THE POOL
Hardcastle had gone into the black jaws of the cave without pause or
thought of what ambushes might lie in wait. Causleen was here, and
nothing mattered till he reached her. What he had suffered, since first
he declined to give tribute, was child’s play measured by the agony of
question that drove him forward. Causleen was somewhere in the gloom
ahead. He was sure of finding her—yes, but in what evil plight? With
that thought came crimson bands of flame that danced ahead. Nita would
have found vengeance sweet almost to cloying if she had been with him in
this hour.
Storm pressed close against him as he went with lighted candle along the
narrow track, turning his head constantly to escape the dripping
limestone spears that menaced from the roof.
No wind stirred in the cavern. It was a breeze of his own making that
flickered the candle-glow this way and that, throwing little, fantastic
shadow-shapes of gnomes and pixies on the rough ground beneath his feet.
He hurried forward, crying to Causleen, and a troop of voices answered
the cry, breaking it into tangled echoes that mocked at him from roof
and slimy walls.
It seemed to Hardcastle that a year went by before the mockery ceased,
and another voice ran echoing through the cave.
“Oh, Dick, come back. Come back.”
He fancied himself distraught. The voice sounded from behind—not from
the shadowed track ahead, where fancy had painted havoc unbelievable.
Storm, whimpering with joy, left him suddenly, and again he asked
himself if it was all a nightmare. Would he wake in his bed at Logie,
with reek of smoke in his nostrils and knowledge that the Lost Folk were
firing the house again? He longed to wake; for Causleen would be safe
behind him, and all the flames in front.
As he stood bewildered, Storm’s eager whine sounded close, and then he
came with Causleen into the sputtering candlelight.
“They told me——” said Hardcastle, and could get no further.
“Yes, Nita lied—and I’m here—and, Dick, come back before they take us
both.”
He saw a red gash across her cheek, and drew her to him. “Garskyes did
that?” he snarled, wolfish as any of the Broken Folk.
“It was so dark when I followed you and Storm, and I blundered against
something cold and hard—it seemed like a knife hanging from the
roof—and I went slowly after that.”
She let herself shelter awhile in the roomy haven of his arms, then
withdrew restlessly.
“There’s so little time if we’re to get away. Nita went to rouse the
village, and they may be coming up already.”
Hardcastle brushed past her in the narrow track, bidding her follow
slowly with Storm as he hurried to the cavern-mouth. He halted on the
threshold. The steep, empty brink-field stretched in front. No sound
came, except the hoarse cry of a hoodie crow wheeling overhead. So then
he stepped into the open. Ten of the Wilderness People, lurking out of
sight, sprang at him in a body, and only his preparedness for some such
ambush saved him. With the alertness of one lighter and more supple in
the build, he leaped back into the cave’s friendly dark.
One from Garsykes could not check his own forward rush, and followed
willy-nilly. Hardcastle closed with him—the roof was high enough for a
tall man to stand upright—and his grip was so prolonged and terrible
that Causleen could hear the rogue’s bones crack one by one.
Then Hardcastle took the broken body, using it for shield, and went out
a step or two and threw his burden among the nine who still remained.
“Firstfruits,” he said, and turned as a wild uproar rang across the
slope.
The barren pasture was swarming now with men. There was no chance of
escape in front, and again Hardcastle leaped back across the threshold.
A soft hand found his, and a brave voice whispered in his ear.
“Hurt, Dick? Are you hurt at all?”
“No; but one of Garsykes is.”
Her hand withdrew. She feared Hardcastle of Logie—feared his
exultation, the hard breathing, as of a wild-beast that fought for love
of it.
Outside the cavern, not ten yards from them, a raucous din began,
stilled presently by Nita’s voice.
“What is this?”
“It’s what Hardcastle has left of Jake,” came a quavering answer.
“You fools. I got him caged for you. I left ten to take one as he came
out with the pedlar’s brat, thinking they had a clear run to safety. And
it’s all miscarried at the start.”
“You bade us take Hardcastle alive,” growled another of the nine. “But
for that, we could have stoned him to death as if he’d been a conie.”
“An easy death, and I’d planned otherwise.”
