Authors: George England
After a time she grew calmer, arose and thought of her child once
more. Slowly she returned down the via dolorosa of the terrace-path,
the walk where she and Allan had so often and so gaily trodden; the
path now so barren, so hateful, so solitary.
To her little son she returned, and in her arms she cherished him—in
her trembling arms—and the tears came at last, welcome and
heart-stilling.
Old Gesafam, gazing compassionately with troubled eyes that blinked
behind their mica shields, laid a comforting hand on the girl's
shoulder.
"Do not weep, O Yulcia, mistress!" she exclaimed in her own tongue.
"Weep not, for there is still hope. See, all things are going on, as
before, in the colony!" She gestured toward the lower caves, whence
the sounds of smithy-work and other toil drifted upward. "All is yet
well with us. Only our Kromno is away. And he will yet come! He will
come back to us—to the child, to you, to all who love and obey him!"
Beatrice seized the old woman's hand and kissed it in a burst of
gratitude.
"Oh—if I could only believe you!" she sobbed.
"It will be so! What could happen to him, so strong, so brave? He must
come back! He will!"
"What could happen? A hundred things, Gesafam! One tiny break in the
flying boat and he might be hurled to earth or down the Abyss, to
death! Or, among your Folk, he may have been defeated, for many of the
Folk are still savage and very cruel! Or, the Horde—"
"The Horde? But the Horde, of which you have so often spoken, is now
afar."
"No, Gesafam. Even to-day I saw their signal-fires on the horizon."
The old woman drew an arm about the girl. All barbarian that she was,
the eternal, universal spirit of the feminine, pervading her, made her
akin with the sorrowing wife.
"Go rest," she whispered. "I understand. I, too have wept and mourned,
though that was very long ago in the Abyss. My man, my Nausaak, a very
brave and strong catcher of fish, fought with the Lanskaarn—and he
died. I understand, Yulcia! You must think no more of this now. The
child needs your strength. You must rest. Go!"
Gently, yet with firmness that was not to be disputed, she forced
Beatrice into the cave, made her lie down, and prepared a drink for
her.
Though Beta knew it not, the wise old woman had steeped therein a few
leaves of the ronyilu weed, brought from the Abyss, a powerful
soporific. And presently a certain calm and peace began to win
possession of her soul.
For a time, however, distressing visions still continued to float
before her disordered mind. Now she seemed to behold the Pauillac,
flaming and shattered, whirling down, over and over, meteor-swift,
into the purple mists and vapors of the Abyss.
Now the scene changed; and she saw it, crushed and broken, lying on
some far rock-ledge, amid impenetrable forests, while from beneath a
formless tangle of wreckage protruded a hand—his hand—and a thin,
dripping stream of red.
Gasping, she sought to struggle up and stare about her; but the
drugged draft was too potent, and she could not move. Yet still the
visions came again—and now it seemed that Allan lay there, in the
woods, somewhere afar, transfixed with an envenomed spear, while in a
crowding, hideous, jabbering swarm the distorted, beast-like
anthropoids jostled triumphantly all about him, hacked at him with
flints and knives, flayed and dismembered him, inflicted unimaginable
mutilations—
She knew no more. Thanks to the wondrous beneficence of the ronyilu,
she slept a deep and dreamless slumber. Even the child being laid on
her breast by the old woman—who smiled, though in her eyes stood
tears—even this did not arouse her.
She slept. And for a few blessed hours she had respite from woe and
pain unspeakable.
At last her dreams grew troubled. She seemed caught in a
thunder-storm, an earthquake. She heard the smashing of the lightning
bolts, the roaring shock of the reverberation, then the crash of
shattered buildings.
A sudden shock awoke her. She thought a falling block of stone had
struck her arm. But it was only old Gesafam shaking her in terror.
"
Oh, Yulcia, noa!
" the nurse was crying in terror. "Up! Waken! The
cliff falls! Awake, awake!"
Beatrice sat up in bed, conscious through all the daze of dreams quick
broken, that some calamity—some vast and unknown peril—had smitten
the colony at Settlement Cliffs.
