The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  ‘No,’ said Garm, ‘not even such a race as yours could sink as low as to confuse tricks with skill. It is that you are a woman, and do not understand these things. The female mind –’

  Margaret hastily headed him back to the subject of the war. She had heard Garm on the female mind before.

  ‘But what are your men going to do? Will they retire?’

  ‘Retire?’ Garm looked horrified.

  ‘But if your attacks can be repulsed?’

  ‘They have repulsed us once. We shall change our plan.’

  ‘Trick them?’

  ‘Certainly not. We shall merely adopt other methods. We never trick. When we fight an enemy who knows nothing of honour, we adapt – temporarily, of course – our methods to his. We do not approve, but self-defence demands it.’

  ‘There seems to be something familiar about that,’ said Margaret.

  The conversation had revealed an unexpected side of pygmy activities. Garm’s ‘when we fight’ had surprised her inasmuch as there appeared to be no one for them to fight. She inquired:

  ‘When did you last fight?’

  But Garm could not tell. There had been no fighting in his own time. Nevertheless, tradition spoke of expeditions from time to time against the prisoners, and more than one civil war between the devotees of rival gods. In any case, he insisted, these wars had always been fought in an honourable way. It was because this particular fracas was being conducted in such an undignified manner that it had been necessary (against their better standards) to call in all available help.

  The ‘natives’ had been willing to co-operate since the caves were as much home to them as they were to the pygmies. And certain of Miguel’s friends had joined them – though whether this was done on the principle of backing the winners, or as a result of bribery, she was unable to discover – they were supplying the guile which the high-minded pygmies naturally lacked. Garm’s attitude towards them was a mixture of admiration of their ingenuity with contempt for their standards. There was no word for serpent in the pygmy tongue; if there had been, he would undoubtedly have used it to describe the renegades.

  Margaret’s final deduction was that the besieged prisoners were holding their own, and likely to do so for some time to come. As long as the fighting went on Miguel was certain of the freedom of the outer caves, and at liberty to search for the Sun Bird. The more she considered it, the more glad she was to have put a spoke in his wheel.

  But the apprehension of Miguel did not proceed smoothly. In answer to her worried questions, Margaret’s guards could tell her nothing more than that the order had gone out for his capture. She was forced to wait until Garm’s next visit. When he came, it was with a gloomy face.

  No. Miguel had not been caught yet. He had disappeared. Hidden himself in the disused galleries and caves where it would be difficult to find him. No one living knew the geography of those parts, though once upon a time, when the pygmies had been as numerous as the spores in a thousand puff-balls – Margaret listened patiently again to a repetition of past glories. She became uncomfortably aware that she had not been justified in dismissing Miguel from her mind.

  ‘But surely,’ she interrupted, ‘they will be able to hunt him down soon.’

  ‘Of course.’ Garm spoke with a confidence which his earlier remarks scarcely vindicated. Though he might believe his people to be mistaken on some points, and misinformed on others, yet his pride in them was immense. The idea of the pygmies failing to do anything they chose to take up was completely foreign to him. Even their inability to deal with the gradual flooding had shaken his faith only slightly – deep down, he was sure that they would come through this peril as they had come through others. As to this matter of one escaped prisoner, it was unthinkable that he could evade them for long. The real cause for worry was lest the goddess should be angered by delay in the blasphemer’s punishment. An expedition must be sent to search the disused caverns, and he had not at present many men to spare.

  ‘Does he know you want him?’ Margaret asked.

  Garm nodded. ‘It is unfortunate. We found the bodies of two of the men who were sent to find him. Their slings and knives had gone.’

  ‘You’re sure he killed them?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Then he must know.’

  Margaret’s misgivings grew. The thought of the unscrupulous Miguel further goaded by desperation increased her uneasiness almost to fear. For the first time she was thankful for the continual presence of her four guards. Miguel could have little doubt who had started the hunt. It would not be pleasant to meet him alone.

