The Walking Drum

by Louis L'Amour

  Another rock fell away under me, and fell and fell, and fell. Inside me was a vast emptiness in which fear had turned my guts to water. Always I had hated being locked up, hated barred and closed places. My muscles ached, my fingers were growing numb, only the weariness in my muscles gave me a sense of passing time. Perhaps it was no more than minutes, even seconds, yet it seemed forever. Win or lose I must make an effort, for if I remained hanging there, I must surely fall, and there was no one to come to my rescue.

  Somewhere below me was another step. Yet, suppose it, too, was gone? Suppose this was the purpose of the steps? To let some doomed prisoner believe in escape, to let him descend into darkness, only to plunge off into space and die miserably on the bottom?

  Careful not to put too much strain on my fingerhold, I put out a tentative, exploring toe.

  14

  BENEATH ME THERE was nothing but space. Moving my toe carefully along the wall, I felt for a foothold. My fingers were aching, and the one leg that had a perch was trembling uncontrollably. How much longer I could cling like a fly to that sheer wall I had no idea.

  Feeling along the wall with my free toe, I encountered an obstruction. It was further over and somewhat lower down. Carefully, I stretched still further, finally getting my foot upon solid rock.

  An instant I held myself there, gathering strength and will, then with my right hand I reached out further, trying for a handhold. When I found it, it was the tiniest edge of a rock that had not been fitted properly. It offered only the barest fingertip hold.

  Moving with extreme care, I shifted my other hand and foot and stood upon solid rock once more. But I remained in absolute darkness with nothing to strike a light.

  Without a light I could not go back up the steps, and every move was made at the risk of my life, yet I had no choice but to continue. If I was gone too long, Aziza might try to find me, and the thought of her on those steps was frightening. So I must continue to the bottom, feeling my way down, hoping there would be no missing steps.

  The air was close, and I found myself fighting to get enough into my lungs. There was no time to waste, for I had heard of men dying in old tunnels or long-closed spaces.

  How long it took I had no idea. In the darkness there was no way of estimating time. It seemed I had been clinging to that wall forever, inching my way down, streaming with perspiration. In this dark well I had no way of knowing whether it was taking minutes, hours, or days.

  Suddenly, my foot was upon earth, but when I moved I felt something break under my feet. As I squatted down, my fingers touched the smooth surface of a skull and some broken bones.

  Feeling about, my hand found the skull again, touched the eyeholes. I jerked my hand away ... some poor wretch like myself who attempted a way out and was left here to die.

  I felt oppressed, as if something were pushing against my chest. My hands groped for the wall. There had to be a way out.

  Twice more my feet crunched on what had to be broken bones, but my searching fingers on the wall found no crack, only solid, unbroken stone.

  Crouching, I began a second turning of the tower base, this time feeling lower down for any crack, any break in the wall that might mean an opening. I found nothing.

  The very thought of climbing up, of enduring that nightmare again was ... My eyelids drooped, my muscles seemed to give way, and I sat down. My brain warned me that the foul air was killing me. Soon it would rob me of consciousness, and I would fall to the floor to die as had the others.

  And Aziza? She would be alone, waiting. Waiting up there in the golden sunlight for a man who could not return.

  Earth, I thought, an earthen floor.

  I could dig, but dig into what? In which direction? Back into the hill or away from it? And how deep into the earth did the foundations go?

  Deliberately, like a drunken man, I forced my mind to view the problem. My will to live was fighting the foulness of the air. I forced myself to another circling of the wall. If worse came to worst, I could at least attempt the climb. The air would be fresher the closer I got to that open crack.

  I could not, I would not, give up.

  Suddenly, my fingers encountered a step. I found the lowest one and sat down. Think ... I must think. My mind fumbled with the idea.

  If there was a way out, my brain must find it. My skull throbbed heavily, and I tried to force my thoughts to deal with the problem. Leaning my elbows on my knees, I held my aching head in my hands. My leg felt cold.

