The Secret People

by John Wyndham

  Margaret did not hear him. She was struggling in a sea of red agony, clinging fast to one straw of determination – she must not tell – must not tell …

  Miguel sat down and looked at her moodily. He felt more than a little sick. Why couldn’t the fool have told him at first? He didn’t want to do this. He had hated her for her betrayal, but that had passed. He’d called her a mule, but, by God, a mule wouldn’t have been as stubborn as all that. He had half a mind … No, that would be a fool thing to do. When he had gone so far … Anyhow he would try once more. He picked up a stone knife he had filched from one of the dead pygmies, and went back.

  Margaret looked up at him standing over her. He was talking. From blurred eyes she could see his mouth moving. She must try to hear what he was saying. The words seemed to come from far away, but she caught their meaning – he was telling her what he proposed to do next. She listened, and her body twitched almost as though it could feel the stone knife. But he talked on, going into details, horrible, sickening. She cried out:

  ‘No, O God, don’t do that.’

  ‘Then tell me where the Sun Bird is.’

  She shook her head. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘All right then …’

  The stone splinter began to descend. Margaret’s eyes could not leave it. Why, oh why …? All she had to do was to agree. In another second it would touch, then it would tear, then, O God … It touched …

  She screamed: ‘I’ll tell … I’ll tell …’

  She twisted aside, sobbing with anguish of spirit. The utter abasement of defeat swept her into a misery beyond any she had known. But if – No, she would have survived one ordeal only to face another – perhaps a worse. Sooner or later she would have broken … But the weakness of prostration was bitter beyond bearing.

  Miguel turned away, glad that she could not see his face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and flung the stone splinter into a corner. He felt sicker than ever. He could never have done it, he knew that, but the threat had worked, thank God …

  He went back to the girl and loosed the cords from her wrists and ankles. From a corner he fetched the clothes he had torn from her, and laid them over her. The tatters of her silk shirt he folded into a pillow for her head. When that was done, he crossed the cave and sat down, leaning his back against the wall, listening to the sound of a sobbing so wretched that it seemed interminable.

  A revolution was in progress in Miguel’s mind. All his anger and hate of her had waned. He could feel nothing but pity for her, and for the things he had had to do. In fact, it was hard to believe that he had done them. It was as though events had conspired, and used him as the tool to hand. The will to live, he supposed Gordon would have called it, the will which was stronger than the form it inhabited. A gust of remorse drove through him. Yet his cunning did not altogether desert him. She must not be allowed to see his regret. She might become stubborn once more; then she would have defeated him indeed. He could not repeat those brutalities …

  It was a long time before the abandoned weeping slackened, but, at last, there came into it a more normal note. The first wildness of defeat passed into a calmer hopelessness. Miguel brought a bowl of water, and held it while she drank. She raised her tear-stained face, and fixed her brimming eyes on his own. The expression she saw there surprised her. Through her sobs she murmured:

  ‘Oh, Miguel, why have you hurt me so frightfully?’

  Miguel frowned that his remorse should have been visible to her first glance.

  ‘I had to know,’ he answered curtly.

  ‘And you’d do it again?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  She looked hard at him.

  ‘I don’t believe you would.’

  ‘You’re going back on it? Because if you are –’

  She shuddered. ‘No – no. I’ll tell you. You’ve beaten me – broken me. I’ll tell you.’ She lay back, weeping from sheer weakness, not bothering to hide her face.

  Miguel watched the tears. He could not stand this sort of thing much longer.

  ‘Tell me where it is, and I’ll go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t?’ He raised his hand. ‘If you –’

  ‘No. I mean, I can show you the way, but I can’t describe it.’

  Miguel thought. He should have realized that a description of the way would be impossible. She was right, he must be shown.

  ‘All right, we’ll go.’

  ‘And I am coming on the Sun Bird.’

  He paused at that. ‘But –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter much if you kill me or not now. I’ve done all the harm I can – and there might be a chance.’

