by Earl
Fearful faces peered from the tree-stump, seeing they were saved. Old Zutho hobbled up to where Aldic sat on the ground, shaking his head from his fall. He came to his feet, unhurt.
“First the fox,” Zutho commended. “Now the bear. You are a mighty warrior, Aldic. I and my people thank you for the lives you saved.”
“The bear will come back,” Aldic said thoughtfully. “My spear-thrust was a mere prick to it, after all. Its pain gone, the bear will come back tomorrow, now knowing where to find us.”
Zutho sighed heavily.
“It should be killed, but that is impossible for us to do. As with the Big People, we can only scurry from its mighty feet. We will have to migrate from this village-site to a new one. We will have to start now—”
“Wait.” Aldic held up a hand. “Perhaps I can kill the bear.”
“What? You are mad, Aldic. You must know that no weapon of ours can kill a bear.”
“No weapon of ours,” agreed Aldic. “Still, I wish to try. Will you give me till tomorrow?”
Zutho looked long at Aldic, on the point of calling him a young, conceited fool whose so-far successful exploits had gone to his head.
Teena’s silvery-sweet voice sounded, as she stepped forward. “Let him try, Father. Somehow, I trust Aldic. I think he can do anything he says!”
A murmur of agreement ran through the others. Teena suddenly flung her arms around Aldic, kissing him. “It was my sister and her children you saved,” she said, blushing as she stepped back.
Over Aldic’s face stole a red as vivid as that of his mane of hair.
Zutho grinned, then spoke gravely. “You may try to kill the bear, Aldic of Ireland. We all trust you.”
“I will need a helper, the strongest young man.” Aldic’s eye fell on Boro. “You, Boro.”
“No!” Boro roared, obviously nettled by Teena’s act. “Whatever mad thing you hope to try, I’ll have no part of it.”
“Are you afraid, Boro?” Teena suggested.
Boro hesitated. Then—“I will go!” he snapped.
CHAPTER V
An Expedition
AN hour later, panting, the two young men peered from bushes toward the cabin.
“The Big Ones are not back yet,” Aldic said. “Follow me, Boro, into the cabin.”
Dropping to the floor from the window, after climbing the vines, Boro straightened and spoke his first words.
“Now what, Aldic the Fool? The bear is certainly not here. Have you thought better of your rash resolve? As Zutho said, no weapon of ours can kill a bear.”
“But that can!” Aldic pointed over the fireplace, where a long metal instrument hung on two pegs.
“The weapon of the Big Ones!” Boro gasped.
“It is called a rifle,” Aldic supplied. “Come, we will try to get it down.”
Leaping from a table to the mantel over the fireplace, they found the gun high out of reach.
“We can throw vine-lassoos up and drag it from the pegs,” Boro ventured.
“It is big and heavy. It would crush us, or fall to the floor and be damaged. The Big Ones will be back soon, anyway.” Aldic’s eyes roved thoughtfully about the living room, then lighted. “Come, Boro. Help me write a note to the Big Ones on what they call a typewriter.”
It was an amazing undertaking to Boro, though obviously Aldic was not unfamiliar with the instrument. Standing at the top, Boro held the paper as Aldic, at the side, grasped the roller-knob in his arms and strained every muscle to turn it. The paper moved around, though a little crookedly.
It was a succession of surprises to Boro as he blindly obeyed Aldic’s commands. “Sit on the shift-key—there, Boro.” Then Aldic jumped from the top down on another key and the machine threw up a lever and snapped loudly, startling Boro.
“Now the space-bar, Boro—that long black bar.”. . . “Now stamp on that key with two dots, from where you are.”. . . “The black bar again.”. . . “Wrong letter that time. Stamp on the backspace there, Boro.”. . . “How do you spell ‘against’ in the Big People’s language?”
Aldic tugged open a dictionary on the table beside the typewriter. On hands and knees he searched for the word when he had the right page open. At some time or other, Boro was aware, Aldic had spent much time spying on the Big Ones, learning their language. Then Aldic was back at the machine.
