The Meeting With the Seine Flint Workers
The Meeting With the Seine Flint Workers
“A race of flint-workers who once lived on the high river banks—the upper terraces,” was the answer.“But this is the Man Mammoth’s Weapon; incomparable with the Terrace Man’s finest flint. And yet it is much the same.” He patted the blade reverently. “But as calf’s flesh pleases the taste more than does that of the aged bull, so does this blade of Ach Eul shame the work of mortal hands.”
“Blade of Ach Eul—it is well worth a name. And these Terrace Men—where may they be found?” asked Pic. “You and your fellows might learn much from them. Agh! even my turtle-backs are more finely hammered. Not a knife nor ax-blade in the lot—mere fling-stones; children’s’ and women’s work.”
“They once lived on the banks of a river to the north,” the old man replied. “But no longer do we see them or their blades. The Terrace Men are gone and their secret with them.”
“Um—we shall see. Go on,” Pic said to the Mammoth. The latter picked his way carefully among the prostrate men but made no effort to avoid their flints or tools which he scattered recklessly about with his ponderous feet.
For an instant, Pic’s eyes blazed at sight of this wanton desecration; but another look at the small, ill-hewn fragments and he held his peace.
“Well done, good old friend,” he whispered. “Even you have no patience with such feeble efforts,”and without deigning so much as another glance at the cave-men or their clumsy flint-making, he urged his steed down the bank to the river while the Woolly Rhinoceros followed close behind.
Pic met more flint-workers; on the banks of the Seine, also along the Somme River farther to the north; but it was ever the same. He saw only small ill-hewn flakes, none of which bore signs of the Terrace Man’s wonderful craft. Poorer handiwork Pic had never seen.
With each disappointment, he grew more and more depressed. He began to look upon the art of the Terrace Man as a myth; a fanciful creation of his own brain. He became moody and irritable and wished himself back in the Vézère. Then from a solitary hunter, he learned of men who lived on the banks of a river lying beyond the great Channel Valley to the north. His spirits rose and he lived in hope once more. He led his two animal friends across the Somme River, over hills and valleys to the great Boulogne-Calais ridge or heights overlooking the broad isthmus connecting Britain and France.
Near Boulogne, the trio descended from the heights into the valley, across which man and beastmight travel dry shod; no small convenience, for none knew of boats or rafts or how logs might be used as transports across the water. But the great valley was dry so the Ape Boy and his companions passed over it with no inconvenience save from the choking chalk-dust stirred up by their own feet. A day’s journey with a week more added, brought them first into Britain, then through the Kentish Downs to the London Basin. Before them, in the distance, flowed the Thames River, winding its way leisurely towards the North Sea from the direction of the setting sun. Such a stream were scarcely broad or swift enough to bar the trio’s northward march. A swim to the opposite bank meant no more than a bit of exercise calculated to make the red blood of a Mammoth and Rhinoceros flow fast. Strangely enough neither one made any effort to cross the river, both merely contenting themselves with strolling along the valley’s southern border. Their behavior was suddenly become care-free and without purpose. The cool breezes sweeping down from the Scottish glaciers and North Sea, gave the air that life and snap which Hairi and Wulli considered indispensable to their bodily comfort. These hardy wanderers could make themselves at home in any country whose food-supply and climate accorded with their standards. To them, Kentseemed a land of charm, so now they slowed their pace and proceeded to enjoy themselves.
Pic too found much to occupy his mind. The stepped banks or terraces of the Thames reminded him of those he had seen lining both sides of the Somme; the low, middle and high terraces—three successive water levels, beginning with the highest at a time when the river was first carving its way through the valley. And there were places where flint-workers gathered during the spring and summer months; so when his companions stopped to graze, he shouldered his ax and walked along the slopes keeping a sharp lookout for those whom he wished most to see. He was feeling a wee bit homesick and hungry too, for a sight of human faces,—not because he felt any friendly feeling for his own kind, he assured himself; but only from Terrace Men could he learn aught of how blades, such as the one he bore, were so finely made. He had not gone far when he observed a group of flint-workers on the bank below him; so down he went to make their closer acquaintance.
They squatted on the slope with only their heads visible and faces turned towards the river. As Pic drew nearer, their shoulders and bodies came into view. He recognized in them, beings like himself—the race of Moustier. His heart sank. His mind had pictured the Terrace Man as something different.His ax,—the blade of Ach Eul—represented an ideal—a perfection of flint-working art. The artisan must be constituted of more than common clay. Did the genius of the Terraces stalk abroad in the guise of such humble folk? He hoped; but something within him, foretold bitter disappointment.
The Men of Kent were so busy with their flint-making that they paid little attention to the approaching figure, doubtless considering it one of their own number. Not until Pic stood amongst them did they realize that he was a stranger. All stopped work and eyed him with disfavor. Pic gazed boldly about him. He saw none but old men and boys. “Where are your warriors?” he demanded.
A youth pointed eastward.
“Hunting?” Pic asked curiously; then muttered to himself: “Of course; some must find food while the others work.”
