Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  I’VE looked up that word “hydrocephalus,” Sarge. It means water on the brain. Here’s what a guy named Blakeslee says about it. A lot of it’s Greek to me, but you’ll get the general idea.

  “Hydrocephalus. Fluid effusion within the cranium, giving rise to a more or less uniform stretching of the cranial bones. The sutures are obviously stretched asunder, accompanied by extreme enlargement of the forehead. Frequently the eyes will appear misplaced. Sometimes they look very much deeper set than normal; in other cases they look as though they are depressed, as a result of the downward pressure exerted by the excess fluid upon the roof of the orbits. Major degrees of hydrocephalus cause such extreme enlargement of the head, coupled with such thinning of the bones and stretching of the sutures, that the diagnosis is almost unmistakable . . .

  Here’s the next important entry.

  The three boys are still alive, though that they can live at all with such inadequate treatment is a miracle. I have only canned milk and a prepared baby food, and it’s a poor substitute for mother’s milk. I buried Ann out in the garden beside the stump where she liked to sit. There was nothing else to do. I can’t leave my three sons while life remains in their little bodies. I’ve decided to try the glandular treatment advocated by Gardner for the hydrocephalic condition.

  There’s no use reading the entries for the next few weeks, Sarge. It’s touch and go for the three boys. But here’s the entry for April 22nd:

  The danger for Andrew, Alonzo and Kenneth is past. They seem almost normal now, though they’ll always have abnormally large heads. I hope their minds are not affected, a definite possibility, since theirs was such a severe case. I left them alone for the first time today while I drove into town for some much needed supplies.

  It goes on that way, Sarge, for about seven years. Then you begin to see Doc Stoner starting to get sort of worried. Something’s wrong with his boys. Finally he writes this:

  May 19, 1937. Lord, what a blunder! I’m a disgrace to the medical profession. To think that this could have happened to my own sons! I’ve noticed a strangeness for quite some time past, and at last I know what it is. Progeria. A glandular ailment so obscure that perhaps only a half dozen cases have been recorded. The indications are almost unmistakable. I’m afraid—no, certain—that this condition is the result of my treatment for the hydrocephalus. I know now that my boys will never be normal, at least physically. Mentally they seem far above average. Andrew is the most brilliant, though all three have truly amazing memories. Already they have read and memorized every book in my library. I’ll have to buy more books. Perhaps they may develop into brilliant scientists or writers.

  I looked that word “progeria” up, too, Sarge, and what a time I had. Here’s the little information I got:

  “Progeria is primary, spontaneous infantism mingled with premature senility. Hence, with shortness of stature and other indications of infantilism, there are baldness, emaciation, arterial sclerosis, and general decrepitude. The ear lobule is absent, the nasal cartilages are conspicuous, and the fingers nodose owing to the prominence of the epiphyses. Death from angina pectoris or other senile disease usually ensues at eighteen or earlier.”

  There’s a lot there that I don’t understand, Sarge, but I do know this. The Three Wise Men were freaks built up by those two diseases. They looked like men from the future—or, at least, like some writers say they’ll look. Mawson saw their possibilities, talked Stoner into showing them off—after all, Stoner was probably proud of their brains—and got the doctor to go into the thing himself. When he saw what it was leading to, he tried to back out, but Mawson wouldn’t let him. He faked the kidnaping to upset Mawson’s plans.

  The three boys, old men at eighteen, died of old age. And Stoner, all broken up because his sons were dead, and probably blaming himself, burned their bodies with the cabin, to let them keep the little glory that was theirs.

  I’ve spoiled that by telling you this, but anyway, I’ve saved him from the chair.

  Here’s the diary, Sarge. There’s a lot more dope in it. I guess I’d better report back to Joe Wallace.

  1940

  THE CAULDRON

  In Bonnie Days Long Ago, a Scottish King Did Lose the Gift of Life Itself

  THERE was no light in the little Highland cottage save the flickering gleam of the peat fire. Its glow dimly outlined the two men seated before the wide stone hearth—tall, broad-shouldered Robert MacNair, and his short, weatherbeaten old uncle, Jock Dougal. Swirling tendrils of aromatic smoke rose from their blackened briars to mingle with the pungent odor of burning peat.

  Faint sounds filtered into the room from the wilderness outside—the plaintive whisper of the wind creeping through the oaks and pines on the slopes of Ben Hee, the endless lament of a leaping mountain burn, and the eerie cry of a night bird alone in the solitude and dark that mantled Loch More.

