‘The sexes,’ said Mrs Bradley, looking at him severely, ‘must be separated. Those are Sir Rudri’s instructions, dear child. Who am I to gainsay them?’
‘I don’t see that it matters. Nothing happened last night, and father’s an old fathead,’ said Megan decidedly. ‘Why shouldn’t Ronald stay with us if he wants to?’ She patted him kindly on the back. ‘You stay. If Aunt Adela doesn’t like you, she can go off on her own, because three of us together will feel quite safe, I’m certain.’
‘That’s an ungrateful remark,’ said Mrs. Bradley, ‘and I think I shall take you at your word.’
‘Please stay with us,’ said Cathleen. ‘Ronald knows about Ian,’ she added. ‘I told him. When father has done his rounds, Ian can come as well. The other drivers won’t know, and, if they do, they can’t speak English, so that it won’t matter either way.’
‘But Sir Rudri can speak Greek,’ Mrs Bradley pointed out.
‘Father can’t,’ said Cathleen. She smiled at Ronald Dick. ‘We’d better have Gelert as well, and that will include us all.’
‘What about Armstrong?’ asked Dick.
‘And there’s Dmitri,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘We can’t have them,’ said Megan. ‘Besides, Dmitri sleeps in the car. He did last night. And Armstrong will sleep in the museum to-night, I suppose. How bad is he really, I wonder?’
‘Why do you wonder that, child?’
‘I think he’s up to mischief.’
Mrs Bradley’s black eyes lighted on those of the speaker. Megan’s glance slid sideways, dislodging, as it were, Mrs Bradley’s questioning gaze. Mrs Bradley raised her eyebrows and pursed her thin lips into a little beak.
‘You interest me, child,’ she said; but the remark was not interpreted by Megan as an invitation to disclose what she knew or suspected.
Dusk came, and the campers dispersed. Gradually, however, they mustered again, and before midnight everybody except Sir Rudri, Alexander Currie, Armstrong, Dmitri, Dish, and the chauffeurs, had gathered in Mrs Bradley’s vicinity and were carrying on whispered conversations until, one by one, they dropped off to sleep. Cathleen and Ian slept side by side. Ronald Dick, rigid with nervous joy, lay between Megan and Mrs Bradley. His face was turned towards the object of his love. Daring above his wildest aspirations, he put his arm over her. Megan squeezed his thin arm with her heavier, stronger one, and heaved her large, Amazonian frame six inches nearer to his. Gelert lay alone, brooding upon his mis-spent life and wasted opportunities. At two o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts, a large snake glided among the sleepers, liked their warmth and quietness, and coiled itself neatly and unobtrusively between Mrs Bradley and Dick. Mrs Bradley, waking at dawn, put her hand on it. She was startled, but, as the snake did not attempt to move, she kept her hand where it was, and raised herself by imperceptible degrees, until she could get a good look at it. It was not a viper. So much she could see at a glance. It was a much longer snake, and was differently marked from the adders.
‘Hail, Aesculapius,’ said Mrs Bradley politely, thinking it best to be on the safe side in placating the deity which, so far as she knew, still ruled in the stony valley. Then she reached over for her leather suitcase (which she always kept by her at night because it contained, besides clothes, her case-book, note-books, and bed-books), tilted the contents neatly out and placed the empty case, with some care, over the coils of the reptile. Then she rested her head on the suitcase, having placed a roll of spare clothing under her neck, and settled herself as comfortably as she could to await the call to breakfast.
3
Alexander Currie expected to spend a disturbed and restless night. He was one of those people to whom the presence of others in a room is a direct source of irritation, and the presence in the museum that night not only of the little boys but of Armstrong, evoked in him a frenzied restlessness. If he had been a little child he would have kicked and screamed. Had he been an adolescent girl he would have had an attack of hysterics. Being himself, he merely champed, tossed, twisted, muttered, swore, sat up, lay down, and, finally, walked out, bedding and all, preferring to brave the serpents of Aesculapius rather than remain in the museum in the unseen but nerve-trying company of others.