Not yet even fully awake, Beatrice was conscious of a sudden,
vast responsibility laid on her shoulders. She felt the thrill of
leadership and command, for in her hands alone now rested the fate of
the community.
Out of bed she sprang, her grief for the moment crushed aside, aquiver
now with the spirit of defense against all ills that might menace the
colony and her child.
"The cliff falls?" she cried, starting for the doorway.
"Yea, mistress! Hark!"
Both women heard a grating, crushing sound. The whole fabric of the
cavern trembled again, as though shuddering; then, far below, a
grinding crash reechoed—and now rose shouts, cries, wails of pain.
Already Beatrice was out of the door and running down the terrace.
"Yulcia! Yulcia!" the old woman stood screaming after her. "You must
not go!"
She answered nothing, but ran the faster. Already she could see dust
rising from the river-brink; and louder now the cries blended in an
anguished chorus as she sped down the terrace.
What could have happened? How great was the catastrophe? What might
the death-roll be?
Her terrors about Allan had at last been thrown into the background of
her mind. She forgot the boy, herself, everything save the crushing
fact of some stupendous calamity.
All at once she stopped with a gasp of terror.
She had reached the turn in the path whence now all the further reach
of the cliff was visible. But, where the crag had towered, now
appeared only a great and jagged rent in the limestone, through which
the sky peered down.
An indescribable chaos of fragments, blocks, debris, detritus of all
kinds half choked the river below; and the swift current, suddenly
blocked, now foamed and chafed with lathering fury through the newly
fallen obstacle.
Broken short off, the path stopped not a hundred yards in front of
her.
As she stood there, dazed and dumb, harkening the terrible cries that
rose from those still not dead in the ruins, she perceived some of the
Folk gathered along the brink of the new chasm. More and more kept
coming from the scant half of the caves still left. And all, dazed and
numbed like herself, stood there peering down with vacant looks.
Beatrice first recovered wit. Dimly she understood the truth. The
cavern digging of the Folk, the burrowing and honeycombing through the
cliff, must have sprung some keystone, started some "fault," or broken
down some vital rib of the structure.
With irresistible might it had torn loose, slid, crashed, leaped into
the canyon, carrying with it how many lives she knew not.
All she knew now was that rescues must be made of such as still lived,
and that the bodies of the dead must be recovered.
So with fresh strength, utterly forgetful of self, she ran once more
down the steep terrace, calling to her folk:
"Men! My people! Down to the river, quickly! Take hammers, bars,
tools—go swiftly! Save the wounded! Go!"
There was no sleep for any in the colony that day, that night, or the
next day. The vast pile of debris rang with the sledge blows, louder
than ever anvil rang, and the torches flared and sparkled over the
jumble of broken rock, beneath which now lay buried many dead—none
knew how many—nevermore to be seen of man. Great iron bars bent
double with the prying of strong arms.
Beatrice herself, flambeau in hand, directed the labor. And as, one by
one, the wounded and the broken were released, she ordered them borne
to the great cave of Bremilu, the Strong.
Bremilu had been in the house of one Jukkos at the time of the
catastrophe. His body was one of the first to be found. Beta
transformed his cave into a hospital.
And there, working with the help of three or four women, hampered in
every way for lack of proper materials, she labored hour after hour
dressing wounds, setting broken bones, watching no few die, even
despite the best that she could do.
Old Gesafam came to seek her there with news that the child cried of
hunger. Dazed, Beta went to nurse it; and then returned, in spite of
the old woman's pleadings; and so a long time passed—how long she
never knew.
Disaster! This was her one clear realization through all those hours
of dark and labor, anguish and despair. For the first time the girl
felt beaten.
Till now, through every peril, exposure and hardship, she had kept
hope and courage. Allan had always been beside her—wise, and very
strong to counsel and to act.
But now, alone there—all alone in face of this sudden
devastation—she felt at the end of her resources. She had to struggle
to hold her reason, to use her native judgment, common sense and
skill.
