by Неизвестный
The corners of the president’s mouth turned downward in annoyance. The features of the Reverend Boniface remained unexpressive. Those of his spouse, however, betrayed a fleeting grin and a twinkle of the eyes, the latter of which was reciprocated by Loretta Claire Prentice.
The president addressed himself now to the clergyman. “Let us, for the moment, set aside the issue of fraud. We may return to it in due course. But I have been informed that Miss Prentice’s putative doctoral dissertation contains material which is prima facie, blasph-emous and impious, insulting to the Divine.”
“Such is my opinion, President Flint.” The Reverend Boniface fingered a glittering crucifix which lay upon the bosom of his garment, suspended by a fine golden chain.
Loretta Claire Prentice sat up straighter. “President Flint, have you even read my dissertation?”
“Miss Prentice, I am a man of many duties and subject to great demands upon my time.”
“A simple no would have sufficed, President Flint. However, if you are willing to grant me a bit of your precious time, sir, I will summarize my thesis for you now.”
The president looked at the minister then at the minister’s spouse.
With a grudging nod, barely discernible, he granted assent.
“Very well, sir,” Loretta Claire Prentice began.
Her statement follows.
Throughout my life, I have been fascinated by the discovery of ancient species, no longer extant in our world. Whence came they, and why have they disappeared? Were all species present when the world came into being, and if so, will all life eventually disappear from the planet as one species after another becomes extinct? We have known since Mary Mantell’s discovery of the first dinosaur fossils in England—although her brilliant work is sometimes mistakenly attributed to her husband—that beasts both great and strange have lived upon our planet in past eons.
No, stop, President Flint, Reverend Boniface. I know that you accept Bishop Ussher’s calculation that the world was created on October 23 in the year 4004 before the birth of Jesus, the carpenter’s son. You are entitled to believe any fairy tale you like, sirs, but I prefer to rely upon physical evidence. We know that the bones of peculiar creatures have been found in caves throughout the world, in the Neander Valley of Germany and elsewhere. These creatures seem to be human beings, and yet they are not exactly the same as those of humans that we know today. We know that complete skeletons of these creatures were found in Belgium within the past decade. What could be the meaning of these puzzling skeletons?
To be candid, I was frustrated in my desire to learn the answers to these questions by the absence of sites which I might visit in this region. One can learn much from libraries and museums, and I spent many rewarding hours alternately in institutions of these sorts, but still I yearned to see with my own eyes, to touch with my own hands, these strange survivals from the earth’s distant past.
Please, reverend—please, sir, let me have my say.
Thank you.
It was at this time, President Flint, as I was searching for a suitable topic for my doctoral dissertation, that I received a wondrous surprise. My friend and cousin, Dawes Prentice, whom I am sure you know, had been a member of the faculty of this university for more than a decade, and in recent years has served as an exchange domini on the faculty of the University of Salamanca in Spain. We had maintained a sporadic correspondence, mainly concerning matters of a mundane and personal nature, but occasionally touching upon our respective scholarly specialties.
My Cousin Dawes was aware of my interest in archaic and extinct species, and when some discoveries—or at least suggestive evidences—of relevance to my investigations were made, he wrote to me about them. My excitement was great, but to travel from Massachusetts to the region of León in Spain would have required funds far beyond my personal exchequer. But my cousin offered to pay my expenses out of the savings of his own work at the University of Salamanca. Consequently, I booked passage upon the steamship Mahratta of the Brockelbank Line, arriving in Liverpool and from there making my way to Salamanca, where my cousin greeted me.
I learned that Dawes occupied a charming residence constructed in the fifteenth century, cared for by a housekeeper of quiet efficiency and pleasant mien. Dawes was serving as a professor of American history at the University of Salamanca. In describing his duties, he laughed at the dearth of subject matter, considering that our nation is little more than a century old and that the European presence in our land dates barely to four hundred years.
