The side of the brown sandstone cliff was perforated like a gigantic
rabbit warren. I judged the cliffs to be natural in character, but in
the labyrinth of passages and rooms upon which one first entered, much
artificial work had been done. In places columns of brick upheld the
roof, and the walls had been trimmed and levelled by a tool. I
guessed--for it was a point upon which Dream could tell me nothing--that
the lords of Thule had at one time some intention of making use of these
natural excavations, and that they had been frightened from their task
by the absurd superstition which Dream had recounted to me. I could not
believe in the marvellous amphibious monster that had come out of the
sea, and for fifty years or more had lived in the heart of these cliffs.
I told Dream of my doubts, but she was not to be shaken. The track of
the animal when it went in had been clearly visible, and no track had
been found to show that it had gone out again.
"On what then does it live?" I asked.
"Things that it finds in the water."
"But you tell me that it has never gone back to the sea again."
"Never. But far within the caves--much farther than I have ever
gone--there is a great lake. It lives there. I will take you to a place
where you can hear the roar of the water falling into the lake. Follow
me closely or you may lose yourself."
She took me through many winding passages until she reached a point
where she knelt and put her ear to the ground. She made me do the same.
I could certainly hear the sound of running water below me, but that did
not prove the existence of the lake, much less of the monster that was
supposed to inhabit the lake. I told her this, and she did not like it.
"When you found me in the forest," she said, "I was very sad because I
had spoken to no one for many days, and I was to die and there was no
escape. Then because of your companionship and because you seem to hope
and to fear nothing, I became lifted up again. It is necessary for you
to think as I think, or I shall grow sad again. Therefore you must
believe in the great serpent."
"We will not speak of him. Show me where you sleep."
She took me by a passage that rapidly grew narrower until I could hardly
force my way into the chamber beyond. It was a simple sleeping-apartment
containing a bed of dried bracken and nothing more.
"Yes," she said, "I chose this place because the passage was so narrow
and the great serpent which was in the lake was so big. Here he could
not get to me."
"And how do you manage about food?"
"I have plenty--far too much. Every night some one or other of my people
brings food and puts it at the entrance of the cave. They do not go near
to the cave because they believe in the serpent, not being so wise as
you are. I would not go into the cave myself were it not that I have to
die anyhow."
"But do your gods permit this?"
"I do not know. They do not care to come very near to the caves. I
myself think that they do know that food is brought to me and do not
wish to prevent it. They have only one punishment. They would not starve
me slowly. They would point the death-rod at me and burn my heart out in
an instant. But you remind me that I have become very hungry after my
swim. You also must think as I do and be hungry too, and we will eat
together."
She showed me another room nearer to the entrance where she kept her
supplies. They were simple enough. There was a pile of thin sweet
biscuit and another pile of dried fruit. This in colour and flavour was
like a raisin, but four times the size.
"That grows in the forest," said Dream. "In the autumn when the fresh
fruit is ripe it is very good indeed. I shall not live to pick any more
of it, and for that I am very sorry."
She was still, I think, rather offended with me for my disbelief in the
creature that came out of the sea, but on the whole we chatted amicably
enough. I can see now that I did a clumsy thing in thus suddenly and
crudely trying to upset a tradition in which she had grown up. It is not
perhaps very desirable to shake the faith of anybody in anything, unless
that faith be distinctly and immediately harmful. I am a simple seaman
and unused to missionary work, and it is small wonder that I bungled it.
After we had feasted, Dream went off to her bed of bracken and I once
more climbed the hill to watch the sea. All that afternoon I watched,
using at times my perspective-glass, but never once could I make out a
sail.
I may admit that my plans were now changed and that the change was
entirely due to the strong fascination which Dream had for me--far
stronger than I cared to let her know at present. I no longer cared to
explore the town or to find out more of the condition of the workers
than Dream herself could tell me. I had decided to throw in my lot with
her and, if it were possible, to save her from the cruel death with
which she was threatened. How I was to do this I did not know. I could
only wait and see what chance might offer itself.
I cut bracken for my bed, and laden with this I made my way back to the
cave again. There Dream awaited me and all traces of her ill-humour had
vanished. I did not insist on my swim in the sea that night, lest it
should pain her further. We sat and talked together until the stars came
out. It was the first time since I had been on the island that I had
looked up at the stars. I could find nothing that I recognised. I
wondered where in the world or out of the world I now found myself. The
problem did not disturb me greatly. It was pleasant to sit and hear
Dream's recital of her story of the squirrel that she captured and
tamed. Her voice was curiously soft and caressing.
