by Bram Stoker
“So you can, you miserable scoundrel, because you know I shall keep my word; but remember that I expect proper treatment; and remember, too, that if I want an assistant I am to have one. Again Murdock interrupted, but this time much more soothingly:
“Aisy! aisy! Haven’t I done every livin’ thing ye wanted, and helped ye meself every time? Sure arn’t Iyer assistant?”
“Yes, because you wanted to get something, and couldn’t do without me. And mind this: you can’t do without me yet. But be so good as to remember that I choose my own assistant; and I shall not choose you unless I like. You can keep me here and pay me for staying as we agreed; but don’t you think that I could fool you if I would?”
“Ye wouldn’t do that, I know — an’ me thrusted ye!”
“You trusted me! you miserable wretch — Yes! you trusted me by a deed, signed, sealed, and delivered. I don’t owe you anything for that.”
“Mr. Sutherland, sir, ye’re too sharp wid me. Yerfrind is very welkim. Do what you like — go where you choose — bring whom you will — only get on wid the worrk and kape it saycret.”
“Aye!” sneered Dick, “you are ready to climb down because you want something done, and you know that this is the last day for work on this side of the hill. Well, let me tell you this — for you’ll do anything for greed — that you and I together, doing all we can, shall not be able to cover all the ground. I haven’t said a word to my friend — and I don’t know how he will take any request from you after your impudence; but he is myfriend, and a clever man, and if you ask him nicely, perhaps he will be good enough to stay and lend us a hand.”
The man made me a low bow and asked me in suitable terms if I would kindly stop part of the day and help in the work. Needless to say I acquiesced. Murdock eyed me keenly, as though to make up his mind whether or no I recollected him — he evidently remembered me — but I affected ignorance, and he seemed satisfied. I was glad to notice that the blow of Joyce’s riding-switch still remained across his face as a livid scar. He went away to get the appliances readyforwork, in obedience to a direction from Sutherland.
“One has to cut that hound’s corns rather roughly,” said the latter, with a nice confusion of metaphors, as soon as Murdock had disappeared.
Dick then told me that his work was to make magnetic experiments to ascertain, if possible, if there was any iron hidden in the ground.
“The idea,” he said, “is Murdock’s own, and I have neither lot nor part in it. My work is simply to carry out his ideas, with what mechanical skill I can command, and to invent or arrange such appliances as he may want. Where his theories are hopelessly wrong, I point this out to him, but he goes on or stops just as he chooses. You can imagine that a fellow of his low character is too suspicious to ever take a hint from anyone. We have been working forthree weeks past and have been all over the solid ground, and are just finishing the bog.”
“How did you first come across him?” I asked.
“Very nearly a month ago he called on me in Dublin, having been sent by old Gascoigne, of the College of Science. He wanted me to search for iron on his property. I asked if it was regarding opening mines? He said, ‘No, just to see if there should be any old iron lying about.’ As he offered me excellent terms for my time, I thought he must have some good — or rather, I should say, some strong motive. I know now, though he has never told me, that he is trying for the money that is said to have been lost and buried here by the French after Humbert’s expedition to Killala.”
“How do you work?” I asked. “The simplest thing in the world; just carry about a strong magnet — only we have to do it systematically.”
“And have you found anything as yet?”
“Only old scraps — horseshoes, nails, buckles, buttons; our most important find was the tire of a wheel. The old Gombeen thought he had it that time!” and Dick laughed.
“How did you manage the bog?” “That is the only difficult part; we have poles on opposite sides of the bog with lines between them. The magnet is fixed, suspended from a free wheel, and I let it down to the centre from each side in turn. If there were any attraction I should feel it by the thread attached to the magnet which I hold in my hand.”
“It is something like fishing?”
“Exactly.”
Murdoch now returned and told us that he was ready, so we all went to work. I kept with Sutherland at the far side of the bog, Murdoch remaining on the nearside. We planted, or rather placed, a short stake in the solid ground, as close as we could get it to the bog, and steadied it with a guy from the top; the latter I held, while Murdoch, on the other side, fulfilled a similar function. A thin wire connected the two stakes; on this Sutherland now fixed the wheel, from which the magnet depended. On each side we deflected the stake until the magnet almost touched the surface of the bog. After a few minutes’ practice I got accustomed to the work, and acquired sufficient dexterity to be able to allow the magnet to run freely. Inch by inch we went over the surface of the bog, moving slightly to the south-west each time we shifted, following the edges of the bog. Every little while Dick had to change sides, so as to cover the whole extent of the bog, and when he came round again had to go back to where he had last stopped on the same side. All this made the process very tedious, and the day was drawing to a close when we neared the posts set up to mark the bounds of the two lands. Several times during the day Joyce had come up from his cottage and inspected our work, standing at his own side of the post. He looked at me closely, but did not seem to recognise me. I nodded to him once, but he did not seem to see my salutation, and I did not repeat it.
