Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01

by What Dreams May Come (v1. 1)

  “Gonda copied this,” said Thunstone at once.

  “I tried,” said Gonda, gazing half-prayerfully. In her black clinging dress, she looked just then like some sort of priestess. “I cannot say if I succeeded.”

  “What you did was impressive,” Thunstone assured her.

  “I think I should have tried to use the same paints,” Gonda said. “These primitive ones, worked up from earths and charcoals and powdered rocks. Maybe I can try again.”

  “Maybe, but look here at the next picture,” Ensley urged them.

  He held his lantern above his head. Its glow revealed another upward surge of the rock, with upon it a stir of various shapes, each shape with its own tinge.

  “I do not like the snakes,” said Gonda unhappily, and at once Thunstone saw them, twining here and there across the surface. There were half a dozen sprawling bunches of them, their coils and writhings manifest, their heads strongly defined with the deep-set eyes and lumpy jowls that denoted poisonous reptiles. They seemed to be wriggling among plants with leaves and blooms, red, yellow, and blue.

  “I’ve not been able to try an impression of this,” Gonda confessed.

  “Because of the snakes, but the snakes have their place in the concept,” said Ensley. “Eve pointed this out before, Gonda. We have here the spring of the year. Because snakes come out in the spring, along with the spring flowers.”

  “I do not like snakes,” she said again. “I am afraid of them.”

  “Then come along to the next picture. You’ve seen that too, my dear; you don’t turn sick from it.”

  They had come into a wider corridor in the rock, Thunstone could see by now. Ensley led them around a turn of the way, and again held up his lantern to reveal a painting on the rock.

  This was truly colorful. It had a background of sorts, a smearing of green strokes and patches. Against that showed figures in red brown.

  An antlered animal with slender legs was manifestly a stag. It was shown in graceful motion, its head was clearly recognizable as a deers, its antlers were traced to curved points. Behind it followed another deer, smaller and without antlers, plainly a doe. Behind the doe, a fawn balanced on slender legs.

  “If that other was meant to be spring, this is summer,” said Thunstone.

  “Exactly,” said Ensley. “The symbolism of nature, do you see? And the work of skillful Stone Age artists. England has such work after all, Mr. Thunstone; the musty scholars just haven't seen it as yet. I've kept it hidden here under my house. Probably you'll call me selfish.”

  “I won't guess at your motives,” Thunstone told him. “But tomorrow, two friends of mine intend to come to Claines. Professor Leslie Spayte of the University of London—”

  “Yes, I've seen some things he's written,” said Ensley. “A hard laborer in the field of paleontology, though he has much to learn. Tomorrow, you say? But by then, the Dream Rock will have been turned. And who's your other friend?”

  “His name is Philo Vickery.”

  “I don't know it.”

  “Philo is a novelist. He writes about antiquarian and folklore subjects. He'd like to develop into a sort of latter-day Thomas Hardy. And he'd love to see these treasures.”

  “Tomorrow may be too late for him to come,” said Ensley cryptically. “Look along the bottom border of this summer scene, Mr. Thunstone, and tell me what you see.”

  Thunstone looked. “A long row of what looks like small hands, done in black pigment,” he said.

  “Five-fingered hands, is that right? Count them.”

  Stooping, Thunstone did so. “Eighteen hands,” he said after a moment. “And a single stroke at the end of the line.”

  “And eighteen times five is—” prompted Ensley.

  “Ninety,” said Gonda. “Gram you showed me these pictures, but never that line of hands.”

  “Ninety plus one is more or less the number of days in a summer,” said Ensley. “Had I called your attention to it, you'd have seen a similar row of five-fingered hands at the bottom of the one for spring. Those old people, you begin to understand, had a good sense of the progression of the seasons. Now look across here, at the wall opposite/’

  He swung his lantern that way. Another picture leaped into view.

  This was brightly colored, great splashes of ocher and two shades of red, with here and there touches of russet brown. There seemed to be an effort to depict autumn leaves in rich, contrasting tints. Upright black streaks indicated the trunks of the trees that bore these glories, and below them were more huddles and swirls of color, as though to represent fallen leaves. But the focus of the scene was a pair of stags, vigorously locking antlers in a lively representation of a fight.

