For moments which seemed hours, Pic remained silent, staring at the
ground; and in those few moments, his remembrance of past events drifted
slowly back; his alliance with the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, his travels
and adventures with those wonderful beasts and the various incidents
leading up to his mishap in the Giant’s stronghold.
He had been very ill, his mind a blank and his body all but consumed by
wasting fever. Now he was on the mend, his brain cleared; but the Mammoth
and Rhinoceros were gone—forever.
“You spoke of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros.” The Giant was regarding him
with amazement. “Those two are animals, not men. No man has animals for
his friends. You do not remember. Your head is not yet well.”
“You are mistaken,” Pic replied with an earnestness that impressed the
other deeply. “All is well here;” he pointed to his forehead. “I have
been very ill, I know. Once I remembered nothing; but now everything
is clear. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were my friends,—the best I ever
had—but now they have gone away; where, nobody knows.”
The Giant gulped. Never had he heard the like. Here was a man who chose
to debase himself by associating with inferior creatures and was not
ashamed to confess it. Preposterous! He found it difficult to hold his
temper.
“What matters it if a mammoth and rhinoceros are friends or not?” he
growled. “But any man who chooses to associate with them is no better
than they—a beast.”
“But I am alone,” said Pic. “That is why I chose the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros——”
“Quite right. Men cannot live alone either,” the Giant interrupted. “It
destroys something here;” he touched a finger to his forehead—“Return to
your own people before it is too late.”
“But I am an outcast, a renegade from my tribe and am not permitted to
return,” said Pic, sobered by the other’s earnestness. “I was lonely. I
met the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. They were wonderful creatures. We had
many adventures. They saved my life and I saved theirs. Men never did as
well for each other. I will give up my friends for no man.”
A low rumble sounded in the distance. The Giant looked up with a start
and stared across the gorge—at a mass of dark clouds slowly rising
above the horizon. His eyes shone with a strange light. He shivered and
trembled like a frightened child. Pic began to understand. The Giant was
afraid of the thunder-clouds. All men feared thunder and lightning.
“It makes him nervous and ill-tempered,” thought Pic. “When the clouds
pass, he will be himself again.”
Suddenly the Giant sprang to his feet and glanced behind him, listening
attentively and sniffing as animals do when they strive to catch the
scent. His club lay on the cave floor. With the stealth of a panther, he
glided to the weapon, seized it and edged nearer to the rear wall. Pic
waited in breathless suspense. He could now barely discern the Giant’s
dark figure standing with bludgeon held across his shoulders as though
awaiting the attack of some unknown enemy.
All was as quiet as death. While Pic looked on, scarcely daring to
breathe, he heard a faint scratching sound. It came from the rear wall,
low and muffled as though originating in the heart of the rock. Gradually
it grew louder, more distinct and with it, the labored breathing of some
living thing. The Giant must have heard the sounds but he made no sign,
only stood like a stone image with weapon held ready—and waiting. Pic
raised his ax and kept his eyes and ears open for something which might
break the spell and explain the scene before him.
Suddenly a loud scuffling sounded from the darkness; a fearful snarling
and growling and a gaunt, shaggy figure bounded to the entrance. The
bludgeon descended with a crash and a great wolf fell sprawling on the
ledge. Like a flash, the Giant dropped his club and dashed upon the
struggling brute. It snapped and snarled horribly as he seized it by
the scruff of the neck with his bare hands. In a twinkle the wretch was
raised aloft like a kitten. One mighty heave; and it whirled high into
space, then descended with a splash into the river below.
“A wonderful toss,” muttered Pic as the brute went spinning aloft; and he
gazed in awe upon the Giant who now stood watching him with arms folded
across his broad chest.
“Cave-wolf?” asked Pic. It seemed an absurd question, but he could think
of nothing else to say.
“Ugh; a cave-wolf,” growled the other. “I heard him coming and was
prepared to strike. Thus I kill all who intrude in my cave.” He glared at
Pic so savagely, the youth shrank back alarmed; and yet his fear failed
to silence the question that arose involuntarily to his lips:
“The wolf came from the cave. How did he get in?”
Without replying the Giant abruptly left the cave and began to ascend
the cliffs where, on one side of the cave-mouth, the steep wall was
broken by corners and crevices. This was the Giant’s stairway, his means
of ascending from the grotto to the plateau above.
Pic followed and looked on while his surly host clambered up the
rock-ladder and disappeared over the top. Once alone, he squatted upon
the cave threshold to think over the recent happenings and make his plans.