  “Robbie, lad,” Jock Dougal finally said, “I’m unco’ glad to ha’e ye here wi’ me in my wee Heiland hame, but I ken fu’ weel that ye ha’e no’ come juist to see auld Jock. If it’s no’ askin’ ought that ye canna tell, Robbie, wha’ brings ye here?”

  MacNair looked quizzically at the old Scot. A little man, Jock Dougal, with a ruddy, wizened face, thick white hair and chin whiskers, and his head cocked far to one side as he shrewdly surveyed his nephew. He looked, thought MacNair, like a little brown gnome of the moorlands.

  “I’ve been expecting that question, Uncle Jock,” he answered. “And I suppose you’ll tell me I’ve come on a fool’s errand. But in a word, I’m seeking the Cauldron—the Cauldron of Tegid the Bald. Have you ever heard of it, Uncle Jock?”

  Deliberately Dougal took his ancient pipe from his mouth and tamped the tobacco deeper into the bowl. He looked at MacNair with narrowed eyes.

  “Ay, Robbie, I’m thinkin’ I heard o’ Tegid’s Cauldron once—’twas lang syne when I was a wee bairn like ye. But what do ye ken aboot it?” MacNair shook his head, the light from the hearth painting yellow highlights on his unruly auburn hair.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. You see, when mother died, she left me some papers that had been father’s, and among thegi I found a record of how you and he had spent more than a year searching for the Cauldron. He mentioned all the lakes he had visited—and Loch More was the last on the list. Then I remembered that you lived on the edge of Loch More—and I decided to pay you a visit. I’d like to take up the search where father stopped.”

  Old Jock pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Ay,” he mused, “ye’re a braw lad, Robbie, a braw lad. Ye’re yer father’s son, wi’ yer strang chin an’ yer hair o’ flame. An’ there’s fire in yer een, Robbie; an’ I ha’e no doot if the Cauldron can be foun’, yell fin’ it. So I’ll tell ye the tale.

  “We maun gae back a guid mony years, Robbie, to the days when the Sidhe an’ the Pechties dwelt on the moors an’ braes. For ’twas then that Tegid an’ his wife, Cerridwen, came oot o’ Loch Bala in Wales.

  “Tegid, ’tis said, was a king, the King o’ the Worl’-Unner-Watter. He was a sma’ man, Robbie, sma’ as yer Uncle Jock, but he was unco’ fat, an’ there wasna a hair on his head, so they called him Tegid the Bald. Wi’ his wife, Cerridwen, he was cast oot o’ his kingdom, into the Ian’ above the lochs.

  “An’ naught could he tak’ wi’ him, save the Cauldron, which he grabbed when they fled. ’Twas his greatest treasure, for as lang as he had it, he an’ his couldna dee. For in it could be brewed the Watter o’ Life.

  “Because he had ta’en the Cauldron, the priests o’ the Watter Worl’ cursed Tegid. So long as the Cauldron wasna in its restin’ place, juist that lang must Tegid, his wife, an’ any offspring they might ha’e, remain wi’ the accursed cook pot!

  “’Twas aboot this time that their daughter, Creirwy, was born, an’ a bonnie lass she was, more beautifu’ e’en than her mither. But like them, she fell unner the curse.”

  JOCK DOUGAL sighed deeply.

  “Then tribble began. The Pechties, wha’ had po
wer o’ their ain, stole the Cauldron—an’ the Bald Ane began his lang years o’ wanderin’ ower the land an’ sea, afollowin’ it. The Pechties lost it to the Druids. It slipped frae their fingers, an’ King Arthur came to ha’e it, no doot wi’ Merlin’s help, for he was a Druid.

  “Bran, son o’ Llyr, got it somehow, an’ he ga’e it to Matholwych, King o’ Ireland. An’ Matholwych took it awa’ across the sea to his castle. An’ there Tegid caught up wi’ it, an’ fled wi’ it back to Scotland, the men o’ Matholwych dreadfu’ close. An’ to keep it frae failin’ into their han’s, he drapped it in the watters o’ a Heiland loch. An’ nae mair did ony mon hear o’ Tegid the Bald.

  “Yer father an’ I went frae loch to loch, searchin’ for sign o’ the Cauldron. An’ here, on a stane on the wee isle in the midst o’ Loch More, we found carved in the Gaelic the words, ‘Tegid Voel’, a name some ga’e to the Bald Ane. An’ we knew we’d come to the end o’ our quest. But Loch More is unco’ large an’ amazin’ deep—an’ we couldna fin’ the Cauldron.”

