The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  From behind the idol’s foot it was possible to look out past the curve of the great ankle bone, over the congregation. There was no doubt that it was far bigger than usual. Hundreds of silent pygmies – men, women and children – stood motionless, listening to Garm’s high-pitched intoning. For the most part their eyes followed the movements of the cat as it paced uneasily back and forth upon the block. The expressions of solemn awe which the creature produced had amused Margaret at first, but that had passed now. To all races the very rare is a matter either for awe or mirth. The very fact that life not unlike their own could take so different a shape must be impressive to those who rarely, if ever, had seen an animal. There would be something magical about it – was there not always something magical about life? Was not her calm acceptance of it the result of being so much in contact with varied living forms? Familiarity with the miracle of existence had made it seem no miracle. To these people, knowing none of its forms save in themselves, their fungi crops and their fish, a simple cat became something occult. If one of the great stone cats beside the statue had come to life, and bounded from the block, they would have marvelled but little more. Margaret would have been far more startled than they. The cat in their eyes was a carving come to life; no wonder they were awed, no wonder they worshipped this goddess, Bast, who could breathe life, Pygmalion-like, into her symbols.

  She turned her attention from the crowd to Garm. His speech was part prayer, and the prayer, like most prayers, part flattery. It was addressed to the cat as mediator between themselves and the goddess. The language, as in many primitive tongues, made great play with tonal variation, and the animal’s restlessness was due mostly to the shrill sing-song aimed at it. Margaret’s knowledge was sufficient to give her the general drift.

  The goddess was implored to aid them. Surely they had deserved well by her? Had they not treated her symbol with all honour, risking even the displeasure of Hamhit for her sake? If anything which might have been done had been left undone, it was not by design, but through the ignorance of their inferior, contemptible minds. Of all the gods, Bast was the greatest, none in the whole celestial hierarchy could compare with her. Nor was the symbol of any other god so graceful, so detached, so calmly contemptuous of mere humanity. With the Ibis of Thoth they had held no truck (nor, indeed, with Thoth himself, for it ill became men to aspire to the wisdom of gods). The jackal of Anubis might await them among the shades, but Anubis was of little help in this life …

  A disparagement of all the gods in glorification of Bast ensued. All, that is, with the notable exception of Ra. It was hoped, perhaps, that Bast might overlook this omission. Not even to curry her favour could the risk of sudden darkness be taken.

  The prayer went on. A few pertinent remarks on the continued decline in the birth-rate were dropped in – ‘our fathers were multitudinous as the spores of a thousand mushrooms; they filled our caves from the lowest levels to the highest. We are but a remnant, shrunk and shrivelled, like a fungus in a dry place’ – but still the main purpose of the speech remained hidden.

  Margaret grew restive. Already the ceremony had lasted longer than usual. The cat tired of its prowling, and curled up comfortably in the middle of the altar. Garm’s voice went on:

  ‘– And now we implore that the blessing of Bast be given to our work. Though there may be destruction, yet it is ultimately to save, not to destroy, that we hope. Inasmuch as we have obeyed commands, that we have not wasted life by taking it wantonly, that we have imprisoned rather than slain, we ask help. Shall it ever be said that Bast has allowed ruin to be the consequence of obedience? We have faith that Bast will never forsake her people. Her justice, her mercy, her understanding, her ways inscrutable – these we honour. Will she not lend us now her wisdom, her wit, her power irresistible?’

  Garm bowed low. The congregation knelt, and bent its faces to the floor. The old man’s voice still muttered the sing-song prayer for blessings. His manner was less devout than that of the rest. One felt that he approached the goddess with a full knowledge of her obligations towards her people. There was an unmistakable air of ‘we’ve done the right thing by you; now it’s up to you not to let us down’. The conception of a bargain was blatant, almost put into words, though there was no threat of reprisals in case of Bast’s default.