“I will leave with the next sunrise,” he determined; and as he made this
decision, he remembered the Giant’s warning: “Return to your people
before it is too late.” He felt lonely and now that the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros were gone he longed for a glimpse of his home on the Rock of
Moustier. “Perhaps you and your people have misunderstood each other,”
a low voice within him said; but the truth was he felt homesick and
now longed for human companionship. The Giant’s latest mood inspired
his mistrust. In his weakened condition, Pic fully realized his own
helplessness, even when armed with his wonderful flint-ax, the blade of
Ach Eul.
As he looked upon it, he felt that it had brought him nothing but
trouble. His search had ended in failure. True, he had at last found
a Terrace Man, only to learn that the latter knew nothing of what he
sought—the art of retouching hammered flakes. That art would never again
see the light and with that hope gone, his ambition was gone with it. His
efforts at flint-making would end now and for all time. He would return
to his people—to be a hunter and warrior and live as a man should. The
finger of scorn would no longer point at him, the Ape Boy—the little
beast without a tail, hiding in a man’s skin. He would be known as Pic,
leader of men, enemy of beasts; the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros alone
excepted. He glowed, he smiled; for on the morrow he would be on his
way—back to his people and the Valley of the Vézère.
A dull, rumbling noise overhead disturbed Pic’s reverie. He looked
up startled and saw that the sky had become heavily overcast. Black,
threatening clouds were slowly closing the last gap of blue in the
southwest quarter. He arose to his feet and entered the cave to find
refuge from the storm-clouds that threatened at any moment to pour down
their wrath upon his head.
The rumbling sounded again. It was as though some savage beast were
growling in the sky. Pic peered into the darkness of the cavern. The
wolf had sprung from there—from where? Pic had never examined the cave
interior. His whole interest had been in sunshine and fresh air. But the
wolf had come from it and others might do the same. For some unknown
reason, the Giant had resented any questioning on the subject. The
mystery could be investigated during his absence—now.
After a moment’s wait to accustom his eyes to the darkness, Pic
groped his way to the rear wall. As his hands glided along the clammy
rock, it suddenly sank into empty space; a large hole partly covered
with a limestone slab and large enough to admit a man’s head and
shoulders. He was about to examine further when he heard a low scraping
noise—rustling—as of something moving in the heart of the rock. “Another
wolf;” he smiled grimly and raised his ax all prepared to strike—just as
the Giant had struck. The noise grew louder,—scraping, scratching, growls
and mutterings. Pic’s hair stood on end. His knees trembled. He bent down
and hastily replaced the stone slab across the opening; then tip-toed to
a far corner of the cave—his corner and bed of leaves. For an instant,
the latter rustled noisily as he made a nest for himself, then all was
quiet there except for loud breathing as of one who sleeps.
His face was turned towards the crack in the rear wall. One eye watched
the limestone slab through half-closed lids. It saw the stone thrust
gently aside. A head appeared in the opening. Two eyes—fire-specks in
the center of great black blotches—turned this way and that; towards the
cave entrance, the outside ledge and lastly the interior of the cave
itself. In a moment, they alighted upon the figure lying on the bed of
leaves. Pic’s eyes were closed. To all appearances, he was sound asleep.
The head, then shoulders and body drew themselves clear of the dark hole
and re-set the stone in place. This done, the newcomer glided to the
far corner of the cave and stood over the figure huddled in the nest of
leaves.
For Pic, this was a terrible moment. He breathed heavily—so heavily and
his heart pounded so loudly against his ribs, he dreaded less they arouse
suspicions as to the soundness of his slumber. Great was his relief when
he heard the intruder turn away towards the entrance. He opened one eye
and saw a huge, dark figure standing in the cave-mouth, peering up at the
sky. The figure was the Giant of the Neander Gorge.
The sleeper stirred, yawned audibly and rubbed his eyes, whereupon the
Giant looked around, growled and straightway resumed his sky-gazing. Pic
sat up; but he made no effort to leave his nest. He was wondering how
he could leave the grotto and reach the stairway leading to the plateau
above without being observed. His host blocked the exit. No longer did
he think to withhold his departure until morning. His plans were laid to
leave at the earliest possible moment.
He shuddered, for just then the Giant whined as though in fear and shrank
back within the cave. Pic glanced through the entrance into the world
outside. The clouds no longer moved. They hung so thick and low, it
seemed as though any moment, they might fall and fill the gorge. The air
was warm and stifling beneath the black pall overhead. It was not air;
only a dark greenish haze occasionally lighted by a momentary radiance.
The storm was at hand. All grew dark. Pic shut his eyes and tried to
forget.
A tremendous crash and a flood of dazzling light penetrated the innermost
recesses of the cave. With a cry of terror, Pic looked wildly about him.