  Old Jock Dougal sighed. “Then your father marrit sweet Marget, my sister, an’ they made a hame in Glesca. I built my hoose here in the Heilatfds, an’ here I ha’e dwelt for mony a year.”

  After a moment of silence, MacNair asked:

  “And in all this time, Uncle Jock, haven’t you found anything that might indicate where the Cauldron might be—or more, perhaps, about Tegid?”

  “We-el—I ha’e no’ seen ought o’ the Cauldron, but twa years agane I saw a lass wha’ might ha’e been Crierwy, the daughter o’ the Bald Ane. She wasna o’ this worl’, I ken fu’ weel—an’ she was so unco’ fair my auld een were dazzled by sight o’ her.”

  “You saw Crierwy, Uncle Jock?” MacNair demanded incredulously.

  Dougal chuckled. “Na, na, Robbie, lad—I said she might ha’e been Crierwy! Perchance she wasna. I dinna ken. But she might ha’e been. At ony rate, ’twas a chance to learn aboot the Cauldron—but yer father was deid, an’ I was too auld to fash mysel’ ower it.

  “But ye—ye’re a braw lad, Robbie, an’ perchance ye can accomplish wha’ my years wadna permeet.”

  He paused, smoking in silent thought for some moments.

  “ ’Tis a strange story, ane that I ha’e no’ told before. I dinna wish to ha’e men call me daft. But I’ll tell ye the tale, an’ I’ll show ye the proof—at ony rate, ye can feel o’ it, though ye canna see it.

  “ ’Twas the heather ale that started it. Heather ale, ye ken, is a magic brew made by the Pechties. I foun’ the bottle in the fall o’ the year. A bonnie day it was, wi’ the leaves o’ the oak trees coverin’ the braes wi’ a carpet o’ color. No’ a cloud was in the sky ower a’ the Heilands. An’ I went oot in my wee boat to the isle in the midst o’ yon loch. There’s naught on’t save a few pine trees an’ a heap o’ stanes covered wi’ ivy, the ruins o’ a castle, no doot.

  “A’ the day I spent wi’ my rod, castin’ for trout. But the devil was in the loch, an’ the fish juist wadna bite. Part o’ the day I cast frae the isle, an’ part frae the boat—but ’twas a’ the same. The sun was winkin’ fast behind the hills, the nicht was creepin’ ower the worl’, an’ wi’ it came a storm risin’ oot o’ the Nor’ Sea. My creel was unco’ empty, but I wadna gi’e way to despair. The stubborn bluid o’ the Dougal’s wadna permeet.

  “So I cast an’ I cast till the black o’ the nicht hid the watter frae my een, then I said to mysel’, Come awa’ wi’ ye, Jock—’tis time ye’re gangin’ hame. An’ ye’ll be as weel to hurry if ye dinna want a wet skin.

  “I was on the isle, an’ wi’ my rod high ower my head, I started across the groun’. I dinna think o’ the heaps o’ stanes till I was pushin’ my nose an’ face frae ane o’ the crannies, an’ was spittin’ oot a mouthfu’ o’ pine needles to mak’ room for strang words. For in my fall I had made kindlin’ o’ my fishin’ rod—a mortal waste o’ guid silver!

  “I flang it awa’ wi’ a curse. Then my han’, unner a stane, touched somethin’ that felt uncon’ like a bottle—an’ ’twas a bottle that sloshed an’ gurgled when I shook it. An’ when I rose to my puir achin’ limbs an’ limped to the boat, the bottle gaed wi’ me.”

  DOUGAL’S eyes glowed in the remembrance. “Oot on the loch the wind was blawin’ like the devil’s own. ’Twasna a soughin’, whinin’ wind—’twas a rantin’, tantin’, tearin’ wind that fair cut to the morrows o’ a mon. On the shore I could hear it rakin’ the oak trees, rippin’ awa’ the leaves an’ throwin’ them ower the watter. ’Twas cauld—unco’ cauld—an’ wi’ the bottle between my knees I was sair tempted.

  “The wind was in my face, an’ the rowin’ dreafu’ hard. ’Twas black as the pits o’ hell, an’ I couldna see tva inches before my nose. I stopped to get my bearin’s—an’ decided to ’s’ a wee smell o’ the contents o’ the bottle. I foun’ it in the black o’ the fcoat at my feet, an’ after strugglin’ wi’ a glass stopper wi’ tremblin’ fingers, I got it open an’ held the mouth o’ the bottle to my nose.”