All day long I never heard the sweet voice; and as we returned to Carnaclif after a blank day — blank in every sense of the word — the airseemed chillier and the sunset less beautiful than before. The last words I heard on the mountain were from Murdock: “Nothin’ to-morrow, Mr. Sutherland! I’ve a flittin’ to make, but I pay the day all the same; I hould ye to your conthract. An’ remember, surr, we’re in no hurry wid the wurrk now, so ye’ll not need help any more.” Andy made no remark till we were well away from the Hill, and then said, dryly: “I’m afeerd yer ‘an’r has had but a poor day; ye luk as if ye hadn’t seen a bit iv bog at all, at all. Gee up, ye ould corn-crake! the gintlemin does be hurryin’ home fur their tay, an’ fur more wurrk wid bogs to-morra!”
CHAPTER V
When Sutherland and I had finished dinner that evening we took up the subject of bogs where we had left it in the morning. This was rather a movement of my own making, for I felt an awkwardness about touching on the special subject of the domestic relations of the inhabitants of Knockcalltecrore. After several interesting remarks, Dick said:
“There is one thing that I wish to investigate thoroughly: the correlation of bog and special geological formations.” “For instance?” said I. “Well, specially with regard to limestone. Just at this part of the country I find it almost impossible to pursue the investigation any more than Van Trail could have pursued snake studies in Iceland.” “Is there no limestone at all in this part of the country?” I queried.
“Oh yes, in lots of places; but as yet I have not been able to find any about here. I say ‘as yet’ on purpose, because it seems to me that there must be some on Knockcalltecrore.” Needless to say the conversation here became to me much more interesting. Dick went on: “The main feature of the geological formation of all this part of the country is the vast amount of slate and granite, either in isolated patches or lying side by side. And as there are instances of limestone found in quaint ways, I am not without hopes that we mayyetfind the same phenomenon.” “Where do you find the instances of these limestone formations?” I queried, for I felt that as he was bound to come back to, or towards Shleenanaher, I could ease my own mind by pretending to divert his from it. “Well, as one instance, I can give you the Corrib River — the stream that drains Lough Corrib into Galway Bay; in fact, the river on which the town of Galway is built. At one place one side of the stream
all is granite, and the other is all limestone; I believe the river runs overthe union of the two formations. Now, if there should happen to be a similar formation, even in the least degree, at Knockcalltecrore, it will be a great thing.”
“Why will it be a great thing?” I asked. “Because there is no lime near the place at all; because, with limestone on the spot, a hundred things could be done that, as thing are at present, would not repay the effort. With limestone we could reclaim the bogs cheaply all over the neighborhood — in fact a lime-kiln there would be worth a small fortune. We could build walls in the right places; I can see how a lovely little harbor could be made there at a small expense. And then, beyond all else, would be the certainty — which is at present in my mind only a hope or a dream — that we could fathom the secret of the Shifting Bog, and perhaps abolish or reclaim it.”
“This is exceedingly interesting,” said I, as I drew my chair closer. And I only spoke the exact truth, for at that moment I had no other thought in my mind. “Do you mind telling me more, Dick? I suppose you are not like Lamb’s Scotchman that will not broach a half-formed idea!” “Not the least in the world. It will be a real pleasure to have such a good listener. To begin at the beginning, I was much struck with that old cavity on the top of the Hill. It is one of the oddest things I have ever seen or heard of. If it were in any other place or among any other geological formation, I would think its origin must have been volcanic. But here such a thing is quite impossible. It was evidently once a lake.” “So goes the legend. I suppose you have heard it?” “Yes; and it rather confirms my theory. Legends have always a base in fact; and whatever cause gave rise to the myth of St. Patrick and the King of the Snakes, the fact remains that the legend is correct in at least one particular — that at some distant time there was a lake or pond on the spot.” “Are you certain?” “A very cursory glance satisfied me of that. I could not go i nto the matter thoroughly, for that old wolf of mi ne was so manifestly impatient that I should get to his wild-goose chase for the lost treasure-chest, that the time and opportunity were wanting. However, I saw quite enough to convince me.” “Well, how do you account for the change? What is your theory regarding the existence of limestone?”
“Simply this, that a lake or reservoir on the top of a mountain means the existence of a spring or springs. Now, springs in granite or hard slate do not wear away the substance of the rock in the same way as they do when they come through limestone. And, moreover, the natures of the two rocks are quite different. There are fissures and cavities in the limestone which are wanting, or which are, at any rate, not so common or perpetually recurrent in the other rock. Now, if it should be, as I surmise, that the reservoir was ever fed by a spring passing through a streak or bed of limestone, we shall probably find that in the progress of time the rock became worn, and that the spring found a way in some other direction — either some natural passage through a gap or fissure already formed, or by a channel made for itself.”
“And then?”
