by John Wyndham
‘It is mushroom, all right,’ he admitted. ‘If we can find anything to burn, we might make a fire and cook some.’
With Mark keeping a look out for a suitable specimen, they made their way farther along the edge of the weird forest.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that this is a kind of fungus farm, and that all these things are edible – but I’d rather not try them until we know for certain. I seem to have heard that you can eat lots of fungi if they’re cooked the right way – the trouble is to know which is the right way.’
Margaret set the cat on the floor where it ran a little ahead of them, sniffing curiously at the thick stems.
‘The more I see of this place,’ she said, half to herself, ‘the less I like it. First, unknown forms of light, and now this unthinkable fungus garden. Surely if men were mining down here they would have provisions sent down to them. They wouldn’t choose to grow this stuff for food. It’s quite certain that these things aren’t natural; they’ve been forced, or developed, or something. How is it they’re only grown here when they might have been commercialized up above?’
Mark grunted. He had grown tired for the moment of puzzling, and felt in a mood to accept what fortune offered. Here, for the taking, was food which would reinforce their meagre supply. Presently he found what he sought. A great mushroom, standing detached from the rest, on the fringe of the bed. It was easy to undercut it by hacking out large, white, pithy chunks.
‘Stand clear!’ he warned.
The giant toppled over with a thud. The head broke off and rolled free. He followed it and began to cut off manageable sections. While he was stooping, Margaret came up behind him. Her voice sounded odd:
‘Mark, I’m going mad, or something – there’s one of the gnomes!’
‘What?’
He spun round and stared at her. She had picked up Bast and was holding her in one arm. The other hand was pointing to a fungus which looked not unlike a dingy-yellow beach umbrella. Motionless in its shadow, the queerest figure he had ever seen stood watching them.
Against the phantasmagoria of growths it was impossible to make an estimate of the watcher’s size. Mark could only be certain that he was considerably shorter than himself. The unclothed body was covered with a skin which was grey-white, like dirty vellum. So lacking was it in pigmentation that it could not have known sunlight for many years, if at all. All four limbs were thin, though without emaciation; a not ill-formed, slender body was surmounted by an unusually round head. Two large, black eyes were gazing steadily and unblinkingly: they gave to the slightly negroid features an expression of deep and permanent melancholy. There was something in the racial type which stirred Mark’s memory faintly; somewhere, either in a picture, or in real life, he was sure that he had seen faces stamped with just such an expression of unending sadness.
‘Look, there’s another,’ Margaret nodded a little to the right.
He saw another figure hitherto unnoticed and all but invisible, so like was its bleached skin to the colour of the fungus trunks.
‘And another – and another. Dozens of them,’ she added.
Mark began to grow nervous beneath the unwavering stares. How long had these creatures been there? he wondered. Were there more of them even now prowling closer through the fungus thickets? He could feel the impact of all those dark, mournful eyes, following every detail of his movements. He looked questioningly at Margaret, She shook her tangled curls.
‘My dear, I don’t know. They don’t seem very dangerous, do they? Perhaps they’re only interested …’
Mark thought. These queer folk must know the way to the surface – and they must be made to tell. They might intend no harm, but it would be better to make certain. He drew his pistol and assured himself that the magazine was full.
‘We’d better get into the tunnel – it’ll be less exposed,’ he said, turning.
They had taken less than half a dozen steps when a rustle of movement came from among the fungi. An unseen signal put the white-grey men into simultaneous action. Mark, looking over his shoulder, was taken aback by their numbers; they showed in a score of unsuspected places, made visible now by movement.
‘Run!’ he cried.
A thudding of many bare feet sounded behind them, but they gained the tunnel mouth with a good lead. He stopped and faced round, putting Margaret behind him. The pistol was levelled threateningly; evidently it was known as a weapon, for they stopped short. He tried them in English.
‘We want to get out. We want to go up,’ he said, pointing to the roof.
The faces – nearly a hundred of them, he guessed – remained stolidly uncomprehending. He tried again. Pointing first to himself, and then again upwards.
‘I – up,’ he said hopefully, but the faces remained unencouraging.
‘Oh, damn!’ He glared angrily at them. Now that they were clear of the growths it became easier to judge their size; the tallest of them he put at about four feet six, though several stood no more than four feet.
‘Try them in French,’ he suggested to Margaret.
She stepped from behind him, with the cat still held in her arms. The effect was immediate and astonishing. Before she could open her mouth the little men grew suddenly excited. As if they had abruptly come to life, a buzz of chatter arose. Gesticulating arms pointed at her, expressions became animated. She turned back to Mark, disconcerted.
‘What on earth – ?’ she began.
‘Look out.’ He dragged her roughly back.
The little men came forward at a run. He pulled his trigger viciously, firing blind into the press of their bodies. There could be no missing. A number dropped, and the charge checked. Several injured were screaming with pain. The reverberation of the shots was still echoing back and forth across the great cavern. The mingled uproar was awesome and unnerving after the silence. The still forms on the ground looked pathetically like those of children. Mark felt slightly sick, but he continued to brandish his pistol on the faces of the rest, waving them back. Margaret drew her breath with a sound which was half whimper. She forced her eyes from the fallen bodies and looked into his, horrified and part afraid.
