Tuther approached Price and pressed a small hard object into his palm. “If it goes bad, you blow the tunnel,” Tuther whispered. “That way, it can’t get out.”
Price looked down at the grenade, said nothing, but nodded grimly to Tuther.
“Ready?” Tuther said, turning to the other two. “Good. Here we go.”
Tuther got onto his belly and began to wriggle into the tunnel entrance. King followed, then Tate and Price brought up the rear.
The hole was the mouth of some kind of burrow and Tate fancied it had a slight downward incline to it. The walls were perfectly smooth, almost as if they had been worked or bored.
No animal did this, Tate thought.
There was only just enough room to lift his head and Tate had to rely on wriggling along on his belly. In places, the walls were smeared with thick dark goo, and Tate thought he could smell ammonia... and maybe something else, but he was not sure. It was warmer than he expected and just seeing the light from Tuther’s torch bobbing intermittently in front of him did nothing to alleviate his growing sense of claustrophobia. Despite the slowly increasing temperature, all four of them felt the momentary chill of a cooling breeze.
It’s ventilated, Tate thought. There’s more than one entrance into this thing.
Scraping and scrabbling along, the four men made their way further down the tunnel. The light from the entrance only penetrated to about twenty feet, and they quickly found themselves swallowed by the darkness.
King’s ears popped and he worked his jaw to clear the pressure.
Tate felt a slight kink in the direction of the tunnel. Left quite a bit, then a little to the right. He could not see Tuther’s torchlight, but could still feel the rope moving underneath his hand. King had opened up a little lead in front of him, and Price was right behind him.
“Keep up!” hissed Price.
Tate grunted an acknowledgement. He could feel the tunnel narrowing. No longer could he scramble with his elbows out, but had to keep them tucked right into his chest.
If this was some freak natural formation, then it could very well come to a dead end. And then they would have to try and wriggle out in reverse.
What if the Officer has a heart attack? Came the voice in Tate’s head. He’s not the youngest, and remember Ben? Ben had a heart attack and died at forty. The Officer is at least forty-five. If he died right now, you’d all be stuck in here.
Tate did his best to ignore his internal monologue. But he knew it was right.
Suddenly something trickled down his face.
Tate instantly shivered, shrieked, and started pawing at his cheek. In his panic, his chest heaved and on reflex he tried to gulp fresh air. Instead, he inhaled the dry flakes of sandstone and started to cough, banging his head hard on the roof of the tunnel, which in turn sent him face first into the floor.
“What is it?” Price said.
“What’s going on?” said a voice further ahead. Tuther probably.
“You alright?” That was King.
Tate’s heart was beating wildly in his chest.
Maybe you’ll be the one to have the heart attack.
Tate had managed to roll onto his back and was still pawing at the side of his face. Nausea rose quickly within him.
Bang-bang-bang his heart pounded, like an over-enthusiastic drummer. It felt like an engine that was going to blow a gasket at any moment. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears and he had coughed his throat raw. His eyes were beginning to stream and he could feel the roof of the tunnel just inches from his nose. Tate wanted to scream again.
“What is it man? Speak!” Price again.
Tate made a deliberate attempt to control his breathing. His heart was still making a break for freedom, but after a minute or two, he felt better. The others were still calling to him. He instinctively looked to his hand, to see if it had caught anything. In the dark, he could see nothing.
He felt something between his fingers. Something moist. What was that? Sweat? No. It was too thick for that. Like paste. He brought his fingers to his nose and immediately gagged. Excrement. He knew he had smelt it earlier, behind the ammonia. The walls were lined with it and it was wrapped into the goo.
“I’m ok,” Tate eventually croaked. “Just some of this... stuff.”
“We have to press on.” That sounded like Tuther.
Tate nodded his agreement and then, realising that no-one could see him, he said, “Ok. Keep going.”
