on t’other side of the cape. I don’t reckon they ever fly around—or over the top either—though if they ever did, they’d find a good fat meal.”
Libinger said it seriously and I looked at him, puzzled. “I thought he was just a pile of skin and bones,” I said.
“Your eyes are bad,” said the fisherman, scowling at me. “He’s fat as a drum.”
Well, others told me similar things about the yappers, so I wasn’t entirely in the dark when, during my present chance visit to Greencliff, I heard echoes of more yapper trouble.
I wondered if something couldn’t be done, wondered if I had the nerve to try to do something. Then, strolling into the post office, I saw an eccentric looking old gentleman stamping about on a peg leg before the bulletin board. This grizzled, bespectacled person was tacking up a card.
The curious onlookers ogled. He finished, turned, and tapped off on his wooden leg. They closed in on the bulletin board. The message glared at them in red ink. It read:
THE YAPPERS MUST GO. WILL YOU VOLUNTEER TO HELP EXTINGUISH THEM? IF SO, MEET AT SAMPSON’S BOAT HOUSE FRIDAY NOON. I WILL LEAD YOU. HARRISON K. MERIWETHER, AGENT OF THE GOVERNOR.
This announcement had the right tone. I was gratified. The excited citizenry seemed ready to rally, were already counting the hours till Friday noon, and generating plans to wipe out this menace. I had no thought but to join them.
As the hour approached, I wended my way to Sampson’s boat house.
CHAPTER II
The Party Goes Forth
The day was blustery, and the tepid winds promised a storm. Between the weather and the superstition, only a handful of volunteers appeared.
It was just as well. A small party was preferable, I thought, and I said so to Harrison K. Meriwether, who pranced about nervously on his peg leg.
“Just so no more drop out,” he said somewhat bitterly. It was a blow to his pride that the whole town had not turned out. He was a coddled hero of the governor’s, a man of many past glories, but now beyond his prime. No doubt the governor had set him on this case to give him something to do, assuming it would be a wild goose chase. Few people outside the realm of Greencliff took the legend seriously.
The sea was rough. Meriwether decided we should not chance the boats, so we set forth on foot.
Our by-road skirted the shore line for half a mile, then wound inland, around a cove and up a ravine, then back to the sea. We passed a small board sign, “Beware Yappers.”
By now, we trailed in groups of twos and threes, Meriwether doing his best to hold the party together. He was not successful. Our numbers dwindled from the moment the walk began.
Now, three husky lads at the end of the procession stopped to throw rocks at the signboard and as we rounded the bend they turned back.
There were only six of us left: the two men in the lead, wearing khaki for the first time and wearing themselves out like two eager boys on their first hike; a young lad of fifteen named Monty, who strolled along by himself, cracking the trees and rocks with his bean shooter and seldom missing; the one girl who stayed with the party, Lucia Fontaine, with whom I struck up an acquaintance; the hobbling Meriwether, who now brought up the end of the line; and myself.
Lucia Fontaine was an attractive thing. She was just out of school, a few years younger than I, the first girl whose appeal for me had grown rather than diminished in the first hour of acquaintance. I kept saying to myself, here at last is the unbelievable—the sort of girl I thought came only in dreams.
She fitted in well with the rugged scenery we were passing. Her black hair floated in graceful waves as the rising gale blew against us. Her green sweater and slacks, her full blown orange blouse made her a colorful figure.
There was determination in her smooth even features. She was on a mission for her brother, a zoologist. He had heard of the yappers and was half convinced that a new rare species might have come into existence out of some curious circumstance.
Lucia was to capture a specimen to take back to him.
“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked her.
“Why should I be?” she laughed in her musical voice. “Of course I don’t believe in the legend. But even if I did, I would have no reason to be afraid. I haven’t any evil thoughts.” She laughed again.
Suddenly a sharp crash of thunder brought our party to a halt.
The two men in the lead were bluffed out.
“This is no time to be getting farther from shelter,” one of them said. “We’re turning back before it storms.”
Our gallant leader with the wooden leg was too fagged to dissuade them. He made a feeble protest while they marched off.
“We should have started earlier in the day,” I mentioned, noting how the black clouds were gathering. Then I saw that Meriwether was looking at me contemptuously, as if I had exceeded my authority. He grew arrogant. Now, that his force had dwindled to Monty, Lucia, and myself—all of whom he knew would stick and see this thing through—he began to strut his old importance. A couple of sandwiches had restored his energy.
Food did us all good and we moved along again.
The skies grew darker, and rain began to spatter.
We looked about for a sheltered nook to duck into while the first torrent poured down, and lo! right ahead of us in the crook of the bend, was a cave. Now I knew where we were, for I had seen that cave before. It was the Mad Hermit’s! Moreover, there sat the old boy himself, a lean, gaunt mass of skin and bones heaped on the big rock outside the cave entrance, watching us with his big white eyes!