The earliest days of Salamanca, by contrast, are shrouded in the mists of time. It is generally believed that its site on the banks of the Duero River was settled by a wandering Celtic tribe some ten thousand years ago. The city became part of the Empire of Carthage, and after the conquest of Carthage by Rome, received an influx of Sarmatians whose language is traced to eastern Iran. Is this not fascinating? Are you drowsy, President Flint?
Oh, Missus Boniface, how thoughtful of you to draw the drapes and permit fresh air and afternoon sunlight to brighten this room. Yes, there is a snap in the air, but still it is more bracing than chilling, would you not agree?
Yes, as I was saying, my cousin, Dawes Prentice, had come to love the city of Salamanca, nor could I blame him. Imagine, the University of Salamanca was established by royal decree of King Alfonso IX of Castile in the year 1218! Dawes escorted me on a tour of the university, thence to the two lovely cathedrals that adorn the city, the elder of which was constructed beginning in the year 1102. Imagine, President Flint …
President Flint? Are you all right, sir? Am I boring you, President Flint? Oh, a glass of sherry? How delightful of you, sir. I shall accept with pleasure.
Oloroso? A lovely beverage. I became familiar with it whilst in Spain, as well as Amontillado and other delightful products of that nation’s vines.
At the old cathedral, I was introduced to none other than the present bishop of Salamanca, Obispo Tomás Jenaro de Comara Y Castro. At Dawes’ request, His Most Illustrious and Most Reverend Lord Obispo Tomás showed us a truly remarkable carving in one of the cathedral’s flying buttresses. Surely as well-read a man as you, President Flint, are familiar with Monsieur Verne’s famous novel Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers and the wonders that the author describes.
You are not, sir? Forgive my smile, please. No disrespect was intended, sir. In this volume, the great French author describes a marvelous ship that sails not upon the sea but beneath it. Explorers are able to leave the ship, dubbed the Nautilus, wearing special gear with sealed helmets connected to supplies of air that permit them to walk about beneath the earth’s oceans. And to return to Spain, miraculously, there is a perfect image of an explorer in just such a suit carved into the masonry of the elder of the grand cathedrals of Salamanca.
All of this, President Flint, I have told you as mere background to the admittedly sensational findings described in my dissertation. Very well, sir. I shall proceed to the heart of the matter.
This occurred in la Cueva de Salamanca. Yes, sir, that does indeed mean the Cave of Salamanca. I am amazed at the breadth of your learning, President Flint.
The Cave of Salamanca.
Beneath the older of the two cathedrals, there are catacombs that have served as burial vaults for many years. How many? No one knows for a certainty. Several thousand years, perhaps dating to the founding of Salamanca some eighty centuries before the beginning of the Christian era.
Yes, yes, Reverend Boniface, I know that this would predate the creation of the world as computed by the Bishop Ussher. Perhaps a glass of President Flint’s so excellent sherry would help you to survive the shock of this news. Oh, you do not partake of alcohol in any form. Not even if the purpose is purely medicinal? Oh, of course this would be purely medicinal, would you not agree, Missus Boniface? There, I’m sure the reverend will benefit from just a small portion of this fine vintage.
Yes, the catacombs beneath the old cathedral date to the earliest days of Salama
nca—to the days of Carthage and, it would seem, even further into the depths of time. Explorers have disappeared into them and not been seen again. Others are believed to have emerged from the catacombs changed in ways too strange and perhaps too terrible to describe. The catacombs are not completely charted, you see, and it is all too possible for an unwary explorer to become amazed—I use the word in its literal sense—and wander until overcome by exhaustion, perishing eventually of hunger and thirst.
In the hills to the north of the city, a range of ancient mountains rises, and here is found la Cueva de Salamanca, also known in the region as la Cueva del Diablo. Why, yes, President Flint, that does indeed signify the Devil’s Cave. How perspicacious of you to divine as much.