Again Causleen’s hand crept into Hardcastle’s. The bleak venom in Nita’s
voice, the lousy uproar of the mob so near them, put fierce gladness in
her that Hardcastle had gone wild-beast, too.
The low, purring voice sounded again, daunting the uproar till it
ceased.
“There was to be sport for Garsykes. If ten had taken one—alive, to
watch the frolic—we’d have seen how he took it when I threw Causleen to
our wolves.”
Hardcastle, in the darkness of the cave, gripped Causleen to him; and it
was a marvel to her that his fierceness broke no bones this time. The
wet roof dripped on them. Their only hope lay in retreat along dank,
ghost-haunted passages. Yet, deep under all, they tasted swift content.
“One of the ten is dead,” Nita’s voice was bitter as mid-winter now.
“The nine left shall give us sport.”
Still closer Causleen’s hand crept into Hardcastle’s. This was no
puppet-game they played, of food and ease and the day’s routine. It was
full life together, with death yapping at a gate they would not yield.
A babel of question sounded from outside, asking Nita what should be
done with the nine.
“We shall drive them into the cave—to take him there, if they can.”
Hardcastle put Causleen behind him—roughly, and with haste—and stooped
for his fowling-piece. And when Storm brushed against him, growling to
be in the thick of what was coming, he forced him back to guard the
mistress.
A squealing followed, and Hardcastle, looking out into the sunlight, saw
the nine driven forward by their fellows till one by one they plunged
into the cave.
Then he lifted his fowling-piece, and snapped the trigger.
The two Garsykes Men in front fell riddled with shot, blocking the
narrow way, and those behind rushed out in panic, a prey for their own
fellows. What fate befell them, Causleen could only guess; but their
shrieks and the roar of ribald oaths were so appalling that she put both
hands about her ears, striving to keep out the din.
A lull followed, and Hardcastle spoke no word, but stood listening to
the mutterings of the enemy. Once he turned to put his hand on
Causleen’s shoulder, and once to quieten Storm, then returned to silent
waiting.
Nita’s voice sounded again, peremptory and clear.
“You’ve tasted blood, my braves, though it’s not Logie’s. And the taste
of blood makes men even out of such poor stuff as you.”
They growled at her, but Hardcastle knew that she had them at her
bidding—knew, too, that she meant each word to reach the darkness of
his prison, for sapping of his courage.
“D’ye think he of Logie is built of magic, instead of flesh and sinew?
Is he a giant too big for all Garsykes to keep in a cave, once they’ve
got him there?”
She mocked them, cajoled, tempted what red blood they shared between
them to mount to fever heat; and Hardcastle, listening, admitted grimly
that her tongue was a she-devil’s.
“Ten failed me, and they’ll walk Garsykes street no more. They lost you
the sport I promised—but we still have Hardcastle.”
“And his wanton,” hiccoughed a rough voice.
“Long Murgatroyd spoke there,” muttered Hardcastle, with still
remembrance of meetings they had shared.
“And his wanton.” Nita’s laugh was soft and girlish. “It was not the
honeymoon I’d planned, but it does well enough. We shall keep them there
till the ghosts drive them mad—or till thirst and hunger teach them
what a little thing love is. And their flesh will rot, Garsykes Men,
till the water drips on their bare bones at last. And so much for
Logie.”
“I cannot bear it, Dick,” pleaded Causleen. “She is so evil—so
evil—and God does not strike her down.”
“Are you ready, child?” asked Hardcastle, with great gentleness.
“Ready?”
“Nita spoke truth. There’s no way out of this, except by the mouth
they’re guarding. We shall die, and I’d have it that way, if needs
must—and if we’re together.”
“Say that again, Dick—_if we’re together_—and, Dick, fear has gone.”
Quiet absolute held outside, and Hardcastle’s mind went back to many
silences that Garsykes had put on him. Those waiting-times at Logie had
seemed chill and harsh enough, but not as this was terrible. His own
house had been about him then, the forest and the wind-sweet uplands,
and he had liberty to come and go.
For a long while no stir of life sounded from without, till the frosty
gloaming settled on what little he could see of the brink-field. Then
again he fancied himself in a nightmare’s grip, for the two whose bodies
lay prone at the entry, blocking the lower half, began to move backward
with rough, convulsive twists and turns.