‘Oh, Mark, they’re dead. You – you –’
He moved towards her and she shrunk back. The fear in her face was not of the little men.
‘But, Margaret, I had to –’
‘So suddenly,’ she murmured. ‘So horribly suddenly. A minute ago they were running, and now – Oh, Mark, what have you done?’
Mark turned away. He hadn’t intended to kill – only to stop. It wasn’t really himself who had pulled that trigger so vengefully; something had taken hold of him … oh, damnation …
The men had drawn off. Their faces were expressionless once more, and their eyes watched enigmatically. Perhaps he had been too hasty. Perhaps, as Margaret seemed to think, they had meant no harm. But he couldn’t afford to let them come to grips on a mere ‘perhaps’. Besides, there had been an air of determination about that charge …
He thrust a new clip into his pistol without ceasing to watch. They had started talking again in their queer, staccato tones. For the most part, their attention seemed to be directed at Margaret, though occasional apprehensive glances were thrown at his pistol. A deploying movement began. The crowd was stringing out in a semicircle about the tunnel mouth. He felt that they were contemplating a new rush. It would be impossible to hold off a charge spread over a hundred and eighty degrees.
From farther up the passage he might be able to hold them. He began to retreat backwards, never removing his eyes from their faces. But they did not advance at once. He wondered uncomfortably what was going on behind those sad, yet inexpressive faces.
He was a good thirty yards from the entrance before they moved. He saw a sudden stiffening run through them, then they were rushing headlong. His pistol spat viciously. The lead tore holes in their line. The noise of his shots in the confined space was a crashing, deafening roar which made his head sing. He could hear nothi
ng else; certainly he had no suspicion of a hundred naked feet pattering behind him.
One choked cry from Margaret was all his warning, and it came too late. He went down even as he turned, in a rush of grey-skinned bodies. His pistol flew from his hand. His flailing legs and arms were seized and pinned down. A weight of squirming bodies was crushing the air from his lungs. Small fists clenched themselves in his hair and began to hammer the back of his head against the floor. Sickening, splitting thuds. There was a pain behind his eyes, hurting like the devil. His brain felt as though it were slopping about in its case like thin porridge …
Part Two
* * *
1
Consciousness began to trickle back in a very filtered form. The first thing Mark was aware of was a familiar, blinding headache. He moved uneasily. There had been the explosion; the whole world turning somersaults; the Sun Bird diving at the sea … No, that was farther off. Hadn’t something else happened since then? He made a tremendous effort to open his eyes. Each lid seemed to be weighted with several pounds as well as being stiff from disuse. And when they lifted, he could not focus properly. There was a hazy vision of a grey surface which whirled and tilted. It steadied after a few seconds, and became clearer. Rock? That was familiar somehow …
Memory suddenly came back in full flood. The passages, the caves, the fantastic mushrooms, and the little men …
‘Margaret?’ he said feebly.
He turned his head, searching for her. He found himself lying in a cave the size of an ordinary dining-room. In the centre of the ceiling a blue-white lamp was glowing, smaller, but in other particulars like those in the corridors. Beside him, on the floor, stood a bowl of polished stone, full almost to the brim with water. He stretched out a hand to pull it closer, and then stopped in the middle of the action; the hand felt so weak, looked so thin and wasted that he could scarcely recognize it for his own. How long had he been here? he wondered as he leaned over the bowl to drink.
The cool water did him good. He leaned his head back on the pillow and considered the surroundings more carefully.
The cave could hardly be called furnished, but someone had made attempts to render it habitable. Against the other walls were set low, couch-like mounds like that on which he himself lay. The coverings of both the small cushions and the larger which served for mattresses were woven from inch-wide strips of some strange material which was leather-like in colour, though not in texture. To give warmth and extra comfort somebody had wrapped a long, blue woollen scarf about him.
In several places the nakedness of the rock walls had been hidden by designs and pictures painted in three or four raw colours. But he noted that though the execution was rough, it was backed by knowledge; the crudity was in the workmanship, not in the observation. The study of a fungus forest was no less informed than the view of an Arab village, but there were figures here and there which puzzled him. Arabs he could recognize, white men and even the dwarf grey folk, but there were others, both men and women, which fitted into none of these categories.
He raised a hand to his aching head and found that it was heavily bandaged. What had happened since that fight in the corridor? He had a misty notion of faces close to his own, voices which murmured encouragingly, but they had been strangers. Where was Margaret? He must find her …
The effort of sitting up set his head pounding again so that he had to clench his teeth. With difficulty he got to his feet and leaned for some swimming seconds against the wall. His legs felt so weakly useless that any movement might double them beneath him. The effort required to force them on was prodigious. Only his anxiety for Margaret drove him to make it.
