But it was a matter of only a few weeks until I was again called to
Trelane Valley. A letter from the railway company informed me that the
supply of water in the spring had failed, and they wished to cancel the
lease.
The letter invited me to come and see for myself, and a few days later I
again stood at the mouth of the huge hole which opened into the upright
face of the cliff.
But now the water had receded until, from the entrance, one could discern
only a black pool, far underground. The hole in the cliff was now the
entrance to a cave of impressive dimensions. The shaft pitched downward
at a gentle slope, and I could see that the roof of the cave now hung
clear, above the water.
Through mud and slime we waded along the floor of the cavern until we
reached the water’s edge. Davis carried a flashlight, which he turned
into the further depth. On the other side of the water the floor sloped
upward until it became lost in the gloom beyond the reach of the light.
Somewhat past the opposite edge of the water, I made out two
objects—bulky, and but dimly defined against the black floor.
“What do you think they are?” I asked Davis.
“Loose boulders—flaked off from above. Stones are always dropping from
the roof of caves.”
This suggestion left me unsatisfied. Of course, such stones might be of
almost any shape, and yet the outline of those objects did not suggest
the chance figure of loose stones.
Curiosity mastered me, but I was silent.
Returning to the village, the cancellation of the lease was soon
effected. The very next day the pumping engine was hauled away, and
the board shack which housed it was torn down and removed. A few
pieces of its timber framing were left lying about—some of substantial
cross-section, and some pieces of board.
This I noticed with satisfaction, for they would prove useful in carrying
out my determination to explore the cave.
_IV._
That night, while the village people slept, I walked to the cave. I was
equipped with a hammer, some nails, and an electric flashlight.
From the refuse lumber of the pump-house I constructed a raft, and with a
pole to propel it, easily crossed the pool of water, and stepped out into
the muddy slime which covered the upward slope of the cave floor.
Although encrusted with mud, it was at once apparent that one of the
objects I had come to examine was a human skeleton.
But, _such_ a skeleton!
Short of stature it was, with a barrel-like chest of prodigious size. The
arms reached well below the knees. The skull was of unusual thickness and
abnormal shape.
It required no effort of imagination to recall the stories of The Thunder
Voice. Such a frame must have housed lungs of a power far surpassing
that of any ordinary human being. I could easily conjecture the vocal
might this creature had possessed when this skeleton had housed a living
organism.
The other object was a boat—of most unusual build.
It was constructed from rough slabs which had apparently been hewn from
solid timbers with an ax. It was flat-bottomed, with square ends which
sloped upward. The pieces were fastened together by wooden pegs driven
through roughly cut holes.
I turned from the boat and, climbing the sloping floor, roved my light
about as I continued my exploration. A little further along the floor
under my feet became dry, and then the cave turned abruptly to the left.
Just beyond this turn I stumbled over something.
It, too, was a skeleton!
Different in every particular from the first, however. Its living tenant
had been fairly tall, and with a well-proportioned figure. The cave was
quite dry here, and only a light dust covered the yellowed bones.
My interest quickened. There had been _two_ tenants in this unknown cave!
One, I felt sure, had been the son of Bartien Delloux—the creature with
The Thunder Voice. But who had shared this dark cavern with him?
Inch by inch, I examined the floor, the walls, and even the roof of the
cavern. There was little to be seen—some bones of small animals, the
rusted blade of an axe, portions of rotted fur, and in a nook opening out
from the main cave were some scattered fibers of decayed cloth.
Finally, when I was on the point of turning about to leave the place,
I found something which fired me with renewed interest. It was a small
bottle of flattish shape. The bottom was covered with dry, black, flaky
particles—dried ink, I surmised.
In a crevasse of the rock I found a rotted leather bag, which
fell to pieces at my touch. From it dropped several articles, but
eagerly I seized upon one—an age-yellowed, thin, paper book; such as
school-children, even to this day, use for writing exercises.
Gingerly I turned the leaves, for the paper was brittle with age. The
pages were filled with writing—but no childish scrawl, this!
The penmanship was exquisite—of that type affected by ladies of a
generation long past—the letters narrow and slanting, yet as clear and
distinct as those on a printed page.
Carefully I tucked the book inside my coat, and with all possible haste
made my way back to the village hotel.
* * * * *
Locking the door of my room, I opened the book, and the words upon its
first page brought me to a startled attention:
“_Why am I, Margaret Kingsley, the child of good, honorable
parents, living now in a cave, eating raw meat, existing as
a savage—my mate, a hideous creature whose very sight would
disgust and appall the people I have heretofore known?_
“_The answer is, that I am here because I WANT to be here.
Since the night when he called to me, and I went forth to be
carried here in his arms, I have had many chances to escape,
but I CHOOSE TO REMAIN!_
“_Ugly he is, beyond argument, but I love him for his giant
strength, and for the tenderness he shows me—a tenderness
exceeding that of a mother for her child. Within his misshapen
body is a heart starved for affection—and that I am glad to
give._
“_Only a few words of French can he speak, and yet he quickly
grasps my unspoken wishes and tries to gratify them._
“_This book, the quill, the ink with which I write this,
belonged to one of my pupils. The other night he brought them
to me, in the bag containing her school books. How he obtained
them I know not. Secretly I had longed for the materials with
which to write—not that human eyes will ever see that which is
written here—but because I have been accustomed to write down
the things which are me—those inner thoughts and impulses which
possess and dominate me._”
* * * * *
Then followed pages describing her life in the cave—and of night journeys
through the woods when her mate would delight himself in voicing wild
cries—sounds which she came to love. Wildly she rejoiced with him, and
laughed as she thought of the terror these resounding cries brought to
the simple folk in the valley below them.
Strangest of all, she thought, was his understanding of her slightest
wish without the medium of words.
On one occasion she was trying to arrange her long hair, but the
hairpins she had brought to the cave had, one by one, been lost. It was
impossible to arrange the hair with none, and she had been vexed. That
very night he brought her some hairpins and two side-combs. The latter
she recognized—they belonged to Lucy Duval! Again she wondered how he had
obtained them; and laughed as she considered Lucy’s probable fright.
Another time she had shivered with the cold, for the cave had been
damp—the next night he brought clothing, and several woolen blankets.
Whatever he might be to others, he was her chosen man. He could not live
her kind of life—gladly she would live his.
Then came an entry on the very last page.
“_The storm! How it has rained, and rained, until somewhere
the flood has changed the course of some small stream, and now
we are imprisoned—the water has risen to the roof of the cave,
and we can no longer leave it in the boat. The flood came quite
suddenly, last night, while we slept._
“_Perhaps it may subside in time—but probably it will not. I
shall write no more. Good-bye, little book, and good-bye to
all—everything! In dying I can reflect that at least I have
lived. So very many never do!_”
I closed the book. At last my strong desire to _know_ had been gratified.
In the yellowed manuscript which I held in my hand was inscribed the last
chapter in the mystery of The Thunder Voice.
Now that curiosity was satisfied, the professional instinct asserted
itself. I reflected on the peculiar warped trait which so often causes
a woman gifted with all the refinements of civilization to become
infatuated with a male who is, in every sense, a barbarian.
I recalled the season at Earlscourt exposition in London when a dozen
black, repulsive-featured cannibals had been exhibited. The over-zealous
attentions of a concourse of well-dressed women of apparent refinement,
who daily surged about them, caused their removal from the exhibit.
No, there was nothing very remarkable in the infatuation confessed by
Margaret Kingsley. At least it was not remarkable to those who observe
life with wide-open eyes.