The horror of it—this watching dead men come to life—yielded to stark
common-sense as muffled curses stole inward and he guessed that some of
the Garsykes sort had crept on hands and knees to draw out his victims.
His re-loaded gun was useless, for the living sheltered behind the dead,
and he could only wait till the cave-mouth was clear, and all the
gloaming pasture empty save for Nita’s voice.
“It is well done. I may tire of waiting till they die of the ghosts and
hunger. The way must be free.”
Hardcastle drew Causleen round the first bend of the cave-track. His
wits were keen as a razor’s edge, as he stilled Storm’s yearning to be
out and at the throats of the besiegers. If they could not live, they
three, they must make preparations to die with seemliness.
“There’s one chance left,” he said. “When dark comes, I’ll take Storm,
and together we’ll stampede them.”
“And what of me?”
“You can win out in the confusion, and home to Logie.”
“Yes, Dick. And what of you?”
“As if that mattered, child.”
“But if—if it mattered everything?”
So they came near to bitter quarrel, there as they waited for the sunset
glow to die across the hills that seemed lost to them for ever. Then
Hardcastle had his way, taking Storm with him round the bend; and she
had her way, following with mute-footed disobedience, till they came in
sight of the cave’s mouth.
A crimson that was not of dawn or sunset flared through the entry. The
reek of a fire built of pine-wood and heather was blown indoors by a
wet, gusty wind, and its heat drove inward, licking the cave-walls.
Across the flare and cackle, Hardcastle saw men dancing with women of
the village in frank abandonment. Wild-beast laughter made the music for
their feet, and all that had been in Garsykes, since the first
cut-throat settled there, was loosened down the ladder of the centuries.
When for a moment they were tired of their devilry, Nita’s voice rang
clear and low across the spurting flames.
“Shall I sing of Logie to you? Hardcastle flouted me once, but it is my
turn now.”
With that she sang a ballad in the Garsykes tongue, that was a bastard
child of the true Romany speech, and her people, fantastic in the
fireglow, roared with applause when it was ended. They knew its meaning,
though Hardcastle could only guess how foul and sinister it was.
Nita laughed at their plaudits, and was grave again. “Why did I want the
cave cleared of its dead? Because every long while I shall persuade one
of ours to go in and see how it fares with our true lovers. Ah, you back
away at that, do you? Then two shall go—carrying one man’s pluck
between them—and they’ll creep forward on unshod feet, making no sound.
Hardcastle will not know when to look for them, and an hour will seem a
month in yonder.”
Do as he might, fear of the waiting-time ahead was creeping over
Hardcastle like the tide of a quiet sea. Each word of Nita’s reached
him—as she meant it should—with an overmastering sense of prophecy and
doom.
He took Causleen’s hand in his, and together they went, with slow,
nagging caution, along the twisting track, Storm following. To light a
candle now was to waste what would be needed later on, and would make
them a plain mark for pursuit. They had to feel like blind people for
the rocky spears descending from the roof. They stumbled on rubble
dropped from the same roof, and every now and then a bat brushed their
faces with a sudden, silky dread.
Hardcastle halted often to ask Storm if he heard aught behind them, and
the dog gave a gruff “all’s well.” Then, as a roar of waters sounded
near ahead, Hardcastle remembered the far-off day when he had come, a
boy, into this forbidden cave. The very thrill of it returned—part
fear, most of it eager courage—as he lit his candle and went forward
warily.
“It’s a slippery crossing, child,” he said, coming with her to a torrent
that came from heaven knew where on the high moors and dipped into this
underworld with foaming speed.
She crept closer to him as she looked at the sliding waters, at the
rocky ledge above—scarce a foot’s breadth—that was the only bridge.
“Courage,” said Hardcastle. “It’s a short way to go.”
Her hand was brave in his as they made the crossing, with one slip that
nearly hurled them into the bellowing flood below.
“That’s good so far,” he said. “We’ve put the stream between the
Garsykes Men and us.”
“And afterwards?”
“Death, I fancy; but we’re together.”