  ‘It was foolish,’ Garm was saying. ‘The men should have worked in fours, not in pairs. We have lost time now that he is warned.’ He glanced across at Bast, curled up into a rythmically expanding and contracting ball. ‘She is well?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Quite well.’

  Garm was relieved. It was lucky that there had been no manifestations of the goddess’s displeasure as yet. But the matter must not be allowed to slide. An uneasy thought struck him – there had been a second defeat in the prison caves; the tactic of advancing behind mushroom heads had been out-manoeuvred; was it not possible that Bast was showing her resentment in this way?

  The more he considered it, the more likely it appeared. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. Nothing but divine opposition could have wrecked so subtle a move as that second attack. How could he have been so foolish as to think that she would fail to act? What goddess worth her salt would remain passive while her symbol was made a target for expectoration? The sooner atonement was made, the better for everyone. Miguel must be found without delay. In his sharpened urgency, the old man left the cave almost at a run.

  Margaret was left with a shadow on her spirit. She pictured Miguel prowling through passages and caverns, hunting for the Sun Bird. Or would he be keeping to the disused parts to evade pursuit? Would even a man of Miguel’s type wait to be ferreted out as he must be, sooner or later? It was more to be expected that desperation would make him reckless. However, that had its better aspect. The odds against his finding the Sun Bird before he fell in with search parties of pygmies were immense.

  Gradually Margaret worked herself into an easier frame of mind. She saw in their true proportions the obstacles she had managed to raise between a single, unassisted man and his desire. If he should succeed, it would be by the merest fluke. She had done her best.

  She yawned wearily. How long, she wondered, since she had slept? It felt like bedtime again, anyhow. She loosened her clothes and lay down, looking up at the glowing light. How many years did it take to adapt oneself to this nightless existence? Without day and night as measures, one never seemed fully awake or asleep, but spinning out a monotonous existence somewhere in between the two. Now, to Bast it didn’t matter a bit; provided she was fed frequently, she seemed prepared to doze the rest of the time. Margaret wished, not for the first time, that she were like that …

  Her eyes were still enviously on the cat when the lids slipped over them …

  5

  Margaret was awakened by a half-heard sound from the corridor outside. Nothing very unusual in that. Her inability to fit her ‘nights’ into the pygmy time-scheme had led more than once to Garm’s having to wake her for the temple ceremonies. When and where the pygmies slept she did not know, but she suspected that it was in short spells of two or three hours at frequent intervals.

  She lay for some moments without moving, her eyes on the entrance; but the old man did not appear. She called out in the pygmy language:

  ‘What do you want?’

  There was no answer. She raised herself on one elbow.

  ‘Guards?’

  Still no answer. Only a faint sound of movement in the passage. Margaret got up and crossed to look out. Something must be wrong; the guards had never before failed to answer her. The six-foot passage between her cell and the main corridor was empty. But at the end, protruding beyond the left-hand cor
ner, was a naked foot with toes pointing up into the air. She could see all the lower part of the leg as far as the knee, lying motionless. She spoke again, but still there was no reply. Queer, why didn’t one of the other guards speak? They wouldn’t all be asleep. She stepped forward, keeping her eyes on the foot. She put her head round the corner, and stared down at a body on the floor. It was one of her guards, and he was very dead. His head was savagely battered, a lot of blood and other things had spilt on the floor. Margaret opened her mouth, but before the cry could come, a pressure, rigid as steel, fastened on her throat.

  Both her hands flew up, wrenching and scratching at the sinewy fingers which were strangling her. Her nails filled with skin from them, but they did not loosen; her fingers could find no hold to prise them apart. She lowered her right arm, and sent back the elbow in a vicious jab. It met something yielding and brought forth a sudden grunt; the grip was cruelly increased till her head felt as if it would burst from the pressure of pounding blood. She felt herself whirled round, and forced back to her cell.

