The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  ‘There’s something in that,’ Gordon admitted. ‘But I’ve got a feeling that it’s better not to let Miguel know anything – he must have a pretty good reason for wanting to learn.’

  ‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ suggested one of the others. ‘Why not just bump him off?’

  ‘It’s not so easy. He’s got pals. Besides, you can’t tell how the rest would take it – or the “natives”. Two can play at bumping off. We don’t want our hands full with a vendetta just when we’ve decided to push the work on. No, the best thing is to work like hell on the up passage; there’ll be no noise from that. We must be nearly through by now.’

  The men looked unimpressed by the last hope. Mark, watching their faces, wondered how often they and others before them had heard those same words – ‘we must be nearly through’. Perhaps they had begun to doubt that the phrase could ever be true. Nevertheless, they accepted the suggestion of intensified work enthusiastically. It was as though a limit, however indefinite, had been set. They were to work against time until they won or the floods came. It was a change from the weary monotony in which time counted for nothing. Smith rose to his feet.

  ‘Come on, we’ll tell the rest,’ he said.

  Mark, forgotten, watched them leave. Gordon turned back and thrust his head in through the doorway.

  ‘You go to sleep for a while,’ he directed. ‘I’ll show you round a bit more tomorrow. And if Miguel shows up here – though I don’t suppose he will – not a word about the tunnels.’

  He disappeared again, and there was a sound of quick steps as he hurried to catch up the others. Mark stretched out thankfully on his couch. He felt exhausted, and the activity had started the throbbing in his head again. He was not yet as strong as he had thought, it seemed. He began to drift sleepward with a better serenity, due partly to weariness, but more to wakened hopes of escape.

  It had been good to hear Gordon’s slip of the tongue. His ‘tomorrow’ had given a sense of hopeful future to this place of unending ‘today’.

  4

  ‘Where now?’ Mark asked, as he and Gordon emerged once again into the large cavern.

  ‘About time you saw the fungus caves – you’ll have to put in your spell of work there later.’ Gordon spoke in an unnecessarily loud voice which caused the members of several conversing groups to turn and look in their direction. One of the women pointed at Mark and laughed. Her voice held a jeering note which recalled a sudden memory of himself as a new boy at school being shown round by his housemaster. The words with which she followed the laugh were in a language unknown to him, but he could feel their implication. He had heard the same tones in the voices of practical men who condemned impractical idealists. It put him into the class of the self-righteous.

  Yet there was nothing of self-righteousness about those of the ‘workers’ party he had met so far. They worked because they needed an outlet, and to keep sane, just as the Negro, Zickle, worked at his carving. Such superiority as they undoubtedly did maintain was incidental rather than intentional; the merely static condition of avoiding the mental rot which set in in the minds of the unoccupied. The attitude of the latter showed that they were not entirely unaware of their own deterioration though they had not considered it worth checking. Life in the caves offered the minimum of joys, why forgo them? The women particularly quailed at the thought of dying with the knowledge that they had never lived. It was more easy and more comprehensible to live within an established order than to attempt to change it. What, he wondered, would Margaret have done had she been condemned to this place? Would she tend to accept the customs of the majority as these women did, or would she fight …?

  He tried once more to suppress the figure of her which was constantly slipping into his mind. Bad enough for her influence to be rising continually from his subconscious, but far worse when she slit the diaphragm between his selves and invaded his active thoughts. He endeavoured again to thrust her back by taking an active interest in his surroundings.

  The way led this time past the turning to Zickle’s cave and through a larger tunnel. Mark noticed that the prison caves like the rest were a mixture of nature and craft. The interconnecting passages had been enlarged often from mere cracks to eight- or ten-foot tunnels, according to their importance. Awkward or dangerous corners were smoothed and trimmed. Before the roof lights were fixed, a clearance had been made of those massive slabs which in natural caverns hang aloft, ready, to all appearance, to crash upon the heads of the venturesome. Cracks in the ground had been filled up or bridged over. Stalactites had been ground away in order that their spikes might no longer hang like Damoclean swords. Fallen rocks, conical stalagmites and all the litter which must once have rendered these places fantastic and awe-inspiring were gone. The floors had been made as level as possible, the walls regularized and disorderly nature tamed to a prison-like severity.