He did not go far away, but lay down under some trees between the museum and the theatre, where he was soon asleep. The little boys, again full of plans, jabbed each other in the ribs and expressed, in pantomime, considerable joy at being relieved of his presence. As soon as they judged it was safe, they followed him out of doors, and, led by Kenneth (since Ivor on the preceding evening had failed so signally as leader), made their way directly to the maze-foundations of the Tholos in which Sir Rudri’s son was supposed to have seen the mysterious figure of which this time they were in search.
Ivor, as a matter of fact, had stuck vigorously to his version that his apparent fright had been with intent to deceive the others; but neither Kenneth nor Stewart was prepared to accept this apostasy.
As they drew near their objective, Ivor began to hang back, but a vigorous kick from Stewart urged him onwards. Kenneth crept to the edge of the ruin, and peered over.
He backed away hastily.
‘He’s there,’ he whispered. ‘At least, I can see something white.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Stewart. The white figure, dignified and stately, yet giving an impression of virility and power, advanced towards him. Scientific curiosity was one thing; a ghost was another. Again the boys fled; this time, in their panic-stricken haste, away from the camp, and so were not heard by the pilgrims.
They soon tripped over and fell flat – Kenneth first, then Ivor, and lastly Stewart, and got up sobered, bruised, in pain, and with the sudden panic gone. Slowly they limped to the museum. There was no moon, and from where they were the building did not show up against the sky. Suddenly, however, up it loomed. Again they crouched down in its shadow and took stock of themselves and were angry.
‘You are silly cuckoos,’ said Ivor. ‘If you’d have let me lead again, I bet I wouldn’t have scooted away like that! We nearly saw who it was, and then you two scooted off. I jolly well bet I wouldn’t have scooted off. I —’
‘You!’ said Kenneth, and punched him in the chest. ‘If you’re so definitely marvellous you’d better go back by yourself. Go on! I dare you to go!’
‘That isn’t a fair dare,’ said Stewart. ‘But if you’ll go, Ivor, I will.”
‘We’ll all go, then,’ said Kenneth. ‘It can’t be much. It hasn’t chased us, anyway.’
‘It might be Aesculapius,’ said Ivor.
‘He wouldn’t hurt us,’ said Stewart. ‘Come on, Ivor. Are you on?’
‘We’re all on,’ said Kenneth, unopposed. They followed his lead towards the ruins. This time there was nothing to be seen.
‘That’s twice we’ve been had,’ said Ivor, unconfessedly, and secretly relieved. ‘I shall mention it to father in the morning.’
‘I still bet it was your father,’ Stewart observed.
‘What would he poke down holes for?’
‘Exactly,’ said Kenneth, hopefully. ‘Perhaps he’s on to something here – treasure or something – and doesn’t intend that anyone else should know. Let’s have another look to-morrow morning. I’m going back to bed.’
They crept back into the museum. The keeper was breathing heavily in his sleep. On Kenneth’s bed a large snake lay asleep. Kenneth, however, did not see it until the morning, when Stewart, noticing it with its head next to Kenneth’s, said softly:
‘I say, you men, Aesculapius.’
Then, a sensible child, he crept to Kenneth, woke him, and drew him away from the snake. Kenneth, although horrified, remained outwardly calm, except that his face went brick-red.
‘We ought to kill it,’ he said. The boys held whispered counsel, Stewart championing the snake, the others agog for its destruction. The snake, apparently missing the warmth of Kenneth’s body, woke up. It raised its head six inches on a thickish, mottled nec
k, and regarded them steadfastly. They stared back at it.
‘It’s no good running away,’ said Stewart, with his usual gravity. Out of a deeply freckled face, his green eyes regarded the snake with an earnest interest which triumphed over vulgar fear. ‘You know, I believe it’s used to human beings. I vote we give it some milk and see how it responds.’
‘It’ll respond by sinking its fangs in you,’ said Kenneth, ‘but I’ll go and scout for the milk if you like.’