The work of rescue came to an end at last. All were saved who could
be. All the bodies that could be reached had been carried into still
another cave, not far from the path of the disaster. All the wounds
and injuries had been dressed, and now Beatrice knew her force was at
an end. She could do no more.
Drained of energy, spent, broken, she dragged herself up the path
again. In front of the cave of H'yemba, the smith, a group of
survivors had gathered.
Dimly she sensed that the ugly fellow was haranguing them with loud
and bitter words. As she came past, the speech died; but many lowering
and evil looks were cast on her, and a low murmur—sullen and
ominous—followed her on up the terrace.
Too exhausted even to note it or to care, she staggered back to Cliff
Villa, flung herself on the bed, and slept.
How long? She could not tell when she awoke again. Only she knew that
a dim light, as of evening, was glimmering in at the doorway, and that
her child was in the bed beside her.
"Gesafam!" she called, for she heard some one moving in the cave.
"Bring me water!"
There came no answer. Beta repeated the command. A curious, sneering
mockery startled her. Still clad in her loose brown cloak, belted at
the waist—for she had thrown herself upon the bed fully clad—she sat
up, peering by the light of the fireplace into the half dark of the
room.
A third time she called the old woman.
"It is useless!" cried a voice. "She will not come to help you. See, I
have bound her—and now she lies in that further chamber of the cave,
helpless. For it is not with her I would speak, but with you. And you
shall hear me."
"H'yemba!" cried Beatrice, startled, suddenly recognizing the squat
and brutal figure that now, a threat in every gesture, approached the
bed. "Out! Out of here, I say! How dare you enter my house? You shall
pay heavily for this great insult when the master comes. Out and
away!"
The ugly fellow only laughed menacingly.
"No, I shall not go, and there will be no payment," he retorted in his
own speech. "And you must hear me, for now I, and not he, shall be the
master here."
Beta sprang from the bed and faced him.
"Go, or I shoot you down like a dog!" she threatened.
He sneered.
"There will be no shooting," he answered coolly. "But there will be
speech for you to hear. Now listen!
This
is what ye brought us here
to? The man and you?
This?
To death and woe? To accidents and
perishings?
"Ye brought us to hardship and to battle, not to peace! With lies,
deceptions and false promises ye enticed us! We were safe and happy in
our homes in the Abyss beside the sunless sea, till
ye
fell thither
in your air-boat from these cursed regions. We—"
"For this speech ye shall surely die when the master comes!" cried
she. "This is treason, and the penalty of it is death!"
He continued, paying no heed:
"We had no need of you, your ways, or your place. But the man Allan
would rule or he would ruin. He overthrew and killed our chief, the
great Kamrou himself—Kamrou the Terrible! To us he brought
dissensions. From us he bore the patriarch away and slew him, and then
made us a great falsehood in that matter.
"So he enticed us all. And ye behold the great disaster and the death!
The man Allan has deserted us all to perish here. Coward in his heart,
he has abandoned
you
as well! Gone once more to safety and ease,
below in the Abyss, there to rule the rest of the Folk, there to take
wives according to our law, while
we
die here!"
Menacingly he advanced toward the dumb-stricken woman, his face ablaze
with evil passion.
"Gremnya!" (coward) he shouted. "Weakling at heart. Great boaster,
doer of little deeds! Even you, who would be our mistress, he has
abandoned—even his own son he has forsaken. A rotten breed, truly!
And we die!
"But listen now. This shall not be! I, H'yemba, the smith, the
strongest of all, will not permit it. I will be ruler here, if any
live to be ruled! And you shall be my serving-maid—your son my
slave!"
Aghast, struck dumb by this wild tempest of rebellion, Beatrice
recoiled. His face showed like a white blur in the gloom.
"Allan!" she gasped. "My Allan—"
The huge smith laughed a venomous laugh that echoed through the cave.
"Ha! Ye call on the coward?" he mocked, advancing on her. "On the
coward who cannot hear, and would not save you if he could? Behold now
ye shall kneel to me and call me master! And my words from now ye
shall obey!"
She snatched for her pistol. It was not there. In the excitement of
the past hours she had forgotten to buckle it on. She was unarmed.