  Gordon indicated various side openings as they passed. This, he said, led to a series of caves given over to the ‘natives’, another to the pygmy prisoners’ warren.

  Mark gave up trying to memorize their route. He was aware of a constant succession of caves, passages and side turnings, all as full of character for his guide as the streets of a town, but to a newcomer monotonously indistinguishable from one another. The men and women whom they met glanced at them with little interest and passed on with unhurried steps. He noticed that a number of them were bearing sections of the great fungi upon their backs.

  Gordon stopped in a cavern slightly larger than the average, and waved his hand towards the end wall in the manner of a showman.

  ‘There’s a problem for you,’ he said.

  Mark advanced to examine more closely a line of figures graven in low relief.

  ‘The Egyptian gods?’ he asked.

  ‘Some of them, but others too. Look here.’ He began pointing them out. ‘Here’s Hathor, with the cow’s head – and this chap I think is Set, though the head’s a bit different, shorter in the muzzle than usual – and, see, this must be meant for Ra; the hawk’s head, all right, but they’ve missed out the sun’s disc. And look at his sceptre, it’s got a globe instead of a dog’s head on it … Mahmud says that the globe is symbolic of these.’ He pointed up to the glowing lights. ‘If so, it means that the carving was done after these people renounced the upper world and the sunlight. Ra was the creator, the giver of all things – without that light there could be no life down here. And what’s this?’ ‘This’ was a female figure upon which was mounted a fish in place of a head. ‘Presumably a fertility goddess of some kind. There was a goddess Hamhit, but she had a fish on top of her head, not instead of it. And here’s another chap with a serpent’s head – now, if it were a uraeus … But it’s a plain, ordinary snake’s head. Next to him is Bast, sistrum and all …’

  ‘Bast?’ said Mark suddenly.

  ‘Of course, look at the cat’s head. The Greeks called her Bubastis later, and mixed her up; they made her preside over a lot of things she was never intended to. The Egyptians saw her as a gentle, warming influence; she was tied up somehow with Ra, but …’

  But Mark was not listening. Bast – that damned cat. Could there be any connection? He remembered that Margaret had been holding the cat when they were attacked.

  ‘The pygmies did these?’ he asked, breaking in.

  Gordon, knocked out of his vocal stride, looked puzzled. Mark repeated:

  ‘Did the pygmies do these carvings?’

  ‘Pretty certainly. Long ago, I should think, before these were used as prison caves. Why?’

  ‘Do they still worship these gods?’

  ‘I think so – or some very like them, according to Mahmud. Why?’

  Mark ignored the second question as he had the first. The possibility of the cat’s presence making any difference had never struck him until now. There had been no reason why it should before he had seen that cat-headed figure. Might not the fact that she was carrying it account for Margaret’s non-appearance in the prison caves?
He put the question to Gordon, who looked thoughtful.

  ‘I wonder. It might be so. Of course,’ he added, ‘it’s not absolutely certain that the pygmies carved these. There must have been Egyptians down here at some time – pure law of averages – but the carvings are sufficiently different in detail to convince me that they didn’t do them. Ra, in particular, would never have been allowed to lack his disc of the sun. If prisoners had made them, they would have tended to exaggerate the sun; it would have been the most potent symbol of the lot. So I think on the strength of that we are justified in assuming that the pygmies did do them. Moreover, Mahmud has talked about a kind of animal worship. Animals are so rare that when one does get in, it becomes deified automatically.’

  ‘Then it is possible that Bast – our cat, I mean – is being worshipped?’

  ‘Possibly, yes, but I wouldn’t build on it. We don’t really know much about them.’