The youth nodded civilly enough. His courtesy was due to a glimpse of the Ape Boy’s wonderful ax.
“Have no fear; I come as a friend,” said Pic as he observed the other’s concerned expression. “Are you Men of the Terraces?”
The youth shook his head: “No; we are cave-folk.We live among the hills. Only in the warm season, do we come here.”
Pic sighed, took a deep breath and turned his attention to the work in which the group was engaged. He almost dreaded to look down and see what he most feared.
Before each artisan was a small pile of flint-lumps. Thin chips covered the ground between each pair of feet; small, roughly-fractured flakes lay together on one side. Pic dropped on one knee and examined the flakes.
“Are these your best work?” he asked at last in a voice that trembled. He did not even raise his eyes as one of the men answered: “Yes, they are the best.”
“Enough;” he still gazed dreamily at the flakes,—small, shapeless things—but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I have failed,” he said bitterly. “These would shame a child. The Terrace Man is not here.”
As he arose to his feet, thinking, striving to gather courage for fresh hopes, dark figures loomed about him on all sides as though sprung from the earth. With a startled exclamation, he raised his ax and squared back, determined to sell his life dearly. But as he glanced behind him, he saw how vain would be his efforts. A dozen flint-axes were held ready to strike him down. One step forwardor backward and the blades would crush his skull.
His muscles relaxed. He lowered his weapon. His captors in turn lowered theirs and crowded more closely about him. In a moment Pic had recovered from his surprise and was boldly returning the fierce looks directed upon him from all sides. Then one of his captors, who appeared to be the leader, a giant in bulk and strength, stepped forward and eyed Pic so threateningly that the latter shrank back with half-raised ax.
A human race more brutal the Ape Boy had never beheld. Its overhanging brows, sloping forehead and projecting muzzle were so exaggerated that the entire head resembled that of a huge monkey. This likeness was increased by the monster’s broad, flat nose which was crushed in and marred by a ragged scar extending far into one cheek. The thick body, crooked limbs and hairy skin were even more animal-like than the hideous head above them.
Pic took in all of these details at a glance and found them far from reassuring. Nor—judging by his scowling face—was the Man of Kent improved in temper at sight of the youth before him.
“Who are you?” he growled in a voice that sounded like the mouthing of a famished wolf. Pic’s lips tightened as he returned the monster’s piercing stare.
“A man.” He was about to add the words: “like yourself;” but withheld them as inappropriate.
“For what are you here?” demanded the chieftain, enraged by this fearless reply.
“I came alone, as you see me, to learn how these people made their flints,” answered Pic, pointing to the old men and boys to whom he had first spoken. “I thought them Terrace Men. That is why I came.”
“Terrace Men? Bah!” snarled the monster glaring fiercely at the strange fish that lay so calmly in his net. He had expected a struggle or cringing howls for mercy. The flint-ax would mend either; but now he held his hand, confounded by the Ape Boy’s reply and manner and yet all the more enraged because of his own perplexity.
“Bah!” he roared again. “May you and your Terrace Men find rest in a lion’s stomach. We permit no strangers amongst us; therefore begone. You may thank your good fortune that we do no worse by you;” and he ground his teeth as though angered and disappointed at having shown such unusual clemency.
Pic made no response. His captors shuffled back on both sides to let him pass. As he looked into their scowling faces, he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness; a sudden realization that he was anoutcast in a strange land, in spite of the people of his own race gathered about him.
The brutal chieftain watched him narrowly, half hoping that by some word or act the Ape Boy would provoke his further wrath. In this, he was disappointed. Without a word, Pic shouldered his ax and prepared to go his way. As the great blade flashed in the sunlight, the Man of Kent started with amazement. So large and fine a flint, his eyes had never seen. He looked down at the head of his own clumsy weapon, then at the other with envious eyes.
“Hold; what have you there?” and he pointed a finger at the cause of his sudden interest.
Pic turned, surprised by this outburst. In a moment he saw its meaning.
“This is my ax,” he replied calmly; “my father’s,—made by a man of the Terraces;” and he held the weapon proudly aloft in his two hands.
The Kentish chieftain looked down again upon his own battle-ax, then at the blade of Ach Eul. His teeth were bared threateningly as he strode forward.
“You lie,” he yelled. “For now it is mine. Give it to me;” and he stretched forth an arm like one exacting tribute from a conquered foe.
Pic fell back a step and his hands closed firmly about the haft. His lips set themselves tightly togetheras he glared unabashed at the monster. For a moment neither moved. Those about them drew in deep breaths of wonder as they witnessed the youth’s open defiance of their leader.
“That ax,” roared the Man of Kent, withdrawing his hand and gripping his own weapon. “Can you fight with it—you an untried boy?”
“Yes.”
“And for it?” added the monster with a fiendish hyena laugh as he thrust his great head almost into the other’s face.
Pic’s eyes blazed like fire. His lips parted in a furious snarl.
“I have said the ax is mine,” he cried hoarsely. “No man lives who can take it from me,” and he made ready for the clash which he now saw was impossible to avoid.