  “Then this is autumn,” said Thunstone at once. “The season of what American Indians called the Mad Moon. When stags fight, sometimes to the death.”

  “That action is marvelous,” said Gonda raptly. “In fall, the hreinn —the reindeer will fight, yes and sometimes kill each other, in Norway. Even those we think are tame.”

  “And another string of hand-figures to count the days,” said Thunstone, pointing. “Winter, I suppose, is the next mural.”

  “It is indeed the next,” said Ensley. “Right here, just beyond autumn.”

  The scene his lantern showed them was rather narrow from side to side, and most of it was so pallid as to seem blank. But that, Thunstone saw quickly, was to represent snow, and a lot of it. If the artist had worked ten thousand years ago, winters were bitter then, frequently with blizzards. Central in the composition stood a snow- burdened tree, plainly an evergreen, for there were blotches of spinach-colored foliage visible through the clots of snow upon the branches.

  At the foot of the tree half-sprawled, half-crouched something massive and dark. It was recognizable as a bear, and from it jutted a long black line that would have to be the haft of a spear that transfixed it. Off to the side, not so immediately noticeable as the tree and the bear, stood two rather sketchy human figures. One of them held another spear, raised and ready to throw. They were hunters, in at their kill.

  “I feel sorry for the poor bear,” said Gonda.

  So did Thunstone, whose many adventures had never included the hunting and killing of a bear. He had in his time known bear hunters who had assured him that bear meat was delicious, tender, could even be smoked into savory ham or bacon. In any case, killing bears in the Stone Age winter would be desirable, necessary. Then, as in this century, hunger was the silent enemy in the cold months.

  “And that's what winter was like,” said Thunstone, gazing at the picture. “Down here in the snowy foreground, again we have our row of little hands—enough, 1 imagine, to make ninety fingers in all. Yes, and a couple of points more than that.”

  “You see things well, Mr. Thunstone,” said Ensley. “These four seasonal impressions denote the progress of a year, and to count all the points gives us the number of days in a year. Stone Age people were able to compute such matters, do you agree, then? Some thousands of years after these pictures, others built Stonehenge, which accurately indicates the progress of the year, which notices the phases of the moon, which foretells eclipses. Our ancestors were not savages. They were, in their way, scientists.”

  “And you've never allowed anyone to see these wonders,” said Thunstone.

  “I've brought Gonda down here to look, to copy. And now I've brought you.”

  “I hope you'll let me bring my friends Spayte and Vickery when they come tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” echoed Ensley, almost dreamily. “Who knows what tomorrow will be like? But today, there is more to show you in this cavern.”

  “More?” said Gonda, standing back beside Hob Sayle.

  “I’ve never taken you past this point, my dear, but we'll go have a look now, all of us.”

  He moved along, lantern in hand. He stopped again. “Look,” he said. “Look at what's here.”

  Hob Sayle had brought his own lantern close. The two lights revealed a long,
high stretch of pale gray rock, patterned all over in a strange fashion.

  “What is it?” Thunstone asked.

  “What would you guess?” asked Ensley in turn.

  Thunstone put his hand to the rock. “Here’s a sort of tally,” he said. “Here we have a row of marks, one above the other, cut into the rock.”

  He moved his big forefinger along.

  “Ten of them here, like the ten painted marks in that Welsh cave we were talking about. And an upright line running through them, and right next another arrangement of ten, and more beyond that, and below and above. Groups of ten and ten and ten.” He looked at Ensley. “A tally of some sort. A record.”

  Ensley smiled and nodded. “As you say, a tally, a record. Of what, would you guess?”

  “All I can do is guess, but it’s a big record.” Thunstone looked at the long, high spread of markings. He put his hand up to the topmost groupings. It was as high as a tall man could reach, and perhaps twenty feet long, perhaps more.

  “There are thousands of markings, all in tens,” he said.

  “And if you look, you’ll see the tens grouped in hundreds,” said Ensley. “And the hundreds in thousands.”