  There would be climbing, Miguel reflected. Alone, he might make it, but if he were encumbered with her, it would be more than doubtful. However, that could wait until the Sun Bird was found – it would be easy enough to leave her.

  ‘Put on your clothes,’ he said.

  Margaret wept again.

  ‘I can’t. My hands –’

  He was forced to do it for her. He completed the task by tying the strip of silk over her mouth once more.

  ‘Not taking any risks,’ he explained. ‘We’ve got to go through pygmy tunnels. Now, march.’

  She took two tottering steps. It was plain he would have to carry her. This time she was not slung across his shoulder, but held in his arms.

  Miguel halted at the crux of two, well-lighted passages.

  ‘Which way?’ he asked, in an undertone.

  Margaret nodded her head to the right. Miguel looked down at her in anger.

  ‘So that’s the game, is it? I happen to know that that way leads to Bast’s temple. How many times have you played that trick, you damned little snake? I’ve a good mind to go back with you to the disused caves.’

  Margaret’s eyes widened with terror and pleading. She shook her head violently, and then nodded in the forward direction.

  ‘All right.’ Miguel strode on. ‘But if you lead me into a trap, God help you – no one else will.’

  They emerged into the fungus cave where she and Mark had first encountered the pygmies. There was not much farther to go now. Margaret resigned herself to helplessness. The luck had run all Miguel’s way. They had not encountered a single pygmy to give the alarm, and her pathetically futile plan to lead him into trouble had been detected at its inception. At the back of her mind she knew that he had no intention of taking her with him. Why should he embarrass himself with her? As to what he would do with her, she wondered very little – it did not seem to matter much now.

  Miguel started to cross the cave by a beaten path through the fungi. After a few steps he thought better of it, and retraced his way to the wall. Not only would one side thus be safe from attack, but an ambush springing from the fungi must give him a few seconds’ grace as they crossed the intervening open space. He was becoming uncomfortably suspicious that something unusual was afoot. They had come thus far with never a sign of a pygmy. What could they be up to now? He believed he would have been easier if one or two had put in an appearance. Then he would at least have had the active satisfaction of a fight, and a knowledge of what he was up against, whereas he was feeling distinctly nervous. It had gone too easily …

  Part-way round the wall, he stopped dead. From somewhere in the big cave had come the murmur of a voice. He looked round, listening and trying to place it. It was not easy, for the rock walls flung echo at echo, and both at original. He could tell no more than that it was in the cave, and growing louder. But, with a shock, he noticed that it was deep and full – no pygmy had ever spoken in such a voice as that. Without hesitation, he made for the great growths. In a well-hidden spot he laid Margaret down, and stood over her, straining his ears.

  The sound came nearer. An eerie rumble of speech, still confused into unintelligibility by the echoes. At last, he caught a phrase:

  ‘– And I’m dead certain I’m right this time.’

  Miguel could not recognize the di
storted voice. The answer made him jump violently.

  ‘Sure, buddy, but you were just as dead certain the other three times, and they were flops.’

  Smith’s voice. How, in hell’s name, had he got here?

  ‘You wait a bit. I know this is the place.’

  A muffled cry came from the girl. She had no doubt of Mark’s voice. Miguel pounced on her, thrusting one hand fiercely over her mouth, and holding the other clenched in a threatening fist, close to her face.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear something? Sounded like a voice.’

  ‘One of them durned pygmies, I guess – let ’em be, unless they ask for trouble, and they’ve had a bellyfull of that by now. Now, just where is this tunnel of yours? If this ain’t the right cave, I’m through. I’m gonna climb one of the blisterin’ airshafts.’

  ‘And probably find the water pouring in on you when you get halfway up,’ Mark said scathingly. ‘I tell you, from where we left the Sun Bird, the river runs north, and that means under the mountains. It may be a longer climb when we find a hole, but at least there won’t be the water above us.’