My Cousin Dawes suggested that I dress in sturdy clothing for our expedition. As you have doubtless observed, I am above the average in height for one of my gender and rather broader of shoulder. Dawes kindly loaned me a heavy woolen shirt, lambskin jacket, and thick, whipcord trousers. By wearing several layers of bulky woolen socks, I was able to make use of a pair of Dawes’ sturdy boots.
We equipped ourselves with examples of Mr. Joshua Cowen’s remarkable electrical torches and with a small supply of bread, cheese, and a bottle of a most excellent red wine, known in León as Marqués de Caceres Crianza. We packed also a small supply of firewood, should we find it necessary to offset a chill. Obtaining permission from Lord Bishop Tomás, we made our way to the lowest cellar beneath the old cathedral. There, we found a heavy door of thick, ancient wood held in place by flanges and hinges of black iron, guarded by a retainer of uncertain age. At a signal from My Lord Bishop, this aged fellow lifted a ring of keys from a high shelf, selected a large example therefrom, turned it in a lock even older than him, and swung back the door.
With a blessing from the bishop, Dawes entered the catacombs. I followed close behind my cousin.
The air within the catacombs was stale but breathable. The passages were lined with ancient bricks of a type which Dawes explained were known to be used in China as well as Egypt as long as five thousand years ago. Oh, I’m sorry, reverend. Perhaps another portion of sherry—purely medicinal, of course—would be helpful.
The catacombs were lined with sarcophagi and paintings representing religious themes and scenes of everyday life in the region equally. The ceiling, if I may so call it, was not high, and both Dawes and I found it tiring to have to proceed in a half crouch, but continue we did. I soon came to suspect that Dawes had explored these catacombs before, as he proceeded without hesitation, despite the complex—and to me, confusing—arrangement of the tunnels.
The farther we proceeded, the cruder the construction became. After a while, there were no more bricks but merely crudely worked stone walls. They may have been ancient caves of a natural origin but worked further by primitive hammers and chisels—at least, my cousin and I surmised as much.
We stopped, finally, and prepared to consume a light repast of bread and cheese accompanied by glasses of wine. The air in the catacomb was chilling. It was, I inferred, of a uniform temperature throughout the year, nature thus assisting in the preservation of the contents of this network of ancient passages.
My Cousin Dawes, as I have mentioned, had exercised the foresight to bring a few sticks of kindling and one or two small pieces of firewood on our expedition, and he proceeded to build a small fire in the center of the passageway. In some manner, the atmosphere circulated through the catacombs, providing enough fresh air to prevent Dawes and myself from being threatened with asphyxiation, and incidentally to provide sufficient oxygen to nourish our modest campfire. Indeed, previous occupants of these cavernous passages had clearly made the same discovery, for we had passed the charred remains of several ancient campfires.
While we were halted, I took the time to examine the images marked upon the walls of the passage. While the newest of these, located in the immediate vicinity of the cathedral, had been executed with skill and in bright colors whose endurance I found to be most remarkable, the drawings were becoming increasingly primitive as Dawes and I proceeded.
Now, illuminated by my electrical torch, I beheld a drawing both large and crude, astonishing in content yet remarkably powerful in its effect. Though roughly executed, the intent of the image was not in doubt. The artist, working I thought in bold strokes of black charcoal—probably the product of a cooking fire that had burned long ago in this catacomb—portrayed two groups of hominids facing each other on what appeared to be a natural plain.
Their intent was clearly hostile, as they were armed and stood in menacing postures—one group clearly the aggressors and the other defenders. The aggressors carried what appeared to be rudely made swords and shields, while the defenders were equipped with spears and clubs. A few of the aggressors actually seemed to be carrying bows and arrows.
It was apparently the clash of two cultures—one barely out of the throes of savage brutality and the other laboriously climbing the slope to civilization. My heart went out to the former; the latter left me conflicted. These soldiers, for I could not but consider them such, were working metal and would in all likelihood be creating machinery before many generations should pass. But were their foes—alas, I could hardly think of them as other than victims—doomed to subjugation, if not extinction, at the hands of their more advanced adversaries?