Ivor, stoutly asserting that he was not afraid of the snake, went with him. Stewart was going to follow them, but, observing that the snake had lowered its head and showed every sign of desiring to resume its interrupted slumbers, he elected to remain where he was. He waited, quite still, for five minutes after the others had gone, not caring to move in case he disturbed the reptile. After that, however, he grew bolder and walked towards it with the intention of inspecting it more closely. The snake, with great sociability, watched him come. Then it seemed to stretch itself, and, moving with swift neatness, it shot across the floor and wrapped itself affectionately round his leg. Stewart was horribly scared, and yet, as he stood petrified, and the snake dropped its head to his sandalled feet and nestled its throat against his instep, it began to dawn on him that this could be no ordinary serpent, but must be one of the snake-charmer’s pets which had disappeared from Sir Rudri’s tin box to be replaced by the vipers.
The others came back with some goat’s milk and Sir Rudri.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Rudri, ‘this is very gratifying.’
‘And what is this?’ asked Mrs Bradley’s voice from the doorway. Coiled round her skinny arm, its head on the palm of her hand and a slight grin (extraordinarily reminiscent of her own) upon its serene and Oriental features, was another snake. ‘The third is with Gelert, who seems to boast a previous acquaintance with it, and the fourth —’ She disappeared through the doorway, and walked quietly away to where Alexander Currie was sleeping, his head, like Jacob’s, resting upon a stone pillow. The fourth snake, with a devotion worthy of Cleopatra’s asp, was nestling warmly in his bosom. His left arm was thrown carelessly across its scaly coils. His breath and the breath of the morning blew, at different temperatures, but with equal gentleness, on its neck.
The wounded Armstrong, Mrs Bradley noticed, was nowhere to be seen, either inside or outside the museum. Tenderly the company woke all the snakes and fed them, innocent of the knowledge that the snake-charmer’s stock-in-trade were, one and all, considerably more dangerous than the adders, being deadly poisonous reptiles with their poison glands intact. But ignorance was bliss, and it must be chronicled on behalf of the snakes, that they behaved like nursery pets throughout the meal.
4
It seemed to be a matter of tacit general agreement that Alexander Currie should not be informed that he had shared his self-chosen couch with a snake, however friendly and unassuming. Failing the tin box, the four snakes were put into the luggage holder in the back of the car driven by Ian, and the incident, although not forgotten, was soon obscured by the invasion of the valley by sightseers from a cruising liner which had called at Nauplia that morning.
Several dozen car-loads of well-dressed, imperious-voiced, ignorant, exclamatory tourists stood about the theatre, infested the museum, followed their voluble but imperfectly instructed guides about the ruins, put up sunshades, dabbed themselves with anti-fly lotions, sweated, squeaked, smoked, giggled, and at last went back to their ship.
Sir Rudri, literally dancing with fury, announced on their departure that they had destroyed every influence for good in the valley, and that ‘things’ would need to settle down again, perhaps for weeks, before it would be possible to continue the researches profitably.
Armstrong had been discovered under the trees not far from the theatre. He explained, in a dazed manner, that he must have walked in his sleep. The little boys, examining themselves and one another for bruises, discovered that they had none.
‘And I came an absolute mucker,’ said Kenneth, amazed. No one had anything to show for the serious falls that they had had upon running away from the Tholos.
‘If the tourists have prevented us from spending another night here, I’ll drink their health,’ said Gelert to Mrs Bradley, when the dust had settled on the roadside. Sir Rudri, still breathing out fire, and equipped now with sun-glasses and a pith helmet, was writing up his notes. He had not, he said, come to any conclusion about the serpents. He would record them as facts, and draw his deductions later.
Mrs Bradley confessed to a longing to get to Mycenae. The three chauffeurs were to continue in charge of the cars, and Cathleen, when she knew this, was caught between apprehension and delight.
‘I still can’t think why father doesn’t recognize you,’ she said several times to Ian.
‘He is not expecting to see me. He thinks I am in Scotland,’ Ian replied. ‘Therefore it would be a queer thing if he did recognize me.’
So noon found the pilgrims back in Nauplia, and while their elders remained in the inn, in the shade and comparative coolness, the little boys, who had fraternized with the tourists, were taken off to the liner in a launch and were encouraged to explore from end to end of the ship, and from the sports deck to the engine room. The ship put off again at six, and at half past six the pilgrims took to the cars en route for Mycenae by way of the Argos-Corinth road.