“And then the process is easily understandable. The spring naturally sent its waters where there was the least resistance, and they found their way out on some level lower than the top of the Hill. You perhaps noticed the peculiar formation of the Hill, specially on its west side — great sloping tables of rock suddenly ended by a wall of a different stratum — a sort of serrated edge all the way down the inclined plane; you could not miss seeing it, for it cuts the view like the teeth of a saw! Now, if the water, instead of rising to the top and then trickling down the old channel, which is still noticeable, had once found a vent on one of those shelving planes it would gradually fill up the whole cavity formed by the two planes, unless, in the mean time, it found some natural escape. As we know, the mountain is covered in a number of places with a growth or formation of bog, and this water, once accumulating under the bog, would not only saturate it, but would raise it — being of less specific gravity than itself — till it actually floated. Given such a state of things as this, it would only require sufficient time for the bog to become soft and less cohesive than when it was more dry and compact, and you have a dangerous bog, something like the carpet of death that we spoke of this morning.”
“So far I can quite understand,” said I. “But if this be so, how can the bog shift as this one undoubtedly has? It seems, so far, to be hedged with walls of rock. Surely these cannot move.”
Sutherland smiled. “I see you do apprehend. Now we are at the second stage. Did you notice, as we went across the hill-side, that there were distinct beds or banks of clay?”
“Certainly; do they come in?”
“Of course. If my theory is correct, the shifting is due to them.” “Explain!”
“So far as I can. But here I am only on surmise, or theory pure and simple. I may be all wrong, or I may be right — I shall know more before I am done with Shleenanaher. My theory is that the shifting is due to the change in the beds of clay, as, for instance, by rains washing them by degrees to lower levels; this is notably the case in that high clay bank just opposite the Snake’s Pass. The rocks are fixed, and so the clay becomes massed in banks between them, perhaps aided in the first instance by trees falling across the chasm or opening. But then the perpetually accumulating water from the spring has to find a way of escape; and as it cannot cut through the rock, it rises to the earth bed, till it either tops the bed of clay which confines it or finds a gap or fissure through which it can escape. In either case it make a perpetually deepening channel for itself, for the soft clay yields little by little to the stream passing over it, and so the surface of the outer level falls, and the water escapes, to perhaps find new reservoirs ready-made to receive it, and a similar process as before takes place.”
“Then the bog extends, and the extended part takes the place of the old bog, which gradually drains.” “Just so; but such would, of course, depend on the level; there might be two or more reservoirs, each with a deep bottom of its own and united only near the surface; or if the bank or bed of clay lay in the surface of one shelving rock, the water would naturally drain to the lowest point, and the upper land would be shallow in proportion.” “But,” I ventured to remark, “if this be so, one of two things must happen: either the water would wear away the clay so quickly that the accumulation would not be dangerous, or else the process would be a very gradual one, and would not be attended with such results as we are told of. There would be a change in the position of the bog, but there would not be the upheaval and complete displacement and chaos that I have heard of, for instance, with regard to this very bog of Knockcalltecrore.”
“Your ‘if is a great peacemaker. If what I have supposed were all, then the result would be as you have said; but there are lots of other supposes; as yet we have only considered one method of change. Suppose, for instance, that the waterfound a natural means of escape — as, for instance, where this very bog sends a stream over the rocks into the Cliff Fields — it would not attack the clay bed at all, unless under some unusual pressure. Then suppose that when such pressure had come the water did not rise and top the clay bed, but that it found a small fissure part of the way down. Suppose there were several such reservoirs as I have mentioned — and from the formation of the ground I think it very likely, for in several places jutting rocks from either side come close together, and suggest a sort of gap or canon in the rock formation, easily forming it into a reservoir. Then, if the barrier between the two upper ones were to be weakened and a sudden weight of water were to be thrown on the lower wall, suppose such wall were to partially collapse, and bring down, say, a clay bank, which would make a temporary barrier loftier than any yet existing, but only temporary; suppose that the quick accumulation of waters behind this barrier lifted the whole mass of water and slime and bog to its utmost height. Then, when such obstruction had been reached, the whole lower barrier, weakened by infiltration and attacked with sudden and new force, would give way at once, and the stream, kept down from above by the floating bog, would force its
way along the bed-rock and lift the whole spongy mass resting on it. Then, with this new extent of bog suddenly saturated and weakened — demoralised as it were — and devoid of resisting power, the whole floating mass of the upper bog might descend on it, mingle with it, become incorporated with its semi-fluid substance, and form a new and dangerous quagmire incapable of sustaining solid weight, but leaving behind on the higher level only the refuse and sediment of its former existence — all the rubble and grit too heavy to float, and which would gradually settle down on the upper bed-rock.” “Really, Dick, you put it most graphically. What a terrible thing it would be to live on the line of such a change.”
“Terrible, indeed! At such a moment a house in the track of the movement — unless it were built on the rock — would go down like a ship in a storm — go down solid and in a moment, without warning and without hope!” “Then, with such a neighbor as a shifting bog, the only safe place for a house would be on a rock?” — Before my eyes, as I spoke, rose the vision of Murdock’s house, resting on its knoll of rock, and I was glad, for one reason, that there, at least, would be safety for Joyce — and his daughter.