  Cold ... cold because I was soaking wet. Yet I was hot. I was perspiring, so why should my leg be cold?

  Air! It had to be air! Cold, fresh, wonderful air!

  I dropped to my knees, my fingers tearing at the earth against the wall, seeking the life-giving breath of air, seeking the opening. My fingers found nothing, only cold stone. No opening ... nothing!

  Yet there was air, a trickle of it. Something I had done, some unwitting movement, some pressure of my body when searching around the well, perhaps my weight on the lower step. Flat on my face, I pressed my mouth against the opening and inhaled deeply. Again and again. Slowly the cool air revived me. Life returned, energy returned, my brain cleared.

  My skull still throbbed, but now I could think, the dullness was gone. Eagerly, I dug my fingers into the crack and tugged. Nothing happened. My weight on the lower step seemed to make no difference. I pressed against the wall, felt for each particular stone. Nothing happened.

  Then—I scarcely believed it. I heard a sound, a whisper of movement hardly to be detected. It was the first sound other than my own breathing that I had heard in what must have been hours. Yet it sounded as if something or someone were scratching at a stone!

  Pressing my mouth to the opening, I said, "Is someone there?"

  A low cry answered. "Mathurin! You are alive!"

  "I've no light. I lost my candle on the stair. Can you find the door?"

  For a few moments there was silence, then I detected a faint stirring outside. She was doing something, what it was I could not guess. Suddenly, she spoke again. "It's a lever, just like the other one! But it's too high for me to reach!"

  "Tap on the wall with a rock! Show me where it is!"

  The tapping was frenzied. It was high, all right, too high even for me. Evidently, some step or platform had fallen or sunk into the earth. I could barely touch it standing on tiptoe.

  Unable to see in the darkness, I had to judge its position; then I leaped upward in the darkness, grasping for something I could not see ... and grasped it with both hands!

  My weight came down on it, and slowly, a section of the wall moved. Cool air rushed in ...

  It was not open wide enough for me to escape, yet my hand reached through and grasped Aziza's, and for a time we simply clung to each other. Then sanity returned. "It's the bottom of the door," I suggested, "if you could dig the earth away?"

  Dropping to her knees, she dug desperately, gasping for breath. Once again I heaved at the door, and this time it moved enough for me to emerge.

  She caught at me, and for a moment we clung together as if drowning. After a long time I drew away and pushed the door shut with my shoulder.

  The opening was a mere crack in the rock cleverly utilized and masked by brush and roots. The lever itself had folded back into the crack, and even now I had to look carefully to detect it. With gentle fingers I rearranged the vines, moss, and leaves we had disturbed.

  "However did you find this place?" We were in the copse, the very place I had studied as a possibility.

  "I'd seen you looking at this place, and I have lived in several castles, not only the one in Palermo. Such places as this were used. What you could not see from where we were is that a part of the copse is right below the wall; you were looking at a place further away. The trees disappear for part of its length, then there's another patch of them.

  "You were gone so long I was frightened. I started down the steps after you. I called and called, but there was no response, so I went back befo
re I had gone far. I was afraid you would come looking and find me gone. Then on the second morning—"

  "The what?"

  "Oh, Mathurin! Didn't you know? You have been down there two days and a night!"

  Down there in the darkness, how could one know? How long had I sat on the step in the darkness? Had I slept? How long had I been on the steps, feeling my way down, sometimes with long pauses while my feet or hands explored for resting places? My hunger now told me what she said was true, a thing forgotten in my horror at dying there in the darkness as had those others whose bones crunched beneath my feet.

  The Castle of Othman remained as we had left it. The Barb greeted me with a whinny, extending his nose toward me. I rubbed his neck for a minute or so, talking gently to him. Then I went to the fountain, and stripping off my shirt, I bathed away the sweat and dust. Wrapped in my robes once more, I rested while Aziza brought me food, then I slept.

  A long time later I awakened. It was not yet morning, although the sky seemed lighter. I lay still, staring upward and thinking about our situation. Our food was almost gone, and we could remain here no longer.