The cave entrance had been chiselled to the shape of a doorway, though it held no door. It gave on to a corridor, dimly lit and stretching away to both sides. A faint murmur which might be of voices came from the right, and decided him to go that way. In all he made a journey of perhaps fifty yards, but it seemed one of the longest of his life. Four times in his slow course he was forced to rest against the wall, feeling too spent either to continue or return, wishing only to drop where he was. But each time he regathered, at last, just enough strength to drag his unsteady feet forward.
Finally the passage gave on to a cavern. He stood looking at numbers of men and women who crossed its floor on the way from one tunnel mouth to another. He tried to call out to them, but his voice sounded childishly weak. And something queer was happening to the people … They seemed to be swimming about … The whole cave was reeling drunkenly. His knees suddenly sagged. The floor of the cavern rose obliquely from the left, and hit him.
Arms lifted him into a sitting position; a smooth something was thrust against his lips.
‘Here, drink this,’ said a voice.
He obeyed feebly. A gulp of some coarse spirit burned its way down. His eyes opened to the hazy sight of two bearded faces hanging over his own. The mouth in one opened:
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Margaret,’ he managed to say. ‘Where is she?’
The two bearded faces looked at one another. The first spoke again.
‘That’s all right, buddy. Don’t you worry. All you got to do is rest. How about getting back now?’
They assisted him to his feet.
‘Think you can walk?’
He nodded dumbly, but at the first faltering step his knees doubled up again. The taller of the two men picked him up easily, and strode back along the passage. Very thankfully Mark felt himself laid down on the couch he had so lately left. After an indefinite period which might have been a few minutes or a few hours, someone roused him. The man who had carried him was holding out two bowls, one containing water, and the other, a kind of mash.
‘What – ?’ he began. But the other shook his head.
‘No, just you get outside this first. You can talk after.’
He took a drink of water and started on the mash. It had a slightly earthy flavour, curious, though not unpleasant. While he fed he took stock once more of his surroundings. He was back in the decorated cave, all right, but this time he had three companions. The man who had spoken was a tall, broad figure, clad in the rags of a French uniform. His hands, and such parts of his face as were visible behind a matted beard, were lined with ingrained grime. Hair which might be fair when clean had been clumsily restrained, possibly with the aid of a knife. Above it, far back on the head was perched a battered képi.
Wonderingly, Mark transferred his gaze to the next. A slighter man, this, with hair thinning, though such as did grow had been lopped in the same crude fashion. His beard, like the others, was matted, and his hands equally grimy, but his clothing was different. The tatters of his suit would never be recognized by its London maker, but they were tatters of good quality. The third man was an Arab, wearing a burnous which had the appearance of having served its owner throughout an arduous campaign. It reminded Mark vaguely of certain battle-torn flags he had seen hung in churches.
He finished the mash, in which he detected traces of the same coarse spirit which had been given him before, and pushed the bowl away. He felt greatly improved. In a pocket he found a packet of cigarettes, which he handed round. The three men looked at him as if he had performed a miracle. They lit up with a care which was almost reverent.
‘Now perhaps you’ll tell me where she is?’ he asked.
‘Was she with you?’ inquired the big man.
‘Of course she was. Do you mean you’ve not seen her?’ He looked questioningly at them in turn. They shook their heads.
‘But she was with me when I was knocked out. I’ve got to find her.’
He began to struggle to his feet. The tall man caught his arm and pushed him back.
‘No. You keep sitting awhile. There’s a whole lot you got to learn yet. And one of ’em is that it ain’t no sort of good being in a hurry in these parts.’
‘But –’
‘I tell you, you can’t do a thing. Anyway, you’re still sick, and got to
lay up for a bit. Take it from me, if your girl’s safe now, she’ll stay safe.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Sure I mean it.’
Mark believed him. The man spoke firmly, as though he had no doubt. Moreover, in his present state of weakness, he could be of assistance to no one. He dropped back on his cushions and contemplated the three.
‘Well, for God’s sake tell me something about this place. I’ve been living in a kind of nightmare. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, or even where I really am.’
‘Well, you’re the latest arrival, I can tell you that, though you’ve been sick a goodish time. You’re a tailor’s dummy to the rest of us in this dump. How d’you get here? Tell us your yarn first.’
Mark told his story in considerable detail. The first part seemed to hold more interest for his listeners than did the account of the fungus forest, and the tall man quelled the very evident desires of the European to make frequent interruptions. He was silent for a time after Mark’s account of the fight.
‘So that’s what it’s all about,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No wonder the poor devils are getting all het up. It’ll mean the end of them.’
‘And of us too,’ said the other.
The Arab merely nodded.
‘But what are you doing here?’ Mark asked impatiently. ‘You’re American, aren’t you? Why the French uniform?’
‘Say, we’ve forgotten the introductions. I’m John Smith, leastways that’s my name in the Legion. This is Charles Gordon, of London, England, and this, Mahmud el Jizzah, of some Godforsaken hole in the desert. Gordon is an arch– , arch– , anyway, he digs for things which aren’t no manner of good to anybody. And Mahmud, well, I don’t know what he does, but he was educated in some swell place in England, Oxford College.’
‘Balliol,’ murmured the Arab, deprecatingly.