  “Could there be ten thousand of them?” asked Thunstone. “Is this a record of your ten thousand years?”

  “Not quite,” said Ensley. “To be exact, nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine, if you care to count. A single tally mark more here,” and, stooping, he touched one string of notches at the bottom of the far end of the display, “will make it exactly ten thousand.” He straightened and faced them. “Ten thousand years, Gonda. Ten thousand years, Mr. Thunstone. The last thirty years or so, I myself have notched into the record, with a modern hammer and chisel.”

  He pointed his finger. At the base of the great arrangement of notches lay a short-handled hammer and a cold chisel, dull gray in his lantern light.

  “Ready to supply the last notch, ready to make up the even ten thousand," said Ensley. “Again, do you care to count and make sure?"

  “I’ll take your word for it," said Thunstone, and Gonda nodded agreement in the halo of light cast by Hob Sayle’s lantern. “But maybe you’ll explain now the full significance of these ten thousand years."

  “Those marks record the length of a sleep, a very, very long sleep. The sleep of Gram."

  “Gram?" Gonda cried. “But you are Gram."

  “Only a namesake,” said Ensley, with an air of patient explanation. “Didn’t I speak of the god Gram at dinner? To be sure I did. Very well. Gram lives but he sleeps. These marks record the passage of the years of his slumber. Do you see now?"

  Thunstone stood silent. Ensley faced toward him.

  “I persist in feeling that you find my statements hard to believe, Mr. Thunstone.”

  He waited. Thunstone did not speak.

  “I see," said Ensley gently. “I see. You’re too polite to say that you find all this extravagant. Perhaps, if I showed you where Gram sleeps away his hundred centuries?”

  “I’d be interested in seeing such a place," said Thunstone.

  “We’re on our way there. The passage makes another bend, here ahead. Just follow me along."

  As before, he led the way and Sayle brought up the rear. Beyond the turn, just past that sea of markings, the rocks on either side were closer in, making the way narrow.

  “Bring your lantern up front, Hob," ordered Ensley. “Now, what do we find?"

  The way ahead narrowed again, sharply. It seemed to be closed by an arrangement of broad squares, the size of books. The borders of the squares were heavy bars of rusted iron. It was like a cell front in a prison.

  “Gram sleeps there," said Ensley. “Come close. Don’t be afraid; he won’t stir for any noise you make just now."

  They were all at the grid of bars. “Hold up your lantern, Hob, and keep it high," directed Ensley.

  He set his own lantern down on the rocky floor and fumbled at something on the grid. A harsh grating resounded, as of a lock opening. Ensley caught the barred door and dragged it toward him and against the side of the cavern.

  “Now,” he said, “look in and see what you see.”

  It was a rough-walled cavern, more or less the size of the room Mrs. Fothergill used for office and parlor. At the rear, hard to see in the gloom of the place, rose what looked like a great dark boulder as big as a small car, shaped like a huge loaf of burnt bread.

  “There are candles inside,” Ensley was saying. “One on that little shelf next the big case there, where Gram is at rest. Go and light it for us, Gonda.”

  He took her by the elbow and urged her forward. She took several hesitant steps past the door.

  “I can see the candle,” she said, “but I haven't a match.”

  “Here,” said Thunstone, following her in and holding out his matchbox.

  Behind him rose a whine of rusty hinges. Next moment, the scrape of the lock again.

  CHAPTER 15

  Thunstone whirled around and lunged at the bars. They creaked and sang at the impact of his big body, but they did not yield. They had been locked in place. On the far side of them, Ensley had drawn a couple of paces away. His bright electric lantern gleamed in his left hand. In his right he held a key nearly the size of a hairbrush.

  “You can’t get out,” he said. “Neither you nor Gonda. Those bars were put up in Queen Victoria’s time, but they will hold.”

  “Unlock this damned door!” shouted Thunstone.

  “No, that would spoil everything. There are excellent reasons for you two to stay where you are.”

  “Well, I’m not staying here.” Thunstone seized the thick bars in his hand and shook the door so that it grated on its hinges. “There’s such a thing as law in this country, and you’re breaking it by locking us up.”