Finally it was done and Aldic unrolled the paper, placing it flat on the table. Boro was about to speak, but instead a gleam came into his eyes. This was a violation of the First Law, writing a note for the Big Ones to read. When Boro told of it back at the village, Aldic would be in disgrace!
AT sunset, Jim Harvey trudged to his cabin, tired as usual, and still aware that he had somehow lost his “touch.” Worry over the payments had done it, no doubt.
Fifteen minutes later the Ford arrived and Mary stepped into the cabin, discouragement in her face. “I placed only one today,” she began, then stopped, noticing how fixedly her husband was staring at the paintings set to dry against the wall. “Jim! They’re wonderful! You’ve touched those up beautifully.”
“Did I?” Harvey whispered, running a nervous hand through his red hair. “Mary, what it I told you I didn’t—” She laughed. “And that you didn’t weed the garden last night? Darling boy, you’ll always be the same. The night before our elopement you insisted I had wings, like an angel, till I almost became angry. I spoke to the Wilkins boy, by the way. He wasn’t here, I’m sure of that. Now confess—oh!”
While talking, she had picked up the paper beside the typewriter, glancing over it. She faced her husband sternly. “Jim, this is carrying it too far. I’m not asking to be amused—”
Harvey snatched the sheet from her hand, reading the somewhat badly typed message.
“I cannot Reveal myself to You. It is against Our First Law. We needy our gun. If You wish to help us, bring it outside, by a Tree, and leave it there tonight. Aldic of Ireland. P.S. We both have Red hair.”
Harvey looked up, his blue eyes far away. “Aldic was king of the fairies, a thousand years ago, according to Irish mythology. This little scamp must be his descendant—”
“Jim, you mean—”
“It’s genuine? Of course, I wouldn’t play such an elaborate practical joke on you, Mary. The Little People exist, don’t you understand? And I’m going to bring out the gun tonight!”
A call came from the outside the house. It was one of the three naturalists—Wilson—alone. He spoke excitedly. “Can you give me a lift to the highway? Dr. Petrie will meet me there with our car. We separated today, in our search. And look what I found!”
He displayed a torn bit of cloth of some kind, oddly shaped as though to fit a tiny form, with a claw-mark in its center.
“A small bear passed me this afternoon,” Wilson explained. “Ambling fast as though running from something. He blundered through thorn bushes and left behind this clue to the Little People. He must have caught one, and clawed away its clothing before eating it. This rag clung to his claws till it came away in the thorns. It means the Little Folk, all right. I’d swear this stuff is woven from spiderwebs!”
HARVEY burst out laughing, to the surprise of Wilson and Mary both.
“Sorry to explode your hopes, Wilson. But I recognize this cloth. Remember, Mary, we cleaned out the trunk the other day, and you decided to throw away that mantel doll at last? Isn’t this part of its miniature dress, Mary?”
Mary nodded mechanically.
“We threw it in our usual dump-heap, back of the cabin,” Harvey continued. “We’ve seen that bear-cub rooting around among the cans and bottles, at times. Bears are omnivorous, you know, and he probably clawed the doll apart in hopes of finding it edible. Too bad the explanation is so prosaic, Wilson. But it will save you future embarrassment with your companions. Come on, I’ll give you a lift to the highway.”
When Harvey had returned from delivering the very crestfallen young naturalist, he explained to Mary.
“White lie, of c
ourse, about the doll. If the Little People wanted to be known, they’d reveal themselves. Therefore I sidetracked Wilson. There are things, Mary, that even science must leave alone. Call it my poetic soul, or romantic nature, or whatever you want—but I had to do it!”
It was dark now. Harvey took down the gun, slipped five shells into the magazine, and strode out into the night. He placed the gun upright against a tree. Then on second thought, smiling he laid it flat on the ground.
Had little ears heard him? Were little eyes watching his every move? Or was some cunning maniac roaming the hills, as Mary might suggest next, taking it into his twisted mind to commit a murder without leaving a clue to himself?
From the cabin window, later, Harvey saw the moon rise and flood the space under the tree with its soft but revealing light.
The rifle was gone!