  Margaret made one interesting discovery. She had wondered why the pygmies with their light regard of death troubled to imprison their captives. It now appeared as obedience to the goddess’s direct wish. There was no humanitarian feeling behind it – merely blind observance of a religious rule. Had they been cramped for space, the law might have lapsed; as it was they were put to no trouble, since the captives were made self-supporting. She and Mark and all the prisoners probably had to thank the long-dead Egyptian missionaries who had set up the temple for cunningly including a law for their own preservation in the articles of faith.

  But still she had no clue to the reason for this special service. For all Garm’s lack of humility, he showed far more supplication than was usual in his formal prayers.

  She let her eyes rove over the hundreds of bowed, naked backs. Row upon row of them, white beneath the many globes, dull dry white; not one body with a healthy, gleaming skin. Her gaze reached the backmost row. Suddenly she stiffened, and leaned forward round the stone foot, staring fixedly. Her mouth opened, but she caught back the rising exclamation in time.

  Beside the entrance stood a giant – at least, so he appeared to her first startled glance. She had grown so used to pygmy standards that it was hard to recognize him as a normal man. Her heart hammered with a sudden excitement, painfully so that she pressed a hand below her left breast. But it was not Mark. A sudden rush of dizziness, compound of shock and disappointment, left her leaning weakly against the stone. She forced her eyes back to the distant figure, and strained to distinguish the details. Absurd that she could ever have thought that it was Mark. This man was dark and bearded. His clothes, even, were unlike Mark’s; he seemed to be wearing the rags of a uniform …

  What could he be doing here? Why hadn’t the pygmies captured him? It was impossible that anyone could have penetrated as far as this unseen … Or had he escaped? No, that was obviously absurd. But wasn’t his very presence here absurd? Garm had said that except for herself all the captives were in the prison caves – and once they were in, they stayed in. What, then – ?

  She gave it up, and stood watching him. He lounged against the wall, seemed to be watching with a kind of tolerant boredom. Evidently he stood in no fear of the pygmies. But why not?

  Garm’s prayer was ending. He was calling upon the concourse to proclaim the magnificence of Bast. The responses of their thin voices swept through the cavern like the rustle of a high wind.

  Bast, the benign. Bast, the merciful. Bast, the omniscient.

  The cat, disturbed, resumed its prowling. It mewed plaintively. Garm paused with both hands upraised; he knew something of the value of dramatic effect. In all the huge temple cave there was no sound but the thin crying of the cat.

  The pygmies had gone, and Garm with them. Of all the hundreds who had filled the place only Margaret’s four guards remained. But the stranger, the man at the far end, had not gone. He had stood close to the wall while the crowd passed out. They saw him, but they did not give him a second glance. Not until the last of them had been swallowed up in the tunnel did he rouse himself into an indolent saunter towards the statue. Margaret waited, watching his unhurried approach with a sense of misgiving. She had no premonition, merely a feeling that something was amiss. The man’s casual air was unreasonably out of place in its surroundings.

  He looked an unattractive specimen, but so, she reminded herself, would any man just free of the prison caves. The rags of his uniform dangled and flapped about him as he walked. The buttonless jacket fell open to show a hard muscled, though none too clean, chest and stomach. Beneath a tangle of black hair, dark eyes set in a sallow face were fixed on her own. The expression of his mouth w
as invisible behind a ragged scrub of beard and moustache.

  His head tilted back as he looked up to the calm stone face far above. She saw a flash of white teeth as he smiled derisively. He began to mount the stairs without hesitation. Margaret shot a glance at her four guards. They were watching the man with the barest curiosity, certainly without animosity. He approached her where she stood beside the altar. For a moment his gaze was transferred to the cat. He put out a hand, and stroked it gently behind the ear. The expressions of the guards became respectful; it was evident that the man was on good terms with the goddess. The cat purred, and rubbed itself against his hand. Looking back to Margaret, he said:

  ‘You’ve got a soft job, eh?’ The English was easy enough, but it was spoken with a strong Latin accent.