  On her bed of fungus skin strips she was thrust face down. Only then did the terrible grip on her throat relax. She could not cry out nor struggle; she could do nothing but draw a deep breath into lungs which ached for the lack of it. The respite was brief; a weight – a knee, she guessed – was thrust on the back of her neck, crushing her face among the fibres so that again she could scarcely breathe. Hands groped for her arms, found them, and tied the wrists tightly together with a coarse cord which cut deep. There was a fumbling, followed by a ripping sound as the back of her silk shirt was torn away. Then she was twisted over, and the silk bound tightly over her gasping mouth.

  Miguel rose to his feet, and looked down at her. He raised a bleeding hand, and licked clean the scratches her nails had left.

  ‘Wild little bitch!’ he said venomously. ‘Now it’s my turn. Thought you’d finished with me, didn’t you? Told the little devils a whole pack of lies about me. I’ll make you eat ’em. I’ll make you sorry you ever lived to tell ’em – you dirty little double-crosser.’

  A faint sound came from the far corner. Miguel spun round to face Bast in the performance of her usual awakening yawn. She looked up at him and mewed.

  ‘Told them I’d spat in its eye, did you? Well, see what I really do.’

  He jumped towards it and seized it by the tail. It gave one screech, which was cut short as its head met the wall. Miguel dropped the body and turned back to glare at Margaret.

  ‘And as for what’s going to happen to you … well, you’ll see.’

  Margaret looked towards the entrance. Where were the other guards? Surely they must come? Miguel saw her look, and laughed.

  ‘No hope there, so you might as well give up. I got all four of ’em. Showed myself up the passage so that two of them chased after me; when I’d finished with them, I came back and tackled the other two. They’re easy; silly little runts with brains to fit –’

  He stopped suddenly, and tiptoed down the passage. Margaret strained her ears, but could hear nothing. Miguel slipped back, and stood flat to the wall, beside the entrance. Outside came an abrupt, high-pitched exclamation. Garm’s voice. He must have found the dead guard. Margaret tried to shout a warning; all she achieved was a muffled grunt. It served the opposite of its purpose. Garm came hurrying in. She saw his eyes widen at the sight of her, then Miguel’s fist took him on the chin. The blow lifted him clean off his feet, and his head hit the ground a sickening smash.

  ‘Easy,’ murmured Miguel. ‘Dead easy.’

  He crossed back to Margaret, and produced another length of cord to bind her ankles. Despite his contempt for the pygmies, he had decided that it was time to be going. He picked her up and slung her over one shoulder. After a cautious glance up and down the outside passage, he set off in a direction which would, she knew, take them to the disused caverns.

  Her eyes opened to meet his. He was sitting a few feet away from her, devouring a slab of mushroom with large, greedy bites.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve come round, have you?’ he said.

  She must have fainted as she hung head downwards over his shoulder. She had no recollection of reaching this place. That it was one of the smaller disused caves was obvious to the first glance. For one thing, the liquid in the globes had dulled to a glimmer, for another, it lacked the cleanliness of the inhabited caves. There was the glisten of slime upon the walls, and the floor was littered with accumulated debris and scummy puddles. There was an odour of dampness and the things which grow in stagnant water. She became aware of her surroundings without thought, the whole conscious surface of her mind was taken up with the hurting of her arms. Both hands were numbed to insensibility, but where the tight cord cut into her wrists began an ache which diffused upwards and about her shoulders in a dull throbbing.

  The gag had been removed, but her mouth was strained and stiff, moreover it was parched and dry so that her tongue felt hard and useless. When she tried to speak, her voice was little more than a croak. Miguel hesitated a moment, and then decided to push over a bowl of water. By leaning over she could just bring her lips to it.

  ‘My arms,’ she said, ‘they’re hurting so.’

  ‘And why not? If the pygmies had caught me after your lies, I’d have got more than hurt arms.’