  “What the law will be in this country, after midnight tonight, is an interesting conjecture,” said Ensley mildly. “Shall I explain?”

  “Do,” said Thunstone, and again strained at the bars.

  Behind him he heard Gonda make a noise, a sort of strangled swallow. Out in the corridor, Hob Sayle held his lantern well to the rear of Ensley.

  “Suppose we go back to how things were here, those ten thousand years ago,” began Ensley. “Almost exactly ten thousand years ago, within short hours. There were only these caves here then, and they were the temple of Gram.”

  “He was worshipped,” said Thunstone.

  “Yes, he was worshipped indeed. The hunting community that lived here—in fairly snug huts and roofed-over hollows scattered over this part of what has become Claines—worshipped him. He was helpful to his worshippers. Showed where good game was—deer, cattle, wild geese. Showed where to spear fish in pools and streams. When other tribes made war, Gram helped his worshippers win. Yes, he was worshipped. Those old, old paintings you have seen were painted to his honor and glory. And he accepted sacrifices made in gratitude/' Ensley paused, as though to time his next words to sink in. “Human sacrifices," he said then.

  “What kind of human sacrifices?" asked Thunstone. “Prisoners of war?"

  “Oh, no. Prisoners were never taken in war in those days. The sacrifices were people of the tribe, special people. People who could dream dreams, see visions." Again a pause. “People like you, Mr. Thunstone, and Gonda, too."

  Again Gonda made a wretched sound in her throat. She seemed to try to speak, and to fail at it.

  “Was Gram visible?" Thunstone asked, close against the bars. “What was he like, if people saw him? Like you, the Gram of today?"

  “Nothing so matter-of-fact as that. He was a god, you see. He was very tall and broad, twice the size of a mortal man. Shaggy with hair, like a beast, but not a beast. On his head—horns, the branched horns of a stag. An impressive figure."

  “You talk as though you've seen him."

  “I have. I can look backward through time. Ten thousand years ago, I'd have been a logical sacrifice to Gram."

  “You're descended from him,
" said Thunstone, as though making a charge.

  “If that’s true, I can hardly assemble a genealogy when there are no written records anywhere." Ensley seemed almost to be chatting, as though they were sitting together upstairs with glasses of brandy. “But back then, ten thousand years ago—”

  “You've assured yourself that I've been there," broke in Thunstone.

  “Simply by observing you, listening to you, putting quite a column of twos and twos together. Gonda has been back in that time, too. And I with her."

  “I didn't notice you there."

  "But I noticed you. I saw you kill two men, two highly respected community members. That act should logically forfeit your own life, Mr. Thunstone. Well, then, all three of us have the gift of seeing back in time, adventuring back in time. That's why I speak to the point now."

  Gonda had come to Thunstone’s side. She, too, held the bars with her slim hands. "Gram," she said, "you can’t leave us penned up here."

  "I fear that I must," he replied gently. "This is the end of that ten thousand years we keep talking about. At midnight, the end."

  "You’re crazy," Thunstone said.

  "Don’t use that word to me," Ensley snapped. "You wanted me to tell you. Be still and I’ll do so."

  Thunstone said no more, nor did Gonda. Ensley cleared his throat and began to speak again.

  "Gram looked after his own. In those Stone Age days, he provided that the hunters found meat, that the women could gather fruits and berries and nuts and seeds; saw that there was wood for fires in the cold seasons. That no conquering enemy should conquer here. And then, Gram grew weary. He said that he would sleep for ten thousand years."

  "There you go again," said Thunstone, wishing that his arm was long enough for a grab at the lapel of Ensley’s beautifully cut coat. "Ten thousand years again."

  "Once more in all patience I ask, let me explain," said Ensley. "Gram had prospered his people, had savored the grateful sacrifices they had made, until a certain time was accomplished. What the time was, or why it had to end, I can’t fully explain, but Gram lay down to sleep. He said he would sleep for ten thousand years. A count must be kept, and you have seen that it has been kept. Each year, the stone image made of him by the priests of the tribe must be turned over, so that he could rest easily."