  Old Jock Dougal sighed deeply. “That’s ae moment, Robbie lad, I’ll ne’er forget. Juist a smell o’ that brew was a bit o’ heaven. I canna describe it, Robbie—but I knew then that it couldna be ought save heather ale. An’ like a droonin’ mon graspin’ a bit o’ turf on the watter, I set my lips to the bottle.

  “I’m no’ a drinkin’ mon, Robbie, but ye ken, I ha’e had my share o’ whuskey. There was ane evenin’ a doctor invited me in to ha’e a taste, an’ we drank sax or seven rounds. The doctor couldna walk steady to the door after it, but I gaed awa’ hame wi’ no mair tribble than if I had ta’en watter. But that heather brew—juist a wee nip, an’ I could ha’e walked on the loch!

  “The wind? ’Twas juist a bonnie breeze noo. I corked the bottle wi’ unco’ care, an’ started rowin’ like a daft fool. The boat fair danced ower the waves. An’ my een—they were playin’ tricks, for I saw things na mortal mon should see. I wouldna tell ye, Robbie, for ye’ll think I’m no’ sound in the head.

  “But ’twas then, lad, as I neared the shore, that I saw the lass I telt ye aboot. She was sittin’ on a great rock on the bank’ a wee, sobbin’ burn that rins past the hoose an’ splashes into the loch. She was a’ dressed in a lang white robe, an’ there was a licht around her like the licht ye see dancin’ ower bog an’ moorland. An’ her face, Robbie—’twas so won’erfu’ fair I couldna bear to look on’t.

  “I closed my een—an’ when I opened them again, she was gone.”

  For moments after the old Scot finished his tale, there was silence in the darkened room. Rob MacNair checked a faint smile that hovered on his lips. A queer story, indeed; but his uncle was quite evidently sincere.

  “But the proof, Uncle—you mentioned proof.”

  “Ay, an’ I did.” Dougal rose and crossed to a cupboard. “An’ I ha’e the proof, lad—the bottle o’ heather ale!”

  Wonderingly MacNair waited. But as the old Scot came within the glow of the peat fire, he stood up suddenly, his eyes wide. The other’s broad, blunt-fingered hand was held out before him as though wrapped around the neck of a bottle—but it was empty!

  Jock Dougal chuckled at his nephew’s wide-eyed stare. “Na, na, laddie, dinna ye say’t. My hand is no’ empty, but ye cann see the bottle. ’Tis inveesible. Here—hauld it—but be carefu’ ! ’Tis worth its wecht in silver!”

  MacNair reached out gingerly, and as his hand came into contact with smooth, cold glass that his eye could not see, he felt a chill ripple along his spine, and a startled gasp escaped him. Then he gripped the invisible bottle and ran his fingers along its curving expanse. He shook it gently, heard the fluid within splashing against the sides of the vessel.

  “And—and it’s really heather ale?”

  Dougal’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ay, Robbie, an’ it is.”

  MacNair frowned wonderingly, adjusting his thoughts to this startling fact. Heather ale—a drink brewed perhaps a thousand years ago by a race of little men, now dead.
Or were they dead? Might not they, or their descendants, be invisible, like the bottle?

  AND the Cauldron—this strange bottle made belief in the Cauldron and its power far less difficult. MacNair thought of the girl his uncle had seen; and strangely, he did not, even momentarily, doubt her existence. He thought of something else.

  “If it’s such a wonderful drink, Uncle Jock,” he asked, “why is there so much of it left?”

  The old Scot sighed ruefully. “’Tisna for mon so auld as the Dougal, Robbie. I canna stand it. Once since findin’ it, I took juist a wee nip, an’ I wasna the same for days an’ days. I saw the bottle then, an’ the ale seemed alive, Robbie, glowin’ like the lass on the rock. But the brew is no’ for me.”

  “I’d like to try a drink of heather ale, Uncle,” MacNair said suddenly.

  Dougal leaned his head on his shoulder, then shrugged.

  “Losh, laddie—an’ ye will, help yersel’. I’ll get ye a glass,” he added, crossing to the cupboard.

  Removing a queerly shaped stopper, MacNair eagerly took the goblet from the old Scot, carefully tilted the unseen bottle. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples as the invisible liquid gurgled out, and his nostrils twitched to a faint, yet delightful aroma that perfumed the air. Thrusting the bottle into Dougal’s hand, he raised the glass to his lips.

  Rob MacNair sipped the heather ale, rolled it on his tongue, and his lean face glowed with incredulous delight. Lord, he thought, never was there drink like this! Reluctantly he let it trickle down his throat—felt it burst like a bomb within him—felt tingling fire speed through his veins.