  He looked her up and down in a fashion she did not like. It had the effect of making her feel far more naked than she had been when swimming to impress the pygmies. She tried to shake off the feeling of uneasiness he induced. It was ridiculous that she should feel like this towards the first man of her own kind she had seen for – how long? – well, a very long time.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Miguel Salvades. And you are Miss Lawn?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Miguel shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There is little news in the prison caves – when there is any, everybody knows it. When it is that a beautiful lady is imprisoned here instead of with the rest of us, everybody is very interested.’

  ‘Then you have seen Mark? Tell me, how is he?’

  ‘He is well now. He was very bad for a long time. They thought he would die.’

  Margaret, too, had thought he would die. How those pygmies had hammered and beaten him! She had flung herself on them, trying to help, until others came and dragged her away. Her last sight of him had been of a battered and bleeding figure sprawling helpless on the ground. Only the repeated assurances of Garm had later convinced her that he had indeed survived that mauling.

  ‘There’ve been no ill effects? Nothing broken?’

  ‘He didn’t look bad when I last saw him. Still weak, of course.’

  Not until she had satisfied anxiety for Mark, did Margaret revert to the problem of this man’s presence.

  ‘How is it you are not a prisoner?’ she asked.

  ‘But I am. I’ve been in here more than four years.’

  ‘No, I mean why are you here? How did you get out of the prison caves?’

  ‘They let me out – they don’t think I can do any harm.’

  ‘Only you?’

  ‘Yes, only me.’

  Margaret frowned. Was he being deliberately evasive, or merely stupid? He didn’t look stupid. She tried again.

  ‘But why should they let you out? I thought they kept all prisoners in there always.’

  ‘Except you? Yes, that is so. But I was able to do them a good turn. We made a bargain. They were to let me have the run of these caves if I did what they wanted.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Oh, just to give them some information.’

  He uttered the last answer with an air of finality which discouraged further questions. Margaret found it irritating. Still, it was his own business. It was puzzling to know what information could have been important enough to support such a bargain. Such knowledge as she herself had tried from time to time to impart to the little people had never been welcomed with any enthusiasm. In any case, he had not gained a great deal. For herself, she would prefer to be in the prison caves with people of her own kind. She told him so.

  ‘But I am not going to stay here. I’m going to escape.’

  ‘How?’

  He shrugged. ‘I must look round – explore first. There are ways in – there must be ways out.’

  She contemplated him, wondering how he proposed to escape. So far as she could see, it would be scarcely easier from here than from the prison caves. Openings there were, airshafts and cracks, hundreds of them, but the pygmies would be watching him just as they watched her. They might be a backward, simple race, but they were not fools. They must know why he had bargained for the freedom of the outer caves.

  ‘Garm told me,’ she said, ‘that no one has ever got away.’

  ‘I know, that’s what they say, but … who is Garm?’

  ‘The old man who was praying just now. He told me what happened to the last man who tried.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He started to climb an airshaft. They let him get a little way up, and then built a fire underneath – a big fire. The smoke and the heat were too much for him. He let go in the end, and came tumbling down. He landed in the fire, and they didn’t bother to pull him out.’

  ‘I see. They got rid of him, but no one could accuse them of actually killing him. Very nice.’

  He appeared little perturbed by the prospect.

  ‘Then you don’t intend to try one of the airshafts?’

  ‘I must look round,’ he repeated. ‘As I see it, there is no great hurry; a few days more or less doesn’t count much on top of four years. It wants thinking out carefully. I must get out first time – there won’t be a second chance.’ He looked up and caught Margaret’s doubting expression. ‘Little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, all you’ve done up till now is to tell me how it’s never been done, and can’t be done. Anybody’d think you were in with these little devils.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but – You see, I thought of nothing but escape at first; then I found out it was hopeless. It’s a bit difficult to get optimistic again suddenly. It’s not even as if you had a plan …’

  ‘Maybe I have. I did manage to plan my way clear of the prison caves.’

  ‘But you’re just as much in prison now.’

  He chose to ignore her last remark.

