_Dreams_
The black curtain of unconsciousness which descended so quickly upon
Rawson was not easily thrown off. For hours, days or weeks--he never
knew how long he lay in the citadel of the Reds--it was to wrap him
around.
Nor was his waking a matter of a moment. Many and varied were the
impressions which came to him in times of semiconsciousness, and which
of them were realities and which dreams, he could not tell.
He was being tortured with knives, lances tipped with pain that
dragged him up from the black depths in which he lay. Dimly he
realized that his clothes were being stripped from him and that the
piercing knives were none the less real for being only the touch of
hands and rough cloth upon his blistered body. Then from head to foot
he was coated with a substance cool and moist. The pain died to a mere
throbbing and again he felt himself sinking back into unconsciousness.
There were other visions, many others, some of them plain and
distinct, some blurred and terrifying to his fevered brain trying
vainly to bring order and reason into what was utterly chaotic.
Once a bedlam of shrieking voices roused him. He tried to open his
eyes, whose lids were too heavy for his strength. And by that he knew
he was dreaming. Yet from under those lowered lids he seemed to see a
wild medley of red warriors, their faces blotched and ghastly in the
green light of their weapons. They were carrying a charred body which
they threw heavily upon the floor beside him as if to compare the two.
He saw the face which the flames had not touched, the face of Jack
Downer--Downer, the sheriff of Cocos County. His sandy hair had been
scorched to the scalp.
Dreams ... and the steady beat of metal-shod feet of marching men. He
saw them passing some distance away. The repeated _thud-thud_ of metal
on stone echoed maddeningly through his brain for hours.... Dreams,
all of them.
And once there came to him a vision which beyond all doubt was unreal.
* * * * *
Silence had surrounded him. For what seemed hours not one of the red
mole-men had come near. And then, in the silence, he heard whisperings
and the sound of stealthy feet; and, for a moment, the same white
figure that had met him in his flight stood where he could see.
Only the merest trace of dim light relieved the utter darkness of the
room. The girl's figure was ghostly, unreal. Yet he saw the dull
sparkle of jeweled breast-plates against her creamy white skin. Loose
folds of cloth were gathered about her waist; her golden hair was
drawn back except for vagrant curls that only accentuated the perfect
oval of her face.
There were others with her, dim shapes of men; how many Rawson could
not tell. They looked down at him, whispering softly, excitedly,
amongst themselves; but their words were like nothing he had ever
heard.
For an instant Dean felt his stupefied mind coming almost to
wakefulness. Phantom figures, ghostly and unreal--but the faces were
human, and the eyes looked down upon him pityingly. He tried to rouse
himself, tried to call out, then settled limply back, for the girl was
speaking--or he was catching her thoughts. It seemed almost that he
heard her whispered words:
"They take him to _Gevarro_, to the Lake of Fire which never dies!
Gor told me--he overheard their plans. But, by the Mountain I
swear...." Then footsteps echoed in a far-off passage, and the white
ones vanished like drifting smoke.
Dreams, all of them. Yet the time came when Dean knew that he was
awake--knew too that further experiences awaited him in this demoniac
land.
* * * * *
Again red guards came. The wicked breath of their weapons filled the
great room where Rawson had been with green, flickering light. Dean,
dragged to his feet, was unable to stand. One of the giant yellow
workers came forward at a whistled order and held him erect. Another
brought a bowl carved from rock crystal and filled with a liquid
golden-green with reflected light. He put it to Rawson's lips and with
the first touch Dean knew that he must have been filled with a burning
thirst beyond anything he had ever known. He gulped greedily at the
liquid, drained the bowl to the last drop, then marveled at the
thrilling fire of strength that flowed through him.
"Wine," he thought, "wine of the gods--or devils." He came to himself
with a start. He knew that he was naked and that his body was encased
in a coating of stiff gray plaster. It was this that prevented his
arms and legs from flexing.
Another order and the giant worker picked him up in his arms and
carried him where the others led to a distant room. A stream trickled
through a cut in the rocky floor. At the center of the room was a
pool. Unable to resist, Dean felt the giant arms toss him out and
down.