The Kentish Men grunted noisy approval. Personal quarrels were of frequent occurrence; blood-shed a thing to amuse and while away the passing time. But this contest promised something unusual; better because of its novelty—a giant versus a dwarf. Their sympathies, or rather their brutal preference, favored the smaller contestant who faced such odds with so little concern for his own skin. They had no love for their chief. By the power of his arm alone had he attained a commanding position over them. All had felt the weightof his hand and feared his gigantic strength. That a stranger—a mere lad—dared try conclusions with him, was enough to arouse their interest to the highest pitch. They admired, they wondered; but the Ape Boy was clearly overmatched and that he would put up a good fight before having his skull cracked was about the most that could be expected. They took comfortable positions in a semi-circle about the contestants with backs to the terrace like an audience before a stage. Without a thought of interfering, they squatted down to enjoy the entertainment now being served before them.
The Man of Kent leered upon the Ape Boy with such tenderness as a cat bestows upon a mouse caught in the toils. He took fiendish relish in prolonging his victim’s agony before applying the finishing touch. Low murmurs arose. The spectators were growing impatient of his inaction. The Man of Kent turned savagely upon them.
“Be quiet,” he snarled. “Would you have me treat as a man one who cannot properly grip his ax because of his soft baby hands?”
Pic heard the insult and the hot blood surged into his face. With a bowl of fury, he sprang nimbly forward and dealt the Man of Kent a resounding whack across the chest with the flat of his ax.
His audience growled noisy approval and wonder,too, for a blow with the flat blade was a warrior’s expression of deepest scorn for an unworthy foe. They craned their heads eagerly forward and awaited Pic’s next move with breathless interest. The chieftain roared with pain and surprised rage. Lurching forward with a labored jump, he swung back and his blade whizzed through the air above the other’s head. As Pic dodged, he shifted the hold on his weapon from right to left and struck his adversary edge-on over the right shoulder before he could recover himself.
Maddened by this wound and infuriated by the applause which greeted this second display of skill, the Man of Kent flew into a rage terrible to see. Pic retreated a step, dismayed by his foe’s beast-like fury and ability to withstand punishment. Perhaps the tide of battle might have turned against him at that moment had not a great uproar arisen among the spectators and drawn the attention of both combatants.
On the terrace above them loomed a monster head armed with long curling tusks. Beside it stood another and smaller head, bearing a long sharp-pointed horn on its lowered snout. This pair on the terrace balcony comprised a second audience of silent and amazed observers.
A great commotion ensued. Believing themselves attacked, the Men of Kent sprang to theirfeet and began backing down the slope to the river. With a parting howl of rage their chieftain made off in the same direction while the Mammoth and Rhinoceros continued staring and wondering what it all meant. Finding himself alone Pic mounted the terrace and joined his friends who as yet had spoken no word nor moved a muscle.
“When did you come?” he asked. “I had no idea that you were watching us.”
“So that is how you Trog-men fight,” said the Rhinoceros with a twinkle of his small eyes. “We saw you hit the big one twice. He made a queer noise. Was he angry?”
“He was,” Pic replied; “very angry; and so big and strong I could not hurt him although I struck him my hardest blow. He might have beaten me, had not you and Hairi frightened him away.”
Wulli listened with the greatest interest. He had enjoyed watching the fight although not fully understanding the fine points involved in an encounter between two human beings, where stones fastened to wooden sticks were the sole weapons employed. However he had determined in his own mind that the Ape Boy excelled at this peculiar style and he was therefore duly impressed.
“We might follow them—we three. They would fly before us like a flock of crows.”
“No,” said Pic. “We have no quarrel with them. I would rather see them our good friends.”
“Friends? Oo-wee! Hear that!” Wulli replied as his sharp ears caught the sound of a commotion in the valley below. The three looked down.
In the distance, the Man of Kent stood at the head of his followers, waving his ax aloft and howling defiance at the Ape Boy and his companions. His first astonishment, as he witnessed such an unheard-of intimacy, had given place to furious rage against all three. Not daring to attack such a formidable combination,—Man, Mammoth and Rhinoceros—he proceeded to relieve his injured feelings from a safe distance, with threats and insults, none of which the trio could hear or understand.
“He is a fiend,” thought Pic. “I know that he will never forgive me. War it is from now on.”
The truth of this remark soon became apparent. The Kentish Cave Men grew more hostile each day. Inflamed with a desire for revenge, their fierce leader urged his followers on and the trio found themselves the center of a systematic and relentless persecution. Had it not been for Pic’s constant foresight and vigilance, none of the trio could have escaped destruction. Time and time again, he warned his friends away from hills and crags where enemies lay hidden, awaiting their chance to overwhelm the party with showers of stones and darts. He led them safely clear of traps set near clumpsof trees and watercourses where the tread of a heavy foot on vine or stick would have sent a huge log or stone crashing down. In their turn the Men of Kent redoubled their efforts, imbued with a two-fold purpose. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were not merely objects of their bitter resentment, but also a great waste of fresh meat in their living state; so they persisted with every form of attack their minds could devise; and each time, such attempts were thwarted by the trio’s combined might and resourcefulness.