  ‘You didn’t try to make a break for it?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘I thought of it once, but something held me back.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Miguel looked puzzled.

  ‘Just a feeling that if I did it, I’d be doing the wrong thing. An idea that I wouldn’t get through, perhaps, and if I failed, I should have spoilt the possibility for anyone else.’

  ‘I don’t quite get you.’

  ‘You heard how we got in?’

  He nodded. ‘In part of a wrecked plane, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s still there where we left it. There’s a current running through the cave, but I don’t know where it goes. I thought that if I went downstream for a bit I might get beyond the pygmy caves, and find a way out somewhere where they couldn’t follow me. I know it all sounds rather vague – it wasn’t really much of a plan, just an idea.’

  ‘You think this river would carry you beyond the inhabited caves?’

  ‘It might. It must go somewhere.’

  Miguel did not answer at once; he seemed sunk in thought.

  ‘It’s only really necessary for one person to get out,’ she went on. ‘Once this place is known about they’ll send an expedition, and rescue us all. If you or I –’ She looked at him, hesitating. After all, why not? Fear that she would be physically too weak to make good her escape had been the real deterrent. Miguel was far from weak. His was the hard, wiry type which could survive hardships. Why shouldn’t he take a risk in the Sun Bird? He received the suggestion none too kindly.

  ‘You’d rather I took the risk than you?’

  ‘No, it’s not that – I told you I don’t think I could manage it.’

  Miguel’s attitude remained unenthusiastic. But in his eyes there was a gleam which Margaret missed.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she continued. ‘It’s the very chance you want. The pygmies don’t know the Sun Bird’s there. They’d be puzzled right from the beginning. While they were looking for you in the airshafts, you’d be floating off miles away. You must take it – it’s your one chance – our one chance.’

  But Miguel continu
ed to look dubious.

  ‘How do I know I’ll be able to find a way out?’

  ‘You don’t, but isn’t it worth the risk? Oh, please, please try it – we’re all depending on you, all those people down in the prison caves. If only you can do it, you’ll save not only yourself, but all of us.’

  ‘But how can I find this Sun Bird? Where is it?’

  ‘I can’t describe the way to it, but I can show you.’

  Miguel was looking half convinced. He glanced doubtfully at the guards.

  ‘We’ll have to get rid of them.’

  ‘I can dodge them – I did it before in one of the fungus caves.’

  ‘When can we go?’ Miguel spoke suddenly in a sharper tone. ‘Now?’

  Margaret hesitated. Why not now? They could take a circuitous route, give the guards the slip on the way.

  ‘Yes,’ she decided.

  She picked up the cat, and turned towards the steps. At the top of the flight she halted suddenly. Garm had returned with several followers. Hastily she turned back to caution Miguel.

  ‘Be careful with Garm, he knows some English.’ She made a quick decision. ‘It’s no good now. We couldn’t shake them all off. Some other time.’

  She turned to face the old man. He did not look pleased at the sight of Miguel, but he said nothing. Margaret wondered if he guessed that they had been talking of escape. Probably he did; it was the most likely topic.

  She descended to meet him. His greeting was a shade curter than usual. The final glance he gave to Miguel was anything but friendly. Miguel grinned. As they passed away from him down the long temple, his grin grew broader.

  He seemed oddly cheerful for one whose chance of escape had been delayed …

  3

  The arrangement of a meeting in a place where opportunities are few, and time has no meaning, is not easy. As far as Margaret could discover, only four things in the caves proceeded with reliable regularity: her own sleeping periods, the worship of Bast, the ripening of the fungi, and the duration of the period of gestation. Since the last two were useless for the purpose of time fixing, and the first was a law to itself, phased with complete independence of externals, it became necessary to plan the meeting with reference to Bast. And even there difficulties arose. Ever since Garm’s demand for the goddess’s assistance, the smooth running of pygmy life had been disturbed. An air of activity and purpose, wholly foreign, was pervading the caves. Attentions to Bast were more frequent, more flattering and a little briefer.