The water was warm. At its first touch the hard plaster melted like
snow. Sputtering and choking for breath, Rawson came to the surface.
He found he could move freely, then reaching hands hauled him out
upon the floor, and through all his dread he found time to marvel at
his own firm muscles and the healthy white of his skin that had been
seared and blistered.
He obeyed when the red guards pointed and motioned him into a dark
passageway. He tried to keep up with them as they hurried him on.
Evidently his pace was too slow, for again the big worker picked him
up, swung him into the air and seated him firmly on one broad
shoulder, and, with red guards ahead and behind them, hurried on.
To find himself a child in the hands of this big yellow man was
disconcerting. To be calmly lugged off was almost humiliating. No one
who was not a good sport could have grinned as Rawson did at his own
predicament.
"Not exactly a triumphal procession," he told himself, then his lips
set grimly. "They've got my gun," he thought, "and now, whatever
comes, all I can do is stand and take it. Still, they've saved my
life. But what for?"
* * * * *
Always the way led downward, and Rawson, perched on his strange,
half-human steed, let his gaze follow up every branching tunnel and
widespread cave. Not all of these were as dark as the broad
thoroughfare they followed. In some, strange lights glowed, and Rawson
saw weird, towering plant growths that yellow workers were harvesting.
Life, life, everywhere, and seemingly this underground world was
endless.
Troops of red warriors passed them, upward bound. The dancing flames
of their weapons, where occasional ones were in action, glowed from
afar. They bobbed and waved like green fireflies as the Mole-men came
on at a half-run.
"And this means trouble up top," he thought. "There's going to be hell
to pay up there."
But workers, fighters, everyone they met stood aside to let the red
guard pass. Again Rawson heard the strange word or call that had come
to him in the temple of fire. One of the guides would give a whistling
call that ended in the same strange shrill cry of "Phee-e-al," and
instantly the way was cleared.
A wild journey, incredible, unreal. Rawson, as he met the countless
staring white eyes of the creatures they passed, found his thoughts
wandering. He had had wild dreams. Surely this was only another in
that succession of phantom pictures. Then, seeing the cold, implacable
hatred in those staring eyes, he would be brought back with sickening
abruptness to a full knowledge of his own hopeless situation.
"Gevarro, the lake of fire which never dies"--what was it the white
ones had said? But no, that certainly was a dream like that other in
which he had seemed to see the charred body of a man, the sheriff who
had called to see him at his camp in Tonah Basin.
Dreams--reality--his brain was confused with the wild kaleidoscope of
unbelievable pictures.
* * * * *
He was suddenly aware that through it all he had been mentally
tabulating their route, remembering the outstanding features when
there was light enough to see. He knew that unconsciously his mind had
been thinking of escape. Wilder than all the other visions, he had
been picturing himself retracing his route, alone, free. He did not
know that he had laughed aloud, harshly, hopelessly, until he saw the
curious eyes of his red guard upon him.
"Yes," he told himself in silent bitterness, "I could find my way
back, if...."
The guard had swung off from the great tunnel which must have been one
of the main thoroughfares of the Mole-men's world. They crowded
through a narrower passage and again Rawson found himself in one of
the great, high-ceilinged caves like the others he had seen. But
unlike the others this was brightly lighted.
Massive limestone formation. His eyes squinted against the glare and
caught the character of the rock before he was able to distinguish
details, and in the black limestone big disks of gray mineral had been
set. Jets of flame played upon them and turned them to blazing,
brilliant white.
The big yellow Mole-man who had carried him dropped him roughly to the
floor and backed away. About him the red guard was grouped. Rawson
caught a glimpse of hundreds of other thronging figures. The crowd
about him separated. A space was cleared between him and the farther
end of the room, a lane lined on either side by solid masses of savage
Reds. And beyond them, more barbaric than any figure in the
foreground, was another group.