Her hand tightened its grip. He was altogether hers, and this evil road
they took tested his caring at every turn.
Both forgot Storm, till a whimpering came from the far side of the
stream. Fearless in a score of ways, the look of the narrow bridge, wet
in the candlelight, daunted him. Time after time he tried to foot it and
withdrew, afraid of the cauldron underneath.
Hardcastle gave the flickering candle to Causleen, and crossed the
bridge again, and took Storm on his shoulders, telling him to cease
wriggling unless he meant to overbalance both.
She watched that crossing, short as it was, as if its length reached
through an eternity of suffering. Storm’s bulk was no light burden for a
man treading slippery rocks. At every step Hardcastle blundered and
recovered—blundered so wildly over the last of the crossing that he had
to take a sheer leap across the torrent, to land safely on the further
brink.
He shook Storm from his shoulders, and cuffed him soundly. “There’s no
room here for fools, my lad,” he grumbled. “Why could you not keep
still?”
Storm pressed against him with mute penitence, and after the Master had
stayed to get his breath again the three went forward. The ground
underfoot was so broken now that Hardcastle kept the candle burning, and
by its light they saw presently that they had come to a place of
skulls—human skulls, grinning from a tangled heap of bones. They lay in
a circle to the right of the track, where it widened for a space, and
they were no good sight for folk oppressed already with a sense of doom.
“How could they harm us?” said Hardcastle, with harsh levity. “They’ve
been dead too long for that.”
Yet, while he spoke, Storm began to shiver as with ague. His limbs
refused their work, and his bristling hide was dank with sweat.
Causleen, her Highland other-sight stirred suddenly, was next aware that
they stood in an underworld of ghosts, till Hardcastle himself was
shaken, remembering many legends that were rife about the moorside.
“Come away,” he said, gripping Storm by the collar and dragging him by
force beyond the peopled silence.
The candle burned more wanly now. The thick, dead air cumbered their
going, and they were drenched as with intolerable heat, though the caves
were damp and chill.
“Have we far to go?” asked Causleen faintly.
Hardcastle, seeing a low slab of rock that jutted into the track, guided
her to it and kept his arm about her.
“I’d forgotten you needed rest,” he said, with grave gentleness.
The cool air, now that no effort was asked, revived her weariness. “I
have no fear, Dick—except that the journey may be too long for me.”
“It’s a long journey for us both. There’s no hope at all of winning out,
Causleen.”
She touched his sleeve with a caress so soft, so all-revealing, that his
hardihood was near to breaking. “Such dreams I’ve had—of us two, and
Logie, and the summer days to come. And now they’re over—but you are
with me, Dick.”
He dared not break the silence. So steadfastly her spirit marched with
his, that he thought of the rough welcome he had given her when she
first came to Logie. So close they stood together now, that suddenly
death took new shape and substance. If there were to be no mating-days
with Causleen up at Logie, they must find them in some world beyond.
“Where would you have me go? I am strong again,” she asked by and by.
Once more, saying no word, he took her by the hand, and they crept
through the dank, lifeless air, over the broken ground. Here and there
the light glinted on flint arrow-heads—fashioned, maybe, by the folk
whose skulls had peered at them not long ago—and his thoughts raced
back to the day when Pedlar Donald found the token on Logie’s gate.
He was sick with defeat. He had carried his head high above the Garsykes
challenge, had gone through peril of the roads by night and day. And
this was the finish of it all.
Causleen’s hand gripped his with instant sympathy, answering his mood.
“Logie’s honour still goes safe,” she said.
“It still goes safe,” was all he answered.
The track wound downward now, till it turned sharply, and Causleen gave
a stifled cry. They had come to the brink of a lake whose waters glinted
smooth and glossy in the candlelight. The silence they had passed
through seemed almost friendly, compared with the nether dumbness of
this pool, deep beyond knowledge, windless, asleep with its living and
its dead.
A strange beguiling came about them. Once again they knew what Nita had
meant when she spoke of their death by hunger—or the ghosts. The pool
called them, though the silence was unbroken. Hands reached out to draw
them down, though they saw none. And Storm stood whimpering like a
child.
Hardcastle, by sheer sweat of will, drew Causleen—and himself—from the
alluring depths.