Pic and his friends chafed restlessly under the constantly increasing pressure to which they were subjected. When men or animals become fully aware that they are being persistently hunted, they grow excessively cautious and timid.
“Would that we could leave here,” said the Mammoth. “These Trog-men give us little time to seek food and rest.”
“Would that they could leave us in peace,” sniffed the aggrieved Wulli. “Why should we be so ill-treated? They will not stand and fight. What can we do?”
“The fault is mine,” Pic said bitterly. “But for me, they would trouble you and Hairi no more”; which was far from true, considering that the Men of Kent looked upon his friends as desirable articles of food. “Why should we stay here and be huntedto death? I have seen all that there is to be seen of these flint-workers. I have found no Terrace Man——”
“Nor treasure,” the Mammoth interrupted.
“Not even a cave,” added Wulli.
The upshot of the matter was that all three agreed to leave the country. The glacial summer was nearing its close and the return journey, if made leisurely, would bring them none too soon to winter quarters in the Vézère. So they made haste to depart from a region, once all sunshine and promise, but now become cheerless and full of peril. The brief period of happiness following their arrival was forgotten in the indignities now thrust upon them. The country had welcomed them; by its inhabitants were they now expelled. They turned their backs upon the lowlands of the great London Basin with no fond memories of its former hospitality. The river and terraces sank from sight behind the retiring pilgrims and the Valley of the Thames saw them no more.
After several days’ journey, the three friends entered a broad valley bordered by low hills and gently rolling plains. This valley was too shallow to cause Pic and his comrades any serious concern. A clear view of the country was presented on all sides. No cliffs gave opportunity for hidden enemies to hurl down rocks or darts. No forests confronted them which might conceal cunningly arranged deadfalls or other traps. The slopes were bare except for coarse grass, sedge and rank growth. The Men of Kent seemed content that the prey for which they had striven so long and determinedly, should escape them at last. When the trio fled southward from the Thames Valley, they left their persecutors behind—presumably, for not a trace of them could be seen.
Pic felt no little surprise that the retreat of himself and companions was thus undisputed; but Hairi and Wulli showed no inclination to worry, so the matter passed from his thoughts. His fears subsided, his suspicions were lulled and he permittedhimself a welcome feeling of security. All things pointed to an uninterrupted journey south and godspeed.
In the sheltered valley, the Mammoth and Rhinoceros found sufficient fodder to satisfy their wants. But grazing operations consumed much time. They reduced an otherwise rapid flight to a slow and orderly retreat. However, this mattered little. No unusual dangers had appeared and the three friends no longer considered themselves as hunted creatures fleeing through a hostile country. Even while passing through the Kentish Downs, they paid little attention to the narrowing, deepening valley and the mountains rising above them on both sides. Not until they found themselves in a narrow defile, did any one of the three realize that the broad valley had gradually resolved itself into a deep gorge flanked by almost perpendicular walls. This gorge terminated in a cleft or pass, beyond which spread a vast, gently-rolling plain—the fertile lowlands of the Kentish Weald. The pass was the sole means of reaching the open country unless the trio saw fit to retrace their steps and climb the valley slopes for a wide detour eastward. This latter course seemed a needless waste of time and effort considering the end to be attained. The straightest and shortest route was by all odds the best. It lay before them, so they kept on.
The Mammoth and Rhinoceros began to feel cramped for space to maneuver their big bodies. No longer did they graze their way along. They appeared more interested in the gorge itself than the food it contained. Their attention became devoted to scenery entirely—to the steep, forbidding walls which hemmed them in; the rock-strewn heights above their heads and the narrow cleft in front.
As they approached this latter, all three instinctively slowed up; just why Pic could only imagine. What an ideal spot for—yes, for what? A wave of apprehension suddenly swept over him. No chill wind blew down the gorge; but his hands and feet were become quite cold. He stole a furtive glance at his two friends. Hairi was stamping his fore-feet, flapping his big ears and otherwise acting strangely. Wulli was turning his head from side to side, testing the air with deep, noisy sniffs.
“This place seems to be growing too small for us,” said Pic, trying to appear calm; “Hairi is so big, he may never get through that hole.” He grinned a sickly grin that flashed up and died down again before the words were out of his mouth.
“It smells queer too,—this place does,” was Wulli’s disquieting response. “I wish we were somewhere else. Don’t you smell anything?” he suddenly asked his giant partner.
Hairi raised his trunk and made a thorough examination.His nose-tip swept the heights on both sides and ahead of him, like the nozzle of a hose. He lowered it at last, looked at Wulli and nodded gravely. Both animals came to a sudden halt.
“Why do you stop?” Pic inquired in studied surprise. “We must go on.”
“Such strange odors,” the Mammoth replied. “The smell of men——”
“Men?” Pic felt as though ants were crawling up his back.
“Oomp! Yes—men,” Hairi replied. “How strange; I thought we had left them far behind.”