  The only solution seemed a return to Córdoba or to travel on to some other town such as Seville or perhaps Toledo. By now the men of ibn-Haram would have searched the city and its environs. A return might be in order.

  If careful, we might even return the way we had come, thus escaping the guards at the gates of the city. We might even continue to hide at the home of ibn-Tuwais. Getting to my feet, I went to the window and looked toward Córdoba. It was not yet light, but I could see for a good distance across country. Nothing moved.

  Descending the stair, I went to the garden. What few grapes there had been we had eaten. The apricots, only few in number, were also gone.

  We had no choice. We must ride away from the Castle of Othman.

  15

  WHEN AZIZA AWAKENED I waited until she had left the fountain and returned inside. "We have food for no more than a day," I told her. "We will have to go."

  "To Córdoba? We cannot."

  "We will be safer there. If we start for somewhere else, we may fall in with brigands or soldiers."

  "Yusuf is trying to make the roads safe."

  "No doubt ... in time. They are not safe yet."

  She was silent for a moment, and I said, "It is safer for you. It is the last thing they will expect. I have some money."

  Before noon I led the horses to the copse and picketed them where they were concealed by the trees around a small meadow. We must escape. If necessary, we could use the tower, and with candles and much care we could manage now that I had taken that route. With care we could last out another day and each day was a small victory for us.

  Where else could we go? Her friends could not be trusted, for some were certainly now allied to Yusuf or ibn-Haram. Others were afraid of him. After the storm that must have been raised, any young man traveling with a beautiful girl would draw attention. In Córdoba I could lose myself among the students and find something to do. It was not in me to long remain idle. Even now I was chafing to be learning.

  It was almost dusk when we saw the riders. There were at least a dozen, and they rode in a compact group heading for the Castle of Othman.

  "Quick! We will hide in the passage!" Swiftly, we gathered all we had brought and removed what signs there were of our presence. Much had already been done, as we planned to leave. As we closed the door behind us, we could hear the sound of hooves in the courtyard.

  Crouching on the small landing in the darkness, we waited. We had left nothing, of that we were sure, yet there would be trampled grass and evidence that someone had been there. We hoped they would believe it had been brigands.

  A subdued rustling sounded beyond the stone door, large sounds no doubt, but faintly heard from here. Moving back, I brushed against something I had not seen before. Another set of steps led upward. The stairwell was very small, but moving quietly we climbed upward to reach a small room not more than four feet wide but twelve long. There was a stone bench, a rusty halberd.

  Then I saw a narrow crack where the stones should have fitted but which had been purposely left to allow a viewer to watch what transpired in the great hall, and due to the collapse of walls, it also offered a view of a part of the outer court. Snuffing our candle, we peered through.

  A half-dozen men were in view, soldiers all. Outside in the court we could see others, searching all about. As I watched, the officer in command turned and I saw his face clearly. It was Duban.

  My mouth had opened to call out when Aziza clapped a hand over it, shaking her head violently.

  "But it is Duban! He will help us!"

  "They would kill you. You have been too long alone with me."

  "But—"

  "No matter. They would kill you, anyway."

  "Of course," I agreed, "I am a fool."

  "Whatever you are, I love you."

  Startled, I looked at her, and she returned my gaze with wide eyes. "I mean it," she said. "Not that it will matter. They will marry me to whom they wish if it will aid their cause."

  When they had ridden away we descended the stair and went to the top of the keep. From there we could watch over the entire countryside, and the riders were far away now, riding swiftly toward a high road where dim movement could be seen.

  We could no longer remain here. They had found nothing, but they might return. It was obvious someone had been moving about in the courtyard and the garden.

  "You were right," I admitted, "I should have known what they would think."

  "I am important to them," she said. "They want me because I am useful for bargaining. They hope to seal an alliance with me." She shrugged. "Women such as I know this is what is expected, and sometimes the match is a happy one."