  Nevertheless, he crossed to her and untied the cords. She brought her arms slowly and painfully forward; returning circulation in her hands was a new agony. Miguel was taking no chances. He waited just long enough for the first numbness to wear off before he rebound her wrists, in front of her this time, and more loosely, though not less securely. Then he went back and resumed his meal.

  ‘Now, we can talk,’ he said. ‘And I don’t care if you yell – they won’t find you here.’

  Margaret, glancing round the ten-yard-square cave, could easily believe him. The pygmies had no maps of their caves; they knew them only from familiarity, and when they were no longer needed, they were forgotten. The present pygmy generation would be as lost in these parts as she herself. She did not respond. Miguel went on:

  ‘Thought you’d done with me, didn’t you?’ And so you damn nearly had. A couple of the little devils almost got me, but I croaked one, and then beat up the other to see what it was all about. Yes, you spun ’em a good yarn – that bit about the cat put paid to my chances – almost. But, by God, you’re going to be sorry for it.’

  He paused, and looked at her. Margaret did her best to stare steadily back. He must not know what a horrible feeling of empty weakness his last vicious threat had caused. He dropped his gaze at last, and grunted.

  ‘Going to be stubborn, eh? It’ll be better for you if you’re not.’

  Still Margaret made no reply. She fought against a rising fear. What did Miguel intend? The very deliberateness of his tone frightened her as much as the threats themselves.

  ‘Now, first, are you going to tell me where this Sun Bird is?’

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I thought you’d say that. I’m giving you a chance you don’t deserve. Tell me, and there’ll be no more trouble.’

  She gave no reply.

  ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘You’ve got nice hands.’

  He put aside his piece of mushroom, and, very deliberately, picked up a flaky lump of rock. With a stone held in his other hand he began to tap it gently and carefully. He went on talking as he worked.

  ‘Do you know what’s happening to your friend and his lot down in the prison caves?’

  ‘They’re holding out.’

  ‘They were holding out, but it won’t be long now before the pygmies get them. They’re being smoked out. How long will they be able to stay in a cave where they can’t see and can’t breathe? They’ve got them by this time, I should guess.’ He knocked off a fragment of stone, and laid it carefully on the floor. ‘It’s too late now,’ he persisted, ‘you’ll never be able to help them. Why can’t you be a sensible woman? Te
ll me where the Sun Bird is, and we’ll get away together – you’ll save a lot of people.’

  ‘No,’ said Margaret.

  Her heart became heavy. Was Miguel really telling the truth this time? Perhaps, but even so, there might be a chance. After all, the prisoners had beaten off two attacks. She tabulated the alternatives. If it were not true, the position remained as before. If it were, might she not just as well sacrifice the Sun Bird? No, there were the other prisoners to be freed. She had got things in the wrong proportion. The handful of fighting men had come to have so much more importance than the hundreds of neutral prisoners, but the latter existed, many women and children among them, so Garm had said. She couldn’t sacrifice them all to save herself from Miguel.

  He continued to tap methodically. There was now a neat row of little stone flakes on the floor in front of him. She gazed at him, apprehensively wondering what he intended. What was it he had said? That she had nice hands? Well, that was true, but …?

  ‘You see,’ he was saying conversationally, ‘there is no time limit – you will have to tell me sooner or later.’

  He laid down his stone and looked at the flakes before him. There were ten of them; little splinters of rock, quite narrow, and no more than an inch and a half long. She wondered …?

  He picked up one and approached her.

  ‘Come on, now – where is the Sun Bird?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘That’s your last chance you damned little mule.’

  He caught her bound hands in one sinewy fist. With the other he inserted the sharp point of the stone sliver beneath her finger-nail. Then with a quick thrust of his thumb, drove it in.

  A streak of vivid pain tore Margaret’s arm. She shrieked with the agony of it.

  ‘Will you tell me now?’

  Sobbing she shook her head. She could not speak.

  ‘Very well.’

  He reached for another slender splinter of stone.

  ‘You’ve got guts.’

  Miguel addressed the quivering, sobbing form on the floor with a kind of reluctant admiration.