“There may be a few, hidden in a cave somewhere among the rocks,” said Pic with a forced smile. “Have no fear.”
“A few? No, many,” snorted the Mammoth. “I smell them everywhere; on both sides and before us. The air is rank with their foul odor.”
“It is; he says right,” Wulli added. “The Trog-men are all about us. I smell nothing else.”
Cold sweat dampened Pic’s forehead. The moment called for a keen eye and clear head. He stepped in the lead of the party and looked about him. In his friends’ powers of smell and hearing he had unbounded faith. He mistrusted the sharpness of their eyes but considered their ears and noses infallible. He now watched the Mammoth who had raised his trunk a second time and was pointing itto the heights on his right. The Ape Boy looked in that direction. He dimly saw dark faces peering from behind the rocks which lay strewn along the high ground back from the edge of the gorge. Hairi’s trunk swung to the left;—more rocks and more faces peering down. Pic glanced behind him in dismay. What he saw, made his heart sink.
A wall of smoke filled the valley from height to height, greedily licked up the dry grass and sedge. Bright tongues of flame flashed from beneath. The meadows were afire.
Pic felt like a rat caught in a trap. The blazing meadows cut off all retreat. His enemies held the heights on both sides; but he could see none of them in the gorge itself; none in the pass. The trio must either go forward or retrace their steps through the wall of smoke and fire. The latter choice gave little hope. Neither the Mammoth nor Rhinoceros would face the things they most dreaded—red tongues and white, curling clouds. One glimpse of the terror behind them, and they would break loose in a wild stampede. The Ape Boy looked wildly about him. Advance or retreat—which? He must act quickly, for his friends were becoming more and more alarmed.
Thus far the two animals suspected nothing of the danger in their rear. They stood cowering with fear of the threatening human odors and the rockswhich hemmed them in. In a moment, their thoughts would turn to the valley behind; their only chance of escape; and then—
“All is clear ahead,” Pic whispered. “There lies our safety. I can see through the cleft to where green pastures await us. Our foes lie concealed far back upon the heights. They must come much closer if they would stone and spear us. Move on and through before they cut us off.”
Thus encouraged, Hairi and Wulli set their great bodies in motion. Pic led the way, fully expecting to see a rush of dark figures hurrying to intercept them. But nothing of the sort occurred. Heads and faces appeared in plenty from behind every rock,—but no bodies. No hoarse cries arose amid a rush of hurrying feet. The heads craned eagerly forward and the faces stared down at the advancing trio; but they did nothing more and made no sound. The stillness of death was in the air. What did it all mean?
Pic was sorely perplexed. The strange inaction of his enemies was more terrifying than the din of battle. Perhaps he but led his friends into some hidden death-trap. His eyes searched the pass ahead,—the jagged walls, then the ground strewn with tree branches, fresh dirt and grass; and as he looked, his heart leaped almost to his throat.
“Hold!” he muttered in a low, fearful voice. “Not another step or we are lost.”
At that moment, the Mammoth turned his head to seek the meaning of a new and terrifying odor coming from behind. He saw a wall of red tongues and white curling clouds sweeping down upon him.
“Aree, owk, owk; run, run!” he screamed in a frenzy of fear. He and the Rhinoceros were about to dash forward in a wild stampede, when Pic sprang in front of him with ax upraised; his face threatening and terrible to see.
“Stand back!” he yelled. “For your lives stand back;” and the flat of his blade smote the uplifted trunk a resounding blow such as the great Mammoth had never known. Hairi reared back amazed. The blow had struck his most sensitive spot; but the insult delivered by a mere pygmy rankled more deeply than an open wound. With a scream of rage, he raised a ponderous fore-limb to crush the author of such an indignity, when the Ape Boy pointed to the ground almost beneath his feet.
“See! The pit; it is there.”
The Mammoth saw and shrank back in an agony of dread. The Rhinoceros cowered by his side. Both were terrified, stunned by this new horror.
“Stand Back! For Your Lives, Stand Back!”
“Stand Back! For Your Lives, Stand Back!”
Partly screened by branches, dirt and grass, the mouth of a great pit yawned in the path. A few more steps and the whole party would have troddenthrough its flimsy covering and disappeared into the dark cavity below. Pic stepped to the edge and peered down. The fear of death suddenly gripped his heart. He drew back trembling and afraid.
The pit was broad but the cleft was broader and he was small; so small that he might crawl along one side and get safely by. But the Mammoth and Rhinoceros must be left behind. They were huge, wonderful animals; his friends were—enough food for a hundred mouths. Surely the Men of Kent would be content with such a golden harvest and permit the lone Ape Boy to escape. But his companions might escape too, something within him said. Space remained between wall and pit for even a giant like the Mammoth to squeeze safely past; but, after all, Hairi was too frightened to think of such a thing and just when he most needed a clear head to guide him.
Loud shouts sounded upon the heights. Seeing that their plot was discovered, the Men of Kent were clambering down at top speed to reach positions commanding the outlet of the pass and thus close this last avenue of escape. Pic heard the shouts and knew that he must act quickly. There was yet time. He glided along one side of the pit, then stopped and looked back.