  Nevertheless, Mark did allow, even encouraged, his mind to build upon the unsteady foundation. If it were true that the ancient worship of Bast persisted here and that the cat remained her sacred symbol, what would Margaret’s position be? Would she not be revered as a messenger of the goddess, divinely appointed to convey a token? Treated with honour, perhaps declared a demigoddess? The misgivings which had closed about him grew tenuous and began to drift away. This, without any doubt, must be the explanation of her absence from the prison caves …

  Gordon watched him, and, seeing his face clear, knew the line his thoughts were taking. There was little to be gained from pulling down such a castle in the air, though for his own part he remained unconvinced of the girl’s safety. It seemed every bit as likely that she might have been condemned as impious for handling a sacred object – and the crime of impiety usually involves penalties of the more unpleasant kinds. Still, that probability need not be broached. Mark was not yet fully recovered from his illness. The sense of hope would be a better medicine than any they could provide, so Gordon went on talking about the pygmies.

  ‘They must have been much more numerous in the old days. They’re dwindling now, like all the primitive races, and the whole system of caves is far larger than they need. I have thought that those carvings were probably made when the population was dense, before they were able to abandon this system for use as a prison, but I may be wrong. They could have been made by pygmy prisoners in some effort at atonement. There’s no telling. The only certainty is that the figures are like, and yet unlike their Egyptian counterparts.’

  Mark came down to earth.

  ‘But it’s odd that they should have adopted and kept the Egyptian gods.’

  ‘If they did.’

  ‘But, surely –’

  ‘I mean how do you know that the Egyptians did not adopt their gods, or that the two sets did not spring from some common source. This pygmy race is old, I fancy – older than you have any conception. The ancient Egyptians are moderns compared with our pygmies.’

  ‘How do you make that out? The system of caves, of course, must have taken centuries to perfect, but still to say that they are older than the Egyptians …?’

  Gordon shrugged. ‘I’ll give you my reasoning sometime, but it is a long explanation. We must get on now.’

  He led from the cave of the carvings into a gently descending tunnel, and before long Mark became aware that the silence about them was no longer complete. There grew at first a mere agitation of murmurous echoes, indefinite and hard to place, but a new sound, different from the confused shuffle of occasional feet and voices. It grew clearer as they proceeded, clarifying gradually from one composite disturbance until the splash of trickling water became audible against the background of its gurgling passage.

  They paused at the spot where a small stream gushed from a crack in the wall. Gordon picked up a stone bowl and held it under the flow. He drank thankfully.

  ‘It’s a blessing the salt hasn’t got into our water yet,’ he said relievedly. ‘That’d be worse than drowning.’

  He went on morbidly to elaborate the horrors which would attend lack of fresh water, but even the picture he drew of the prisoners driven crazy by thirst failed to subdue the elation which had risen in Mark.

  By this time he had contrived out of a few straws of suggestion to build a raft of remarkable buoyancy. A feeling of hope had come flooding in to change every mental process. His spirits had stirred out of lethargy. It was as if weakness and worry had created a rust in him; now that rust was all washed away, and there was fresh oil on the bearings. He felt that his body would be able to break out of this prison even as his mind had. Gordon was astonished at the transformation. He looked almost a stranger, and one who walked with a springy step rare among the cave dwellers. He was silently astonished at the control the mental was showing over the physical.

  A faint, familiar odour and a dampness became noticeable, and Mark knew that they must be nearing the fungus caves. There were five of them, interconnected, Gordon had told him, of which the combined acreage had easily supplied their needs until lately, but with the increase of population, both by new arrivals and births, the margin had been narrowed. All the conditions of life in this underground world, it seemed, were hastening concurrently to crisis.

  Gordon stopped suddenly, and held up his hand. Mark could hear nothing but the faint murmur of the stream as it flowed beside them.

  ‘Someone running,’ Gordon said.

  He grasped Mark’s arm, and drew him back against the wall, puzzled and silent. Mark had not been long enough in the caves to realize that something unusual must be afoot. For a man to run here was all but unknown. Why should he? In this place time could neither be lost nor gained: it did not exist. Now he began to distinguish the sound of footsteps which would soon overtake them. Both watched the last corner expectantly. The sound grew louder.