It was a short journey. Argos was reached after seven miles of a north-westerly incline with the railway on the west of the road all the way along until, three-quarters of a mile from Argos, the road crossed the line. The little boys cheered the trains.
The chauffeurs did not take their vehicles through the city, but skirted it, and the cars ran on across the thirsty plain, through fields of corn, tobacco, and fruit irrigated by well-water. Six miles farther on the travellers reached the village of Phychtia, the nearest village to the ruined citadel. The road reached the lowest level of the Argive plain, passed between plantations of cotton and tobacco, then a lesser road, branching eastward, brought the party, at the end of another mile and three-quarters, within sight of their objective.
The acropolis of the city of Agamemnon stood up boldly at the head of its savage glen. The Argive plain stretched southward, and the road was wild and deserted. Bare uplands, dead as the mountains of the moon, rose one to the northward and the other to the south of Mycenae, and at the end of an inclined path was the Lion Gate of the citadel. The path itself was bordered by walls of the huge grey stones.
‘Golden Mycenae,’ said Sir Rudri. In an exaggerated manner he kissed the Cyclopean masonry and saluted the lions which reared themselves on either side of a pillar over the gateway. He put his fingers in the door-sockets and stroked the sides of the archway as he passed underneath it. ‘Golden Mycenae,’ he repeated.
They followed him through the archway where great wooden doors had once hung, but which now was guarded by a short iron fence with a gate in it, and ascended a steep, rough path beside a broken wall. Stony, and bearing the plants of the wilderness, the ground sloped downwards away towards the road. The wall grew higher, the path even steeper as they walked, until, at a short distance, they came upon the grave circle with its surrounding narrow walk, bordered by upright slabs of stone, flat, wide, and placed neatly edge to edge. It was difficult to imagine that the stones had been placed so more than three thousand years earlier.
‘Seventeen bodies were found here – eleven men and six women,’ Sir Rudri observed to the little boys, who were desirous of exploring this promising site on their own account, but had been bidden by the leader of the party to walk beside him.
‘Buried in that place?’ asked Stewart, indicating the deep, stone-built pits of the grave-circle.
‘Shaft graves. Agamemnon. Haven’t you heard of the Trojan war?’ said Alexander Currie.
‘He came home from it safely, didn’t he?’ asked Kenneth, who knew how to annoy his father.
‘Where was he murdered, sir?’ asked Ivor, who also knew
this game. Alexander glared at both of them, and caught up with Gelert, who had walked on ahead of his father, and now was standing gazing into the excavations as though in search of something.
‘Why do they call it Golden Mycenae, sir?’ asked Stewart, appealing innocently to Sir Rudri.
‘Because it was a very important place at the time of the fall of Cnossus, in Crete, my boy, and because of all the gold which was used, and afterwards found, here.’
‘Found?’ The boys clustered about him. ‘Do you mean that if we were to search we should find some gold, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Sir Rudri good-humouredly, ‘you might. I shouldn’t think there’s anything left, but of course, one never quite knows.’
‘I know what sort of things to look for,’ said Ivor suddenly. ‘I’ve seen the stuff in the Athens museum. Wedges and wedges and wedges, all in glass cases.’
‘Now, now! You stay with me! We can’t have you falling into the excavations,’ said Sir Rudri, immediately nervous and filled with fussy anxiety. ‘Beatrice, I don’t think the boys should be encouraged to wander hereabouts on their own.’
‘They shall wander with me, dear child,’ replied Mrs Bradley soothingly. She was accepted, through no desire of her own, by all the party as the heaven-sent mentor, preceptor, and nigger-driver of the little boys, and nobody else attempted to cope with their high spirits, adventurousness, idiosyncrasies, or downright disobedience.
‘Good egg,’ said Kenneth. ‘Bags we descend into Avernus.’
He walked down a broken piece of wall and gazed steadfastly into the depths. ‘I bet I could jump that.’
He jumped, staggered, recovered himself, and walked at the bottom of the excavations. It was not intrinsically interesting down there, but he felt satisfied and at peace with himself for having expressed his desires in action – defiant action, for he raised a face of angel sweetness to encounter Sir Rudri’s angry protests from the top.
Come Away, Death Page 11