The Mammoth and Rhinoceros stood watching him, stupefied, panic-stricken by the terrors aboutthem. They were his friends; his only friends and they had shared with him their joys and sorrows. Once they had saved him from Grun Waugh’s terrible wrath; then in a cave, now his father’s tomb. He remembered and felt ashamed and his heart beat strong, for the warrior’s courage now came upon him and his fear of death was passed. He pointed to the space between pit and rock-wall and beckoned the two great brutes to follow him.
“Come,” he cried, “the earth is firm here. Agh, dear friends; do come and quickly”; but they held back trembling. While he urged and they hesitated, the Men of Kent came racing along the heights and took up positions above the mouth of the pass. In a few moments, the rocks swarmed with human beings with stones and darts held ready waiting for the trio to emerge. The gorge echoed back their exultant yells; from behind, came the roar of flames and crackling brush. Hairi and Wulli stared helplessly at Pic. The latter came dashing back.
“Quick!” he cried. “Raise your foreleg—your trunk. Help me to climb up.” Even in his terror, Hairi remembered. He raised his foreleg and assisted the Ape Boy to climb astride his neck.
“Forward,” his rider sternly commanded. “And hug the wall. Go on, I tell you; there is room topass”; but the Mammoth stood still, quivering in every muscle—paralyzed with fear.
Pic raised his ax—the blade of Ach Eul. “Quick; do as I say or I will kill you,” he snarled. “Move on.”
Still trembling from head-peak to toe, the Mammoth obeyed and moved forward. He neared the side of the pit, cautiously testing each bit of ground with his foot and crowding hard against the rock-wall as he advanced. The Rhinoceros followed closely on his partner’s heels. He dared not look down for fear another glimpse of the dark hole might shatter his already over-balanced nerves and cause him to fall in. With a bound, the Mammoth cleared the last bit of treacherous footing and stood before the outlet of the pass with the Rhinoceros pressed closely to his side. Above their heads concealed from sight by the steep rock-walls, awaited the Men of Kent brandishing their darts and stones.
“Forward,” cried Pic. “And move slowly. When we go through that opening, do not look around or try to run. If you do, you die,” and he held his ax on high so that the Mammoth might see and remember.
Hairi had ceased to tremble now. He was calmed, awed by his rider’s commanding presence. His nerves reacted. He raised his head and strode boldly to the mouth of the pass. Above swarmedhis enemies awaiting his appearance—the signal for attack; then suddenly all stood transfixed with amazement at an unearthly sight sufficient to terrify the boldest.
From the mouth of the cleft, a huge shaggy head with long trunk and curling tusks slowly emerged. It was surmounted by the figure of a man bearing an upraised ax. A great hairy body followed with a smaller one pressed closely to its side. But the awe-struck Men of Kent had neither eyes nor thoughts for the Ape Boy, the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros. All remembrance of them had vanished at sight of the wonderful head and its human rider. Every voice was hushed; every hand grasping dart or stone remained upraised and rigid as the trio emerged into the open. The shower of missiles threatened but did not fall as the Mammoth—now under complete control—swept majestically on with slow and measured tread. With no more thought of the wrath they held ready to launch upon their intended victims, the Men of Kent stood like statues, gazing in breathless wonder upon the Man Mammoth—sun-god and ruler of the sky. Rooted to the heights and motionless like the shrubs about them, they watched the receding figures grow smaller and smaller and finally disappear amid the rolling plains and woodlands of the Kentish Weald.
The Pied Raven of Dun Kirk was pied simply because his body was jet black and his breast shone iridescent blue; then, too, he had white wing-shoulders and wore a white cap on top of his head. He looked like a widow but felt more like a bachelor, for he was a gentleman raven and kept bachelor hall in a tall tree on the Flemish sand dunes.
The Pied Raven was no fisherman, even though he did love the sight, smell and particularly the taste of fish; and in the sea to the north were the best of fishing-grounds. He envied the River Hawk and Sea Eagle who knew so well the habits of all finny creatures and could select the best, fresh and squirming from the water. The Pied Raven’s tastes were every bit as refined as the River Hawk’s, Sea Eagle’s or anybody else’s for that matter; but he was a poor raven, or rather, poor fisherman and his fish-diet was in accordance with his means. His means for catching fish were extremely limited; so all he could do was beg, borrow or steal from those more gifted than himself. Failing in all three ofthese methods, he had to wait around and content himself with such leavings as the Hawk and Eagle had no room for; and that is how the Pied Raven got into trouble.
The River Hawk caught a big, flapping fish, selected and served to suit his appetite to a nicety; no more, no less. After he had filled up and flown away, the Pied Raven, who all this time was watching and awaiting his turn, dropped down to take pot-luck. He found mostly bones and very little fish. This was exasperating, considering the time he had spent sitting around, so he tore loose a big back-fin and gobbled it down.