“It’s the end of our journey, when worst comes to worst,” he said.
“Tell me, Dick. It is better I should know—just all.”
“They’ll creep on us, soon or late. And they shall not have us, child.
The pool is cleaner than the Garsykes sort.”
He led her over the broad causeway bordering the lake, and as they
neared its end she looked down and recoiled. Hardcastle, following her
glance, saw a stirring of the waters that gathered strength till
wavelets licked the rock-track, and mounted till they broke across their
feet. The flickering light showed them a great, sinewy back that
threshed itself to fury. They glimpsed for a moment the face of
something half fish, half devil, and Hardcastle himself recoiled now,
drawing Causleen close against the wet precipice. He was in the grip of
a cavern that sheltered primeval ghosts and age-old, living things, and
the heart went out of him for one sick moment.
Whatever monster lurked in the bottomless waters, it had plunged deep
out of sight again, and the back-wash of its going drenched the three of
them with chill, spumey spray. Storm cried piteously, till Hardcastle,
with a rough oath, cuffed him into silence.
Their candle, held high above the spray, flickered and went out, and
Hardcastle let it fall, knowing his tinder-box was drenched and useless.
“This is the end of all?” asked Causleen, reaching for his hand.
“The end. Nita will send her swine—be sure of that—and they might take
you, child, after I was beyond aiming another blow. But it’s in my heart
to kill another Garsykes Man or two before we go.”
Her grasp tightened. He had spoken quietly, without haste, as if he were
reckoning the chances of the weather when they mowed the hay at Logie.
“I would not fear the pool, Dick—or the dark—if we’d not seen what
lurked there.”
“Better even that than Garsykes,” he said.
She crept nearer to him, and they stood there on the brink of dread,
waiting for death. The lake still lapped and gurgled at its rocks. Storm
whined fitfully, afraid of things more terrible than his second-sight
had ever glimpsed on the wildest moorland nights. He had seen Habatrot
go by, and the Heather Dwarf, and the dog shaggy as himself—the dog
known as Guytrash, that waited on lonely gates and frightened his own
kin, who shuddered by and would have none of usual, honest fight.
Storm, as he shared this night watch with his chosen two, longed for the
moor-winds and the sky. Nothing he had found there—the worst of it—was
like this sick, clammy air, peopled with foul shapes of the underworld.
“What is beyond?” asked Causleen by and by. “Cannot we get further down
the track?”
He knew that she was thinking of the pool’s occupant, was dreading its
return. One hand still held his fowling-piece above the wet. The other
closed on hers with a grip quiet and resolute.
“A few yards would bring us to the end.”
He humoured her, and they crept forward slowly round the bend that
Hardcastle remembered from the far-off day when he had travelled the
cave’s length. Then he had had candlelight to help. Now he had none; and
from the very lack, hope came to him.
As he turned the bend, the darkness seemed to grow less heavy. He crept
on, feeling the way with his one free hand, till a gentle glow began to
steal between the rocks that hemmed them in; and with a bound his mind
returned, as Storm’s had done, to the free moor’s overhead. So it had
been when he set out on stark, mid-winter nights to cross the heath on
foot—nothing at all to see in front at the start, but presently a gleam
of grey that showed a filmy track ahead.
His grip on Causleen’s hand tightened till she winced.
“What is it, Dick?”
“I do not know,” he said, harsh in this moment of swift, unlooked for
hope. He had had many such, and feared to lose it.
The track brought them soon to the rock-wall that had seemed
impenetrable when Hardcastle, as a lad, had held his candle-flare to its
wet face. The candle’s flame had been stronger than the grey-blue gleams
that broke now into the blank and utter darkness.
Down the wall’s face they ran, these gleams, in soft, ever-moving
rivulets that were narrow and broad by turns, criss-crossing like the
hurry of a water-slide.
Fearing almost to put hope to the test, Hardcastle stretched out his
hand into the grey-blue gleam where it ran widest. His hand passed
through it. His eager fingers reached beyond the wall’s fancied
thickness and closed on it. He dragged an inch or two of rotted stone
away, and turned with guarded triumph.
“We may outwit both Garsykes and the pool,” he said.