Soon she went back to her bed and I spread my bracken in the door of the
cave and lay down. It was in the night that her people came to bring her
food, and I wished if possible to see them and to speak with them.
But this experiment turned out ill. I had slept but an hour when I was
awakened by a footfall, and looking out from the cave I saw striding
towards me a man who bore a tray on his head. But when he was within a
hundred yards of the cave he set the tray down and turned back again. I
called out that I was a friend and would speak with him, but I do not
think he understood what I said, and the sound of a strange voice filled
him with terror. He ran off at the top of his speed.
Early that morning I had my swim in the sea, but on my return I said
nothing to Dream about it. I told her, however, how the man had run away
when he heard my voice the night before.
"You did not do this very well," said Dream. "You told me that you did
not wish to go to the town any more and that you would remain with me.
But it seems that I am not enough and that you do wish to speak with
others. Very well then. This night I will watch outside the cave and I
will go to the man who brings the food and I will bring him in to you.
He is, I think, a man who loves me very much indeed."
I told her that I had changed my mind and did not wish to see the man. A
brisk wind was blowing and we spent most of the day in the forest
together. Again from time to time I scanned the horizon with my
perspective-glass, and again with no result whatever. I wondered in what
deserted sea this island might be placed. Throughout the day Dream was
silent and thoughtful, but she was in no immediate fear, knowing that on
such a day her gods would not enter the forest. Next morning I went for
my swim in the sea again, and on my return Dream told me that she knew
what I had done. She had seen me swimming far out.
"Why did you not tell me you had done this?"
"I feared to disturb your mind."
"I am not a child and am not to be treated as a child. I can think as
you think about the sea if I like. I dare do anything that you dare to
do."
I told her that I had no doubt of it. Rain fell for the greater part of
that day and we remained in the cave talking. She told me of the life
she had led and of the laws by which her people were governed.
I have said that I had begun to hate the lords of Thule--the first-class
beings as they designated themselves--the gods, as the poor ignorant
workers supposed them to be. I hate them still. I despise their sexless
emasculate nervousness. I despise their want of the warmer sins and
their subjection to the colder. I despise their selfishness even while I
admire their wisdom.
Yet, if I am to speak honestly, their despotism--not benevolent and
wholly self-interested--produced a finer race of workers than is to be
found in my own country to-day. They were better fed, better clothed,
better housed. They were healthier--disease was almost unknown--and they
were happier. I use the last word deliberately. The cruelty with which
they were treated--and to our modern minds it was abominable
cruelty--was after all not capricious cruelty. It proceeded on laws as
immutable as the laws of nature. The mother of the weakling who saw her
child destroyed at any rate knew why; and when the lightning strikes the
best and most promising of us we do not know why. Every man was
specially trained for special work, and his own inclination was always
taken into account; for the greater the inclination, the greater--as a
rule--the aptitude. The view taken of women was definitely animal, and
only in exceptional cases were women allowed to live beyond the age of
forty-five. On the other hand, no woman was worked hard; women who were
about to be mothers or had recently become mothers, were treated with a
delicate consideration far beyond anything to be found in our Factory
Acts; and no woman was influenced in her choice of a mate by vulgar
claims of a financial or social character. The children were free from
the thwarting and snubbing and the curse of competitive examination
which we are pleased to call education. Each child was taught a few
essentials very thoroughly. The training was in each case individual and
based on a clever study of the child's nature. If reading or writing or
arithmetic was unnecessary for the work which the child would ultimately
be called upon to do, then none of these things was taught. It might
almost be said that the children were spoiled. But they learned early
the immutable and inexorable nature of the laws imposed on their race.
Towards the close of this day Dream became once more sad and depressed.
Suddenly she rose and said that she was going back to her own people in
the town.
"But," I said, "you know that this means death."
"There is one thing worse than death which may happen to a woman. It is
useless for you to try to prevent me. If I cannot go to the town, then
to-morrow I shall eat the poison berries in the forest."
I had intended, if ever I could find the way, to take Dream back with me
to my own country and there to marry her. It seemed to me now that there
was no hope of this. I make no defence of what I said or did. I do not
know if under those circumstances any defence is needed. But I told
Dream that she need not seek the death-rod of her gods or the poison
berries of the forest, because the one thing which is worse than death
had not happened to her.