  ‘Only one,’ said Gordon. He bent down to pick up a piece of rock, settling it firmly in his hand.

  A form clad in flowing, grey tatters rounded the corner. It came on until it caught sight of them, flattened against the wall. It stopped abruptly. Gordon dropped his stone, and stepped out.

  ‘Mahmud!’ he called in surprise.

  The Arab approached, somewhat out of breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Gordon asked, joining him. The three walked on together.

  ‘Miguel,’ explained Mahmud excitedly. ‘I’ve been talking to the pygmies; I found some of them who hate him, and I got it from them.’

  ‘Well, what was it?’ Gordon was impatient.

  ‘Miguel’s trying to find out where the tunnel is.’

  ‘We knew that – what else could he have been trying to find out?’

  ‘But there’s more than that. He’s got several of his friends and most of the pygmy prisoners behind him, and they’ve been bargaining with the pygmies outside. Miguel offered to show them our tunnel in exchange for his freedom, but they didn’t like that, so he compromised. He would show them the tunnel if they would take him out of the prison system and give him the run of the ordinary caves.’

  ‘That wouldn’t do him much good.’

  ‘He and his friends think it would – they’ve probably got an idea of his getting out somehow, and bringing help. Anyhow, the bargain’s been made.’

  Gordon stared. ‘It has?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘So that’s what he’s been up to, is it? He’s a fool if he thinks they’ll ever give him a chance of getting right outside.’

  ‘But he’s got some scheme – you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Does he know yet where the passage is?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘With an incentive like that it won’t take him long to find out, eh?’

  The Arab nodded.

  ‘Then he’ll have to be dealt with,’ Gordon went on.

  ‘You mean, kill him?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I do – he’s a rat.’

  ‘But his friends – won’t they take up the bargain?’

  ‘We can treat
all traitors alike.’

  ‘And how far will that get you? As I see it, the real damage is done already – the pygmies know that the tunnel exists. It was only really safe while it remained unknown to them. The cat’s out of the bag now, and I don’t see that killing Miguel’s going to do much good.’

  ‘If he’s not found the tunnel yet, it might. He’s a long way the brightest of that gang. It’d set them back and give us more time. If he has found it, he must be got rid of at once before he can tell anyone else.’

  ‘You won’t be sure he hasn’t told.’

  ‘Sure enough. Miguel’s kind keeps everything up its sleeve as long as it safely can. He’d be scared of the rest letting him down if he told them anything until the last moment.’

  Gordon was still talking as they came to the first of the fungus caves, and Mark found himself almost as surprised as he had been when he saw the giant mushrooms in the outer caves. His memory had reduced their size, and despite his expectations, he was taken aback. He would have liked to linger and examine the fantastic picture they made, but his companions were in too great a hurry. Gordon led round to the right, keeping to the strip of open space, between the growths and the wall, where walking was easy. At no great distance they encountered a passage only a few yards long, and passed through it into another cave. Here, the scene was more open for much of the fungus had been cut away to be carried to the living caves where it would be rendered more easily edible by mashing or other processes. They crossed the loam, littered with chips and stubs of felled fungi, to plunge into the still standing growths beyond. The going became slower and more awkward. Gordon warned Mark to step over the twining ground tendrils, and if possible to avoid bruising them. Not, he admitted, that there was any great need for care as yet, but it would be better not to leave a trail.

  It was in the third fungus cave that he became really wary. He led a complicated path among the trunks and marrow-like objects, zigzagging and doubling continually. Mark did his best to imitate the skill which both he and the Arab showed in passing without trace, but he felt that he was making a poor job of it. He was responsible for a number of broken stalks and crushed tendrils; however, they were scattered, and it seemed unlikely that anyone could follow so tortuous a trail from so few clues. He realized at last why Gordon had used loud tones to announce that they were going to the fungus caves. They were an obvious sight for a newcomer, but somewhere hidden away among them was the beginning of the upward tunnel.