  ‘Sure. But how do we know we’re gonna find a hole? Seems to me –’

  But Miguel waited to hear no more. He had recognized Smith’s voice and Ed’s; he knew now that the other must be Mark’s. How many more there might be in the party he didn’t know, and didn’t care. The important thing was that they were searching for the Sun Bird, and he must get there before they did. He was tempted to leave Margaret where she was, and trust to luck for the rest of the way, but the risk was too big. Instead, he picked her up again, putting her across his shoulders in a less impeding fireman’s lift, and set off among the fungi.

  Miguel had a good sense of direction, and he needed it. Progress between the thick trunks, and over ground littered with twining tendrils was difficult and seemed snail-like, but he managed, at length, to intersect with the middle pathway. Once there, the going became easier, save for the heaviness of the loam underfoot. He hurried on, panting from his own efforts and the weight of the girl. The possibilities of ambush were forgotten; he had only one ambition – to reach the far end of the cave before Smith and his lot. They were not hurrying, and they were taking the longer route by the wall. If he could only get into the opposite tunnel without being seen …

  Years of lethargy in the prison caves were not good training for this kind of thing. His lungs laboured painfully; he developed an agonizing stitch in his side; sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes, from his temples into his beard. His breathing seemed loud enough to be heard all over the great cavern. At last, when he had all but despaired of keeping up his speed any longer, the end of the path came into sight.

  Behind the last great mushroom trunk, he paused to reconnoitre. The others were not in view, but he could hear their voices not far away. There was the open space to be crossed before he could be safe in the tunnel. If only he could risk leaving the girl … but it might mean missing the way at the very last. He gathered himself for the effort, and then burst from the growths, sprinting like a hare for the tunnel mouth …

  And he made it. No shout followed him. His bare feet had been silent in the soft loam. He had been so sure of detection that for a moment he failed to realize his luck; then exhilaration poured fresh life into him. He’d beat ’em yet. When they got to the cave, it would be just in time to see him drifting away in their precious Sun Bird. He’d have the laugh of them in the end. He set off along the passage in a long, swinging stride.

  Margaret, slung like an inanimate bundle across his shoulders, wept miserably. She had thought she could weep no more, but a compound of pain, weariness and disappointment forced out tears of utter wretchedness …

  They had been so near; just one word would have done it – if only Miguel had not gagged her. Now the chance was gone. Miguel would take the Sun Bird, and leave them all here. Mark, if he ever found her, would despise her for a coward …

  ‘Which way?’ Miguel demanded.

  She hesitated. He made a threatening move towards her hands. She nodded forward, and he went on. That was the end. There were no more turnings, and she had told the truth when she might have misled him. But if she had … O God, hadn’t she been hurt enough already?

  One more effort. She must make one last attempt. She raised her free hand to the gag. The touch of the soft silk felt like knives in her injured fingers. But she must do it. She clenched her teeth so that her jaw ached. The bleeding fingers fumbled at the silk …

  6

  ‘This,’ said Mark, pointing to the tunnel mouth, ‘is it.’

  The rest of the party was not impressed. Smith yawned elaborately. The burly Ed grunted. Even Zickle would appear to have lost faith. Gordon was alone in that he did not look sceptical – but neither did he look enthusiastic.

  Mark walked forward and examined the walls just within the entrance. He pointed with excitement to a scar on the stone.

  ‘It is,’ he cried. ‘Look here.’ The others came round him.

  ‘Isn’t that a bullet mark?’ he demanded.

  Smith peered closely.

  ‘You’ve said it,’ he admitted. ‘But what of it?’

  ‘Don’t you see? This is where the fight was – one of my bullets did that.’

  The attitude of the others underwent a slight change, so slight that it was hard to rate it higher than a faint diminution of disbelief.

  ‘Well, I’ll believe it when I see your Sun Bird,’ said Smith, expressing a good average of the general feeling. ‘The Lord knows how long we’ve been looking for it, but it feels to me like a week, and I’m beginning to think it just don’t exist no more.’

  ‘Come on,’ Mark said, leading the way up the tunnel, ‘how much’ll you bet?’

  ‘Nothin’, buddy. I never steal toys from kids.’