His eyes were half-blinded by a succession of brilliant flares which
momentarily lighted up the cave-mouth and platform outside. The flares
alternated with thunderous roars which made the rock-roof tremble above
his head. Outside, the rain descended in torrents. The wind swept in
blind fury across the gorge—a black, howling madness, battering against
the southern limestone wall.
As he cowered trembling in his corner, a low, beast-like snarl fell
upon his ears—more menacing, more terrifying than the roaring tempest.
Suddenly a flash of light revealed a sight that made his hair stand on
end. The staring eyes, bared teeth and distorted features of a fiend
were seared upon his brain as with a red-hot iron.
“Men cannot live alone;” Pic remembered his companion’s recent warning;
and now he understood. No human being could long endure the companionship
of none but his own thoughts, the gloom of a cave and the cold and
darkness of winter, when even the sight of his own shadow was denied him.
The Neander Giant had gone mad.
Pic’s blood ran cold. He had no fear of the storm now. He feared nothing
but the fiend beside him. Not even the Cave Lion could have inspired
a fraction of the terror he felt at that one glimpse of the madman’s
distorted face. The Giant had warned him to leave. He must go now—at once.
He raised himself clear of his nest and felt about for his ax. His hand
found it and gripped the haft. Slowly and without a sound, he glided
towards the cave-mouth. Another moment and he would have turned the
corner to safety when suddenly a hand touched his shoulder—an iron hand
which silently bade him advance no farther. He stopped. Cold sweat broke
out all over his body. He would have shrieked but his throat could give
forth no sound. Again he tried to pass; but the hand and arm behind it
were like an iron beam which held him back. He shrank into the cave once
more and the pressure was released. No words were spoken—only low growls
and beast-like snarls. The lightning flashes increased in frequency
and force. They revealed the mad Giant standing guard in the entrance.
Pic gripped his ax with a desperate fleeting notion of closing in and
attempting to match the other’s strength with his blade of Ach Eul; but
another glimpse of the diabolical face and he faltered. Such an idea were
madness itself.
And then—he suddenly bethought himself of the opening behind the slab
in the rear wall. It was a secret passage, a tunnel communicating with
the outside world—liberty. The Wolf had come from there; the Giant too.
His despair changed to hope. He retreated to the depths of the cave. It
was but the work of a moment to find the limestone panel and push it
noiselessly aside. He dropped flat on his belly and thrust his head and
shoulders into the opening. The cold water streamed through and almost
overwhelmed him, but he paid no heed. He followed with his body, his
legs, his feet; and the cave with its mad occupant was left behind.
The passage inclined upwards. It was a crack or seam in the rock,
smoothed and enlarged by the water that had trickled through it for
untold centuries. He could progress but slowly as he lay flat on his
chest and stomach and pushed himself along with his feet and hands. The
passage-way seemed endless but he kept on upward as fast as he could
crawl. And now he was nearing his journey’s end. Every moment the path
ahead was illuminated by flashes of reflected light. He could faintly
distinguish a roaring above his head as though the thunder was welcoming
his escape from the Giant’s wrath. With a supreme effort he reached the
outlet; then shrank back appalled as his head encountered the fury of the
storm.
For an instant, he looked on, dismayed. The end of all things, appeared
at hand; then the remembrance of the cave and its mad occupant urged him
to seek the open—the lesser evil. Once more he pushed his head through
the hole. He was about to draw himself clear when something closed on one
ankle with an iron grip. A great hand held him fast. It was as though
he were chained to the rock. He heard no sound; but with that grip upon
his foot, his last chance had passed. In a panic of fear, he turned and
struck behind him with his ax. A blood-curdling yell; and the crushing
hold on his ankle relaxed. With a bound, he hurled himself clear of the
opening, stumbled and fell heavily upon his back. A huge head sprang up
behind him. A pair of hands with fingers spread and curled like eagle’s
claws, stretched over the prostrate figure. Pic groaned and shut his eyes
as the cruel talons descended to clutch his throat.
A deafening crash; a blot of dazzling flame shot down like a meteor
from the heavens, striking the madman in the very midst of his spring.
A second flash showed his great head and shoulders thrown back across
the opening. Both arms were raised aloft and the look on his face was
ghastly. Flare after flare revealed him sinking lower and lower, his
eyes protruding in a hideous death-stare as though in hatred of the
thunderbolt that had cheated him of his prey. Slowly he slid back into
the fissure while Pic looked on in fascinated horror until the now
lifeless body disappeared from sight.
For an instant, the darkness remained unbroken; then a momentary gleam
disclosed a scene of wild desolation along the storm-swept heights
overlooking the Neander Gorge. It lighted up the now empty mouth of the
fissure and the figure of a man fast disappearing in the blinding fury of
the tempest.