STEPPING along in perfect rhythm, Aldic and Boro carried the rifle. Aldic was at the front under the stock, Boro behind with the round barrel across his shoulder. The gun was heavy, but they were strong and kept up the tireless pace.
Once a weasel, thinking its victim occupied, darted at Aldic, sharp teeth ready to crunch into soft flesh. Without dropping his burden, Aldic’s left hand, holding his axe, bit deep into the weasel’s tender snout, sending it off whimpering with pain.
“Eyoo!” chuckled Aldic, and added unnecessarily. “It seems to me the weasels of my land put up a better fight.”
“This is mad,” Boro grunted for the tenth time. “What will we do with this clumsy machine when we get back?”
“You will see,” promised Aldic, a little tickled that he alone knew what he had in mind.
The villagers all saw, gradually, when they began carrying out Aldic’s commands, after he had arrived. The gun, a cannon to them, was propped against a stump with forked sticks. Aldic drilled six men in certain duties, to raise or lower the barrel at instant notice. Another six were stationed on each side of the stock, to swing it sideways if needed. One man would be at the trigger.
“The bear will come at dawn, likely,” Aldic predicted, “nosing about the homes again. He must be decoyed across the glade. Someone must be that bait, running before him and climbing one certain tree. I would volunteer, except that I must superintend the shooting of the gun.”
“Let it be Boro,” rang out Teena’s voice. “He had experience once before in eluding the bear. If it catches him, he can turn and easily battle it—as he once claimed to do!”
With a hue and cry, Boro was elected for the dangerous assignment. Boro shrugged, bidding his time. After Aldic’s harebrained venture had failed, Boro would reveal the note-writing, crushing Aldic with double disgrace. Then Teena would despise Aldic, and once more be sweet to Boro.
CHAPTER VI
Death of a Monster
AS the rose of dawn lighted the woodland scene, the tense community in their hidden homes heard the crackling of twigs. Tiny spying eyes watched the bear nosing at stumps, coming nearer and nearer, seeking the Little People for prey.
Aldic nudged Boro. Taking a breath, Boro leaped out and ran across the bear’s path, toward the dancing glade. The bear, evidently reluctant to make a chase if he could find trapped victims in stumps, did not follow till Boro had deliberately danced in front of him. “Eyoo!” Boro shouted, making the dramatic most of what was a dangerous business anyway. “You fat, clumsy, ugly monster! Catch Boro if you can, who is fleet as the wind, strong as—”
He had no time for further self-eulogies. The bear snarled and made for the audacious little upstart. Boro raced across the glade and managed to reach the designated tree in time to scramble to its lower branches. Bearlike, the pursuer stood on his hind legs, stretching his claws for the mannikin almost within reach. In another moment, if anger so moved him, he would climb . . .
Aldic was shouting orders at the gun. Now was the time, while the bear stood upright, a perfect target. Aldic straddled the stock of the rifle, peeping through the sights. The men with forked sticks were ready to move the barrel whichever direction he commanded.
“A little up, you men at the front! A little more—stop! Now a little left—easy!—stop! Hold it, all of you! Fire!”
The man at the trigger shoved it back. A thunderous crash shattered the dawn quiet, echoing from the hills. Half the villagers ran wildly about, panic-stricken, sure that a mountain had fallen. They had never heard the weapon of the Big Ones before, except as faraway barks.
Aldic picked himself up from where the recoil of the gun had tossed him like a rag doll. Blood trickled from a bruise in his forehead. The dozen men who had handled the gun lay around in dazed bewilderment. One lay still, completely knocked out. Another groaned with a broken arm. A third lay pinned under the gun itself.
Women ran to help them. The rest of the villagers ran with Aldic to the glade. Boro still sat on his branch, rigidly, staring down at the body of the bear. The shot had torn half its head away and killed it instantly.
THEIR enemy was dead! Cheers tinkled through the air. They wouldn’t have to seek a new home after all.
“This is a mighty deed, Aldic,” said old Zutho. “One that will be handed down from father to son for generations!”