“Why is it that the River Hawk eats up all the meat and leaves me none?” he grumbled. “I never—awr-rk”; something stuck in his throat. Alas! That miserable back-fin had gone down the wrong way. He coughed and sputtered and did his best to be rid of it up or down, but the fin had a long spine and was stuck fast. He choked and gasped, his head began whirling and he rolled in the dirt; and while lying there with a hazy notion that he would not be a pied raven much longer, he began to see strange things.
Above him, towered a mighty giant, the largest and shaggiest he had ever seen. Its nose reached almost to the ground. Two wonderful horns curled and twisted from its mouth. Another marvelouscreature appeared; a giant and shaggy too but smaller than the first. It was round and fat with stumpy legs. This giant had a short nose,—not long like the first one. A horn stuck straight up out of it like a sharp stake.
A third giant loomed up,—smaller yet and nothing like the first two. It squatted on its hind legs and made motions with the front ones. Its mouth stretched so queerly from ear to ear and so pleasantly that the Pied Raven was sure he had flown into another world. Mere earthly creatures never made such nice faces,—certainly not.
“What a strange-looking crow!” Number Three Giant was saying. “I never saw one with head and shoulders white. Arrah! it’s dead.”
Even in his dreams, the Pied Raven could not repress his indignation. To be mistaken for a crow, was more than he could bear.
“I saw it kick a little,” said Giant Number Two,—the one with the nose-horn.
“So?” The Pied Raven felt himself being lifted from the ground; but he was growing drowsier every moment and did not care much. Something pried his mouth open but that did not matter either. He was beyond feeling any interest in what happened to him.
“Choked by a big fish-bone!” cried a voice, and then a pair of fingers reached down his throat andpulled something loose that suddenly woke him up, it hurt so like fury.
“By my old white head!” squawked the Pied Raven; but, all the same, things stopped spinning around and he felt better. After a moment, he found himself flat on his back, staring at the sky and beginning to think it time to get up and go somewhere else.
“A man, a mammoth and a rhinoceros!” he said as the three giants assumed earthly shapes; and he scrambled to his feet, a Pied Raven once more, although a trifle the worse for wear. Giant Number Three now become a Trog-man,—a fairly young one—held the fish-bone between the first and second fingers of his right hand.
“Well for you we chanced to be passing this way,” he said and smiled again.
The Pied Raven jumped. Here was a Trog-man who could talk sense. All the rest of them he had seen, jabbered and made strange noises in their throats. This one could make his face all sunshine too. The Pied Raven thought him a pretty good sort.
“Well, indeed,” he rasped. “Trog-men usually throw stones at birds and never take fish-bones from their throats. I will do as well by you if I ever can.” He looked curiously at the group before him. “A man, a mammoth and a rhinoceros; queer combination,that. How did you three ever come to be together?”
“We have lost our way,” answered the Trog-man—Pic, of course. “We went north to search for something but were forced to hurry back.”
“Searching for something?” asked the Pied Raven, cocking his head on one side. “That sounds interesting. What can it be that you three would hunt for together?”
“Treasure,” Hairi broke in with a most business-like air. “We did not find it but we are glad enough to get back alive.”
“Treasure?” inquired the Pied Raven, becoming more and more interested. “What kind?”
“That is what we wish to find out,” the Mammoth replied. “All we know is, that somewhere in the world there is treasure buried beneath a stone in a cave on the side of a mountain. We do not know just where to look for it.”
“Rather indefinite,” observed the Pied Raven. “Er-awk; let me think.” He gazed thoughtfully at the ground. “Mountain, cave, stone; that may help a little. I know of many mountains, caves and stones but none of them seem to fit together. Awrk; I have it!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I remember a cave on a mountain. It has a stone in the entrance. I know because I once perched on it.”
“Where?” asked Hairi and Wulli in chorus.
“Far from here,” said the Pied Raven. “Too far for such fat animals to walk. You will never get there.” He shook his head dubiously at the two great beasts.
“How far?” grumbled the Mammoth who was quick to resent the slur cast upon his figure. “I can walk farther than any crow flies.”
“Awrk-k-k! do stop calling me a crow,” squawked the Pied Raven. “I am a raven; not a crow. Please remember that.”
“And we are large, not fat; do not forget that,” retorted the Mammoth.
“Where must we go to reach this cave?” Pic inquired. “We cannot go too far out of our way. We must be south before the cold weather comes.”
The Pied Raven pointed his bill eastward. “It may save you time if I go along too,” he said. “I have nothing in particular to do and would help you who have done me a good turn.”
It was finally agreed that the Pied Raven should join the party and all go to where the treasure supposedly lay buried in the cave-floor awaiting their pleasure. None knew where the cave was—none but the Pied Raven. Pic mounted the Mammoth’s neck and the bird perched in front of him on the head-peak. Wulli trotted by the side of his partner. After some discussion—in which the idea was suggested then abandoned of having the Pied Ravenride on Wulli’s nose-horn and thus relieve the Mammoth of a double burden—the expedition set forth.