CHAPTER III
The Mad Hermit’s Cave
It would not be pleasant for me to describe in much detail the repulsive feelings that came over us as we approached this miserable sight. Whether it was his actual appearance or his bestial manner that caused the chills to creep through our spines, I do not know; but I could see from the pallor that came over Lucia that she was experiencing a wave of terror. Her shuddering body was close at my side as we stopped before the Mad Hermit.
Now, that we were faced with him, I suddenly realized that I knew nothing about him—his name, his language, his manner of life, or why he was called the Mad Hermit. When I had seen him before, I had been at a comfortable distance and it had not occurred to me to inquire whether he was really mad.
His eyes were not actually white
. They were yellow, upon closer inspection, surrounded by massive white eyeballs protruding from their sockets. Those eyes turned outward, and it was impossible to tell whether either of them was seeing us. They blinked slowly like an owl’s. Wiry hair was scattered over his sallow greenish face and bony head. The wrinkled skin gathered on his hard cheek bones, and his black lips spread to reveal three big jagged teeth.
This we took to be his smile. Meriwether addressed him, told him we wanted shelter from the storm. He made a slight nod toward his cave which we took to be his welcome. We went in.
There he continued to sit as the clouds poured their flood down over him. I called to him to come in with us, but he didn’t seem to hear. His dark body remained silhouetted against the splashing sea. Now and then a flare of lightning would illuminate the pock marks that covered his loose copper skin, and the rotting threads of the blowing, tattered garment about his waist.
It was an unpleasant half hour, and as soon as the crest of the storm had passed, and the skies settled down to a slow, drizzling rain, three of us were anxious to get on. The lad, Monty, was impetuous and ready for adventure. Lucia and I agreed we had come too far to turn back. But Meriwether’s humor had grown steadily worse. He was sick of the whole deal and he blamed us for his troubles. He cursed me for all his bad judgments, and raved because we hadn’t made better time.
We let him rant, for we all knew that we had lost at least an hour holding back for him, and doubtless he was nearly exhausted from a strain he never should have undertaken.
As we picked up to move on, there was just enough daylight left for a glimpse of the map Meriwether drew from his pocket. It showed the promontory around which we were circling. There was the Mad Hermit’s cave on one side, the cavern of the yappers on the other.
There was a curious fact I had not known before. The cavern of the yappers, according to this map, was directly opposite the Mad Hermit s cave where we now rested. Only a very narrow neck of this mountainous promontory divided the two points. And the caves led in toward each other. But the mass of wall that divided them would necessitate our hiking another two or three miles around the end of the point and back.
The curiousness of this arrangement caused me to flash my light around the rear of the hermit’s dwelling to gauge its depth. The glimpse told me nothing, for the room tapered off into three or four obscure corners that my light could not penetrate.
So I assumed there was no way through. My next thought was that perhaps we could clamber over the top of this mountainous neck of land; but as we emerged from the cave I saw in a glance that it would be impractical to make such a suggestion. The rocks were high and rugged, and it would be hard enough for Meriwether to get around by the footpath.
“How far around to the yappers?” Meriwether shouted to the Mad Hermit, still sitting in the rain. The old scarecrow’s eyes blinked a little faster. To my surprise, he spoke an answer.
“Two mile.” His voice was tight and squeaky. He made a slight nod in the direction of our course. Meriwether thanked him. He spoke again. “Look out for ’em. They feeds on evil.”
His eyes were actually glittering now, and one of them was certainly on Lucia.
She clung to me fearfully, and I led her away, out of this sickening presence. A cackling laugh echoed after us.
“Did you see the way he looked at me?” she asked in a quaking voice, as soon as we were out of hearing. She was still trembling, and I must confess the gruesome sight which had unnerved her was not easy to forget. As we hiked along I talked glibly of many things, but those glittering yellow eyes kept burning into my mind.
“Do you think he liked it when we went into his cave?” Lucia asked. “He looked positively wild when you shot your flashlight around.”
“Did he?” That was something I hadn’t noticed.
“He acted as if he were about to leap off his perch. And then all at once he tamed down and began batting his eyes again and twisting his lips and showing his big ugly teeth. Ugh!”
Impulsively my arm went around her waist as I tried to reassure her. I knew what was in her mind, now. Sooner or later we would be returning past his cave, and already she was beginning to dread it. So was I. As darkness came over us, our outlook for the night’s adventure grew more ghastly.
Something made this night different from anything in my previous experience—different in the most fearful way; and I knew it was more than the blackening skies and the sea, and terror waiting somewhere around the promontory. It was my realization that whatever gruesome adventure befell me must also befall this beautiful girl whom I had just found.