  ‘It’s lucky for you –’ He broke off.

  Somewhere ahead a voice was shouting. The words were indistinguishable, and broke off abruptly. A moment later came a piercing scream.

  ‘What the hell – ?’

  ‘Pygmy,’ said Ed briefly.

  ‘Pygmy, my foot. That was a woman. C’m’ on.’

  Smith charged ahead; the rest followed in a bunch. They rounded the corner and came to the crossways.

  ‘Which?’ Smith called back over his shoulder.

  ‘Straight on,’ panted Mark.

  A long stretch of straight, another corner, and then they found her, a bundle of torn dishevelment, whimpering pitifully. She raised her tear-stained face as they came.

  ‘Margaret,’ cried Mark.

  Smith stopped short beside her.

  ‘Great God, look at her hands!’

  ‘Miguel. Stop him. He’ll get the Sun Bird,’ she moaned.

  Smith charged on, leaving her to be attended by Mark, but this time he was not the leader. Zickle had sped ahead; there was an old score to be settled between him and Miguel. He was a better runner than Smith, and drew off rapidly. Ed pounded up alongside Smith, and the two began to slack off.

  ‘Let Zickle have his fun,’ he puffed. ‘And if he don’t settle him, we’ll be right there to finish it.’ He drew his improvised club from his belt.

  On ahead, Zickle had rounded the last corner. There was nothing now between him and the opening into the flooded cave – nor was there any sign of Miguel. He left the passage, and came out on the top of the ramp.

  At the foot of it lay a craft like a huge, silver eggshell; a ragged figure was fumbling desperately at the line which moored it. With a shout, the Negro turned and charged down the slope.

  Miguel gave a startled glance, and leapt aboard. He staggered a moment on the slippery roof, and then bent down, trying to loosen the mooring line from that end. It was stubborn. Zickle sped on, taking a flying leap at the Sun Bird. Miguel straightened to meet him. As the Negro’s feet touched the roof, Miguel’s fist met his jaw. It was a good punch, but it could not check the impetus of the leap. Zickle�
�s head went back, but his feet slipped forward, knocking Miguel’s legs from beneath him, and the two rolled on the curving roof together.

  Miguel took his chance for a hold while the other was still dazed. Zickle rallied in time to break it before it could be well established, and tried for one of his own. Miguel brought his knee into action. Simultaneously, he got his fingers on the other’s nostrils, and the mill was well in action. If there was a nasty trick which Miguel did not know, it was not his fault; if, in Zickle’s native village, the rules of wrestling were unknown, who should blame him?

  Smith and Ed reached the top of the ramp, and stood looking down on the two squirming figures – it was an inelegant sight.

  ‘Hell, he’s a filthy scrapper,’ said Smith.

  ‘Well, Zickle ain’t no pansy, neither. Just you watch the boy.’

  The Negro had fixed a scissor hold, crushing Miguel like a vice. The great black thighs were tensed hard as stone. They could hear Miguel gasp with the pressure as he tried to keep groping black hands from his eyes. He made a desperate attempt to break the scissor, and failed. The black seized his advantage, and his hands were on the other’s face. Miguel screamed, twisting wildly. The interlocked bodies slipped, hung a moment, and then slithered down the curved hull into the water.

  For some seconds little could be seen but a seething and splashing. When they again became visible, the hold had been broken, and both were threshing wildly in attempts to find a grip. With Miguel’s hand on the Negro’s throat, they sank again. For long seconds there was no sign, then a single head reappeared. Miguel’s.

  ‘Well, I’ll be –’

  But even as Smith spoke, Zickle’s woolly head bobbed into view behind the other. Black arms reached forward; black fingers clenched deep, like talons, into Miguel’s neck, and the two sank once more.

  The watchers stood intent for a long time.

  A few bubbles troubled the surface …

  7

  Margaret regained consciousness in a leisurely manner. She seemed to drift from sleep into the comatose, and thence into an awareness of her surroundings. Thus it was with no shock of surprise that she found herself in the cabin of the Sun Bird.