  "And if it is not?"

  "We manage, somehow. We have known what was expected of us, and some become very clever at politics and intrigue. Some simply find a lover; some sink into whatever life they have with their children, and often they are enough."

  At nightfall we left the Castle of Othman, walking hand in hand down the slope to the copse where the horses were tethered. The black well had left me uneasy, and I had a premonition I had not seen the last of it, yet now I knew its secrets, or some of them. A thing to be remembered: There among the bones lay the largest part of my fallen candle. Such things can be the price of life or death.

  We rode, keeping to low ground and darkness, to the entrance to ibn-Tuwais's tunnel. Once inside we heard no sound. We rode to the hidden stable, left our horses with plenty of feed, and reentered the beautiful apartments where we had first hidden.

  No sound came from beyond the wall. We detected no movement in the house. Had ibn-Tuwais been taken away to be tortured or killed?

  There could have been no evidence of my presence left in the house, so the search must have been purely routine unless they had previous knowledge of my presence. But how could that have been?

  When for a long time we heard no sound, I pushed on the slab and it pivoted gently. There was a slight scrape of stone on stone but no other sound. With drawn sword I went through the door.

  A rustle of garments, and a familiar voice. "Kerbouchard? Come in. You are safe."

  The voice was that of Mahmoud. Stepping into the room, we found him reclining upon a divan, one of the books of ibn-Tuwais in his hand. He arose and came to us, bowing low to Aziza.

  "We feared you had been captured or killed. Ibn-Tuwais got word to us to wait for you here."

  Why did I not trust him? There was no reason for mistrust, and we desperately needed a friend. "When you could not be found they arrested ibn-Tuwais. He has told them nothing."

  "But how could they know I had lived here?"

  He shrugged. "Someone saw you, I suppose. Spies are everywhere, and as you should know, we Berbers trust no one."

  He glanced at Aziza. "Ibn-Sharaz is said to be angry over his daughter's disappearance, and Prince Ahmed—you can imag
ine how he feels."

  Mahmoud seated himself and clapped his hands for a slave. The man who came was strange to me, yet I recalled having seen him once. Was it in Mahmoud's home? The slave began to spread a low table for a meal, and after our poor fare of the past week, my mouth watered.

  "You must remain here for the time," Mahmoud suggested, "and we will arrange to get you out of the city."

  Mahmoud was my friend; there was no earthly reason for not trusting him, yet the situation left me uneasy. Mahmoud was a Berber, yet I did not believe he had any connection with Yusuf or ibn-Haram. His friends had all belonged to the previous ruling group, the Almoravids. I liked it not at all. In effect we were prisoners in the house, trusting to Mahmoud for food as well as information, and I had seen his eyes stray toward Aziza. Was it with envy or jealousy?

  Mahmoud was ambitious, and Aziza was a pawn in a struggle for power, a struggle in which I was merely in the way. Reluctantly, I had to admit she would be better off with Prince Ahmed than with me. At least she would be assured of comfort, food to eat, and freedom from pursuit. What had I to offer but love? I was a drifting adventurer, a man living by his wits and his blade. I had neither family, fortune, nor friends.

  When Mahmoud had gone Aziza came at once to me. "Of what are you thinking?"

  "I do not trust him."

  "Neither do I."

  "You would be safer with Prince Ahmed."

  "But happier with you."

  No doubt she believed what she said, yet I could only think of the city out there, teeming with potential enemies, devoid of friends.

  "The slave is a spy," she warned. "Be careful of what you say."

  "We still have the horses."

  "Yes."

  Was there reluctance in her tone? She had been brought up to a life of luxury and ease, living in the saddle or in occasional ruins could become old very soon. Our stay at the Castle of Othman had been idyllic only up to a point.

  Restlessly, I paced, filled with uncertainty, always aware of the presence of the slave. He was busy, but close by. My bow and arrows had been left on my saddle. My scimitar and dagger were with me. There was little food in the secret room, but I could get more. The question was, when to move?