The two bands of warriors differed not only in their weaponry and accoutrement. They actually appeared to be of a different species. And yet, strange to say, they were both humans. Is this not a peculiar notion? Is it not hard to grasp? Can one specimen be human and another also human, and yet not be of the same species?
As I stood, crouched over the remarkable drawing, I believe I came to an understanding. For is not one equine a Percheron and another a quarter horse—one a massively muscled and heavy-boned dray horse and another a sleek pacer? Are there not African elephants and Indian elephants, both truly pachyderms but yet of two different species?
After staring at the drawing for long minutes while my Cousin Dawes tended our little campfire, I was virtually stunned to realize that what I beheld was nothing other than the record of an encounter between the heavily boned ancient people of the Neander Valley and our own ancestors, the progenitors of the races that now spanned the globe! Had these two species—both truly human, yet physically and perhaps intellectually different from each other—evolved along parallel paths from our apelike ancestors? Had the one human species destroyed the other, or had they amalgamated to produce the race of which we are all members?
Please forgive me, Reverend Boniface. Of course you reject the theories of Messrs. Darwin and Wallace. I can see you clutching your magic charm and…Oh, forgive me again. The crucifix which you wear is not a magic charm; it is a symbol of your savior’s sacrifice and of your faith in Him.
Yes, of course.
And, Mrs. Boniface, if you would be so kind as to give your husband another glass of President Flint’s so-excellent sherry—for purely medicinal purposes, of course.
Ah, reverend, I am sorry to have upset you. And you are looking better now.
Certainly, President Flint, I will resume. I am flattered that you find my narrative worthy of your attention, despite your having been too busy to read my dissertation before today.
I have described the two bands of warriors depicted on the wall of the catacomb, but I must add the presence of further elements in the drawing. Hovering above the two species of humans were other shapes—shapes of beings of such strange configuration that they seem hardly to have been of this earth.
They were remotely humanlike, that is true, furnished with heads and torsos and limbs, but their extremities terminated not in digits like our own but in claws. Their heads were quite hairless. Their eyes seemed to blaze with a malevolence that quite shocked me. And from their shoulders there sprouted wings.
No, reverend, they were not angels, neither followers of Lucifer nor loyal minions of God, I assure you. Their wings were not feathe
red, as are those of graceful birds, but instead resembled the wings of giant bats. And their faces—beneath those blazing eyes were tentacled growths resembling those of gigantic sea squids such as are found from time to time on the beaches of Kingsport and Innsmouth.
And hovering still higher, above the monstrous beings, were what I can only describe as a fleet of vehicles. They were suggestive of the fanciful aerial machines of our most imaginative writers: France’s Monsieur Verne in his Robur the Conquerer, Britain’s Herbert George Wells in his new tale The Time Machine, our own nation’s great genius Edgar Poe, as suggested in his famous balloon hoax.
What propelled these vehicles, I could not determine. They carried neither sail nor paddle wheel nor aerial screw. I called my cousin to see the charcoal drawing and he informed me that he had seen it before, in prior explorations of the catacombs. He surmised that the vehicles were both levitated and propelled by a magnetic power or perhaps by a scientific device that permitted the bending of the force of gravity that would cause them to be repelled by the ground beneath rather than attracted to it.
While the unknown artist of the charcoal sketch was remarkably skillful, still one must recognize that he was the product of an ancient era when representational concepts and techniques such as scale and perspective were unknown. It was thus impossible for my Cousin Dawes and myself to determine the size of the winged creatures or of their strange vehicles.
What were they? we wondered. Whence came they? Perhaps, Dawes suggested, they were denizens of a distant world—of Mars or Venus. We know that our sun has spawned a family of planets and moons, many of them known even to ancient astronomers. Perhaps they had come from Jupiter or Saturn or from one of the moons of those distant worlds.