From Dun Kirk, the trio—now become a quartette—moved eastward over the Flemish sand-dunes and lowlands. Gradually the days and nights grew colder, the country higher and more broken up by rocks, rivers and ravines. Squirrels, woodchucks and all were busy lining their nests and laying up stores for the oncoming winter. The winds blew sharp and bitter and Pic was forced to bury his feet and hands deeply in the Mammoth’s long hair to keep them warm. Without being aware of the fact and caring less, the party passed the Belgian frontier and marched into southern Holland and out again the same day—into western Germany. None bade them halt. No arbitrary boundary lines prevented their travelling without passports or other unheard-of things. Belgium, Holland, Germany and all went to make up one big country—western Europe—where creatures might live and go about just where they pleased.
Guided by the Pied Raven, Pic and his friends arrived at last on the western heights overlooking the Rhine. They descended to the river and crossed. The Mammoth acted as a ferry-boat for Pic and the Pied Raven who climbed to the top of his shoulder hump and had a busy time of it keeping their legs clear of the icy water. The Mammothand Rhinoceros revelled in breaking up the ice and breasting the cold, swift current. They were powerful swimmers and had all the fun while the other two held their breaths and thanked their lucky stars when safe on solid ground once more.
After crossing the river, the party passed through bedraggled groups of trees, bordering a deep ravine, at whose bottom flowed a stream, the Düssel. As they proceeded along the heights the ravine gradually deepened as the limestone cliffs reared upwards on both sides. The stream narrowed, the walls rose higher and higher and at last the trio stood on the brink of the Neander Gorge itself.
The northern crest on which they were now placed, looked across and upward to the southern line of cliffs, whose summit rose far above the frozen surface of the Düssel. The Pied Raven suddenly emitted his strange rasping cry:
“The cave is before us,” he announced so unexpectedly that his three hearers nearly jumped out of their skins.
All came to a stop and looked up. On the opposite side of the gorge, about fifty feet above the level on which they stood, a cavity opened in the face of the limestone wall,—a mere hole, but one of Nature’s landmarks built to endure for a thousand generations—the Cave of the Neander Gorge.
“And now my work is done,” said the PiedRaven. “The mountain and cave are there; the stone rests in the entrance. I leave them to you. Good-bye and good-luck.”
With a bound, he was high in the sky soaring westward before any one of the trio realized that their goal was reached and that their guide had taken his departure.
“Strange that he chose to take his leave without seeing the treasure,” said Pic as he watched the dark speck disappear in the distance.
“He might have helped us further,” the Mammoth sighed. “The cave is beyond our reach. Only a bird could get up there.”
“Up, yes,” laughed Pic who had been studying the cliffs above the cave. “But why not down? I can reach it from the top.”
The rock fell sheer and smooth from the dark hole; but above it, sharp corners and crevices suggested the possibility of a descent from the plateau above; a venture which appealed strongly to Pic. It was no easy matter to reach the cave but well worth the trying.
After a brief search, he discovered a cross-cleft which made it a simple matter for him to descend to the level of the Düssel. The stream was now frozen over sufficiently to bear his weight. Hairi and Wulli stood still and watched. They saw him cross the ice, moving diagonally up-stream to wherea portion of the great rock-wall had crumbled and fallen, thereby forming a rugged incline or causeway from base to summit. Pic ascended this causeway with no great difficulty. He reached the top, and then proceeded downstream along the heights until he stood almost directly over the cave some one hundred feet below him. He waved his arm and shouted to his friends on the opposite crest; then slowly and with a skill born of long experience, he began the perilous descent, clinging to every projecting corner that gave him a secure hold. He held his ax-handle between his teeth, thus leaving both arms free. To the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, he appeared like a fly crawling down the face of the rock.
He reached the cave at last and leaped down to the threshold, ax in hand all ready to do battle with any who might resent his visit. But no fierce enemy leaped forth; no sound came from within. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim inner light, he saw that the cave was a small one and unoccupied except for a pile of something lying in one corner.
“An eagle’s nest,” he muttered. “The Mammoth was right. Only a bird would choose such a place for his home.”
He entered the cave. The pile he had first noticed, was a mass of leaves hollowed in the center like a large nest; but no feathers lay scattered about,—norefuse of any kind suggesting a bird. Pic noted the absence of such signs,—a trivial matter but disconcerting, none the less.
“What was that noise?” He raised his ax and crouched with back to the side-wall, then laughed as he saw the cause of his alarm—a tiny stream of water trickling through a crack to a shallow pool in the floor. “Water dripping through the roof—nothing else,” he assured himself. Then came another sound, a faint rustling. In a moment it ceased. “Only a bat,” and he breathed once more.
“I seem to be imagining all sorts of absurd things,” thought Pic but the thought failed to soothe his nerves. “All because of that old nest.” He kneeled beside it and sniffed. The nest had a strange odor—of what he could not say, but one fact was clear; it belonged to some animal and not a bird. He rose to his feet. He was about to seek the platform outside when something on the cave-floor caught his eye—something that made his heart beat fast. There at his feet lay a handful of roots and herbs—freshly picked.
He sank to the ground on one knee and bent low to more closely examine these alarming objects so strangely out of place in the den of a wild beast.