For her, everything mattered. I wonder now, as I look back, that I did not seize her by the hand and flee back to Greencliff to safety, for every step of our progress was haunted by more terrifying premonitions of evil.
Before we rounded the point of the cape, Harrison K. Meriwether dropped by the wayside. His body was aching sorely, he said, and he would have to rest. He was willing for us to go ahead.
“Wait for me at the cavern,” he said. “I’ll come as soon as I’m able.”
“We’ll kill off the yappers before you get there,” I boasted, “but you can come and make an official count of the skeletons if you want to.”
He protested. He didn’t want us to kill any yappers till he got there. Stubborn old cuss. He wanted to commandeer the slaughter. Besides, he had brought some torches that he wanted to use. I offered to take over his torches and do the dirty work. Save him the trouble.
“No, no! I’ve got to see this through myself. I’m not hanging back and letting the rest of you horn in on the governor’s re—”
He stopped short, then tried to cover up what he had said, but the cat was out of the bag. Somewhere there was a reward waiting for the extermination of the yappers, and Harrison K. Meriwether expected to cop it.
Well, he deserved it at that, I thought, tramping all over this rocky sea coast on a wooden leg.
Certainty the reward didn’t interest either Lucia or me. We each had our private motives for going ahead: hers, to capture a rare specimen; mine, to protect her.
But there was Monty, game little scout. His eyes blazed bright at Meriwether’s tongue-slip. A reward sounded good to him, all right, and he was on his way toward earning a share of it.
Consequently, as we rounded the cape, Monty chuckled to hear Meriwether’s voice, still calling at us out of the blackness against the slushing of the sea, ordering us to do nothing until he came.
In due time the three of us came to a stop before a ghostly black opening in the side of the promontory which we knew to be the dreaded cavern of the purple yappers.
CHAPTER IV
The Hungry Yappers
The soft lavender lightning playing over the skies showed us the way into the cavern, but we were not quick to enter. We stood huddled close together, talking in low tones. The rain had ceased. Our clothes were soaked. We were chilled to the marrow. But most of our chill was not from the rain, for the air was still warm.
“I wonder how soon old Meriwether will catch up with us,” I said. “I’m ready to go on in, myself—”
“So am I,” chimed in Monty, spirited as ever. The lad was plainly eager for a sight of the skeletons he had heard so much about.
“But the instant we enter we may have a battle on our hands, Monty.” I warned. “Those yappers may not like us. If they come our way we’ll be forced to start swinging paddles at them, regardless of Meriwether’s orders.”
“Then you don’t take any stock in their hunger for evil thoughts and nothing else?” the boy asked. “Certainly not. Do you?”
Lucia and Monty both said no, very decisively. Thank goodness, we were free from superstition.
“It’s beyond me,” Lucia said, “how these insects can kill a person anyway. That’s another part of the legend that bothers me. But I’ve come prepared.” She was drawing some glittery sheets from her haversack which proved to be cellophane hoods. A very ingenious precau
tion. We hooded ourselves snugly and put on gloves. Now, that our bodies were completely covered, we crowded toward the entrance of the cavern more confidently.
We were keenly curious for a glimpse of the little purple devils. We held back only long enough to halloo for Meriwether, and getting no response, agreed to make the break.
We edged under the blackness of overhanging crags, single file. Lucia was following me, Monty in the rear.
“Listen!” I hissed.
There was a fluty musical tone echoing from those black depths, a velvety “Yeep, yeep, yeeple, yeeple, yeeple—”
Lucia caught my hand.
“They’re yapping,” I whispered. “Crying for food!”
We were breathing excitedly.
“Yeeple, yeeple, yeeple—” now louder as if coming toward us, now softer from a distance. We had seen nothing but jagged stones and wet shrubbery under the intermittent streaks of lightning.
But the next bright glare from the skies penetrated every crevice in the hollow room before us, and what a sight! A graveyard of unburied dead! Glistening white human skeletons strewn about in grotesque positions. Lucia stifled a gasp. Monty’s startled curse was uttered half in delight. The lightning was gone but the white figures still hung in the blackness.
The thunder echoed away and the weird yelping filled the cavern again.
“Where are they?” Monty whispered. “I thought they were supposed to be luminous.”
His answer came from the yappers themselves, for suddenly, out of a crevice high in the wall, a dazzling purple stream poured forth. It was like a serpent of light, weaving through the blackness, sweeping down over the skeletons, yelping like little starved dogs.
But it was not a solid stream. It was hundreds—yes, thousands of floating purple spots, luminous wings, none of them as large as a half dollar, melted together in a glowing chain of purple fire. Now, they massed together on a single skeleton, turning it into a body of shimmering color.