* * * * *
Across the full width of the room a low wall was raised three or four
feet from the floor. It was capped with rude carvings. The whole mass
gleamed dully golden in the bright light. Beyond the wall in
semicircular formation, resembling a grouping of bronze statues, were
men like the one with whom Rawson had fought. Priests, tenders of the
fires. He knew in an instant that here were more of the red one's holy
men. They stood erect, unmoving. At their center was another seated
man-shape that might have been cast from solid gold.
His naked body was yellow and glittering, contrasting strongly with
the black metal straps like those the warriors wore. On his head a
round, sharply-pointed cap was ablaze with precious stones.
Rawson took it all in in one quick glance. He knew that those copper
bodies were not encased in metal, for the flesh of the one he had
fought with had sunk under his blows. Their skin was coated with a
preparation, heat resistant without a doubt, and the golden one must
have been treated in somewhat the same way.
His thoughts flashed quickly over this. It was the face of that seated
figure that riveted his attention, a white face, milk-white, so white
it seemed almost chalky!
* * * * *
For one breathless second Rawson was filled with a wordless hope.
Those white ones of his dream had looked upon him with kindly eyes.
They were human--men of another race, but men. Then beneath the chalky
whiteness of the face he found the hideous features of the red
Mole-men, and knew that the white color of the face was as false as
that of the golden body.
But he was their leader. He was someone of importance. Rawson had
started forward impetuously when he saw the figure rise. At the first
motion the hands of every red one in the room were flung in air. They
stood stiffly at salute. Even the priests' coppery arms flashed
upward. And "Phee-e-al!" a thousand shrill voices were shouting.
"Phee-e-al! Phee-e-al!"
Rawson stopped, then walked slowly forward, one defenseless, naked man
of the upper world, between two living walls formed by men of a hidden
race.
"Phee-e-al," he was thinking. "He's the one I saw coming into their
temple back there. They got out of our way when they knew we were
coming to see him. He's the big boss here, all right."
He did not pause in his steady, forward progress until his hands were
resting upon the golden barrier. Strange thoughts were racing through
his mind. Phee-e-al, he was facing Phee-e-al, king of a kingdom ten
miles or more beneath the surface of the earth, a place of devils more
real and terrible than any that mythology had dared depict. And he,
Dean Rawson, a man, just one of the millions like him up there in a
sane, civilized world, was down here, standing at a barrier of gold
before a tribunal that knew nothing of justice or mercy.
* * * * *
Thoughts of communicating with them had mingled with other half-formed
plans in his racing mind. Sign language--he had talked with the
Indians; he might be able to get some ideas across. He met the other's
fierce scrutiny fearlessly, then, waiting for him to make the first
advance, let his gaze dart about at closer range. He could not
restrain a start of surprise at sight of his own clothing, his pocket
radio receiver and his pistol spread out on a metal stand.
They had been curious about them. Rawson took that as a good sign.
Perhaps he had been mistaken in his interpretation of what he had
seen. For himself, he could have no real hope, but it might be that
the outpouring of these demons into his own world was a threat that
lay only in his own imagination.
His eyes came back to meet that gaze which had never left him. The
eyes were mere dots of jet in a white and repulsive face. The rounded
mouth opened to emit a shrill whistled order.
In the utter silence of the great room one of the copper-skinned
priests moved swiftly toward the rear. There were chests there,
massive metal things afire with the brilliance of inlaid jewels. The
priest flung one of them open with a resounding clang.
The room had been warm, and the chill which abruptly froze Rawson's
muscles to hard rigidity came from within himself. Dreams! He had
thought them dreams, those marching thousands, and the others who
returned. He had dared to hope he might avert an invasion by this
inhuman horde.
And now he knew his worst imaginings were far short of the truth. He
saw clearly his own fate. For the priest returning was holding an
object aloft, a horrible thing, a naked body, scorched and charred.
And above it a head lopped awkwardly. The hair was sandy; half of it
had been burned to the scalp in a withering flame. Below, staring from
sightless eyes, was the face of the man who had once been sheriff of
Cocos County.