“But, Father,” spoke up Boro, clambering. “Aldic violated the First Law, to bring this about.” He told of the note.
Zutho looked at Aldic a little shocked.
“Is it true, my son? Have you deliberately revealed our existence to a Big One?”
“It was either that or migrating, which at this time would be dangerous,” Aldic said calmly. “I did not want to alarm you, but three Big Ones from New York are prowling about, half suspecting our existence.”
“But then you have made it worse!” gasped Zutho. “The note will prove it to them—”
Aldic shook his head. “The red-haired Big One is to be trusted. Did he not turn one of the three searchers from the trail? Admit it, Boro, for you heard.”
Boro grunted an admission. Aldic put his arm around his shoulder. “But let us give due credit to Boro, for performing his hazardous task well!” Cheers rose for the two stalwarts standing together, slayers of the mighty bear. Teena stepped up and kissed them both, in sight of all, so that all the villagers wondered which she would eventually choose.
“To work!” Zutho commanded.
With a will, the Little Folk fell to cutting up the great carcass, swarming about it like ants. They would have meat, preserved in herbs, for weeks to come. And the warm fur would be useful against winter’s bite. A ring of armed men stood at guard against scavengers attracted by the smell of blood. Even the fox would hesitate before he dared charge that phalanx.
“Come, Boro, we will return the gun,” Aldic said.
When they left, behind them trooped a dozen men carrying choice cuts of the fresh meat, as a gift to the Big One.
THAT evening, Jim Harvey saw that Mary was glowingly happy, as she returned from Albany and pointed proudly to the empty back seat of the car.
“The three pictures sold to the first dealer, Jim! He wants as many more as you can turn out. He says you have a touch in them now that’s sheer genius. How did they turn out today?” Harvey waved at three paintings drying against the wall.
“Yes, I’ve got the touch now.” His voice was that of a man to whom some inner secret had been revealed. “Thanks to little Aldic and his lesson.” Mary started. “You still believe—” Harvey motioned toward the gun once more hanging from its pegs over the fireplace. “I found it on the doorsteps when I got back. Also this—”
“Bear-steak!” Mary gasped. “But Jim, I still can’t believe in them. I just can’t! After all, we haven’t seen them—”
She stopped as the smooth purr of Henry Bainbridge’s car sounded outside, and then the harsh blast of his horn. Another man was with him.
Mary clutched her husband’s hand, at the determined frown on Bainbridge’s heavy face. “I’m foreclosing,” he said without preamble. “I’ll take the court loss in costs, in order to resell
to a cash client.”
The cold, brutal announcement was like a physical blow to Harvey and his wife. All their hopes and dreams shattered.
“You can’t!” Harvey protested. “My pictures are beginning to sell now. You’ve got to give us a chance.”
“Sure I’ll give you a chance,” Bainbridge smiled thinly. “If you pay me $500 by next week, the place is yours. That’s a business proposition. And now, I’m within the law in taking whatever pictures you have on hand, as your only tangible negotiable property, against your payments in arrears. This is Deputy Lang, of Tannersville.”
Harvey stood by helplessly as his paintings were loaded into Bainbridge’s car.
“If you get the $500, mail it to me in New York City. Remember—a week!” With this parting shot, Bainbridge drove off.
“In other words,” Harvey said bitterly, “Bainbridge has a higher offer for this property, enough to absorb the loss in foreclosure and make a profit. Strictly business. He’s within his rights. Naturally our problem doesn’t concern him. Mary, crying won’t help.”
Mary swallowed bravely. “Five hundred dollars!” she murmured, in a tone that doubted the existence of that much anywhere. “Jim, it’s awful to have to leave this place, just when we had a start.”
Harvey nodded haggardly. “And just when I was getting the thrill of my life, over the Little People—”
“If they only did exist, Jim! And were able to help us! Oh, I’m getting as foolish as you are. That’s only in fairy tales—” And now the dam of Mary’s tears did break.
Harvey’s red head bowed over hers against his chest, pityingly, for her heartbreak. As for the Little People—Harvey wasn’t sure himself. He was only certain of one thing—that the world had tumbled apart.