Tate rolled onto his front, and could hear scrabbling at the front as Tuther made his way forward. More scraping – that was King moving. Now his turn. Tate forced himself forward. His arms and legs ached and could feel a lump developing on the back of his head where he had hit it on the tunnel ceiling. And the smell of faeces hung in his nose, turning his stomach.
I must be covered in it, he thought. We all must. God knows what diseases these things are carrying.
He caught himself, realising that he had bought into Tuther’s explanation of some sub-human. Tate did not believe that. It was just not possible. He had seen it, with his own eyes. It was bedraggled, and clearly traumatised, but it was definitely a man. And the notion of Russian involvement... well maybe. The German’s eugenics programme was notorious. If the Russians had cracked some sort of advanced growth or selective chromosome recombination...
“Hold up!” Tuther’s voice broke his train of thought. “There’s a small drop at the end here, into some sort of chamber.”
Tate felt that they had come a lot further than a couple of hundred yards. Maybe five. Possibly as much as seven. He wriggled forward, seeing Tuther’s torchlight illuminating the dark, and then felt hands underneath his arms pulling him forward. His feet touched solid ground and a few seconds later he heard Price being pulled free. Tate hurriedly brushed himself down, trying his best to remove as much of the muck and debris that covered him. In the darkness, he could see nothing.
“What have we got Mr Tuther?” came Price’s disembodied voice. They all paused for a moment, taking in the echo of the officer’s voice.
Tuther swung the torch beam out ahead of him, picking out a rough floor. The men held their breath. Wherever they were, it was immense. The torch beam did not hit a rear wall, but rather swung across the three hundred yard width of the chamber. Tuther brought his beam up and high above them an equally rough ceiling could just be picked out, vaulting into the gloom.
Tate heard Price click the safety off his revolver.
This was not a naturally formed chamber and they all knew it. Tate took his own revolver out and similarly took the safety off. No one creature could have made this. It would have taken hundreds of hands… possibly thousands. Tate felt his stomach knot tighter and it was not down to the smell of excrement.
Thousands of hands.
“We’ll keep to the wall,” said Tuther, and they all heard him slide his shotgun, priming it.
No-one is taking any chances, thought Tate.
The men shuffled to the wall and began to advance in step with Tuther’s torchlight. Tate realised that their leader must have unhooked himself from his rope when they entered the cavern - it would not have extended this far.
Edging deeper into the chamber, Tate was surprised to feel a pronounced unevenness to the wall. Like indentations. What was that? A straight line? A diagonal there? And that? A circle?
“Tuther! Hold up!” he called out.
The light stopped its advance. “What is it?”
“Uh... could you take a few steps out and sweep your light across the wall.”
“What? Why?”
“I think I can feel... something.”
Tuther audibly sighed but stepped out. His torch swung across the face of the wall and the chamber reverberated as all four gasped in unison.
*
[Maiden Castle Stele 21-22]
Fiacha of The Tuatha, son of Sera, and father of Greine knelt before Danu and prayed for forgiveness for Magda.
“That which harms
those who pray [translation contested; sustains] to me shall be [text incomplete]. Know that Magda dwells with me, and all her line bears the Stain Of [text incomplete] until the debt is paid and [text incomplete] restored to [text incomplete],” said the Goddess Danu.
“So mote it be,” said Fiacha. “We, The Tuatha, take the Sign of Danu, that we shall serve until once more the waves shall slip away and [text incomplete].”
Thus Danu instructed Fiacha to construct The First Seeplin, and it was so; four columns, each nine paces apart, and four rods and three-tenths in height. Each column was one ell and four-fifths in diameter, hollowed to a depth of two rods and nine-tenths, and one shaftment and one-fifth in diameter. Each column was divided into thirds and therein inscribed onto the first was the birth of All That Ever Was. On the second was inscribed the coming of Danu and the end of [text incomplete – high-resolution imaging suggests “waves” or “waters”]. There on the third the revenge of [translation contested; on] Namlu. On the fourth [text incomplete].
Into the hollow of the columns was placed the teachings of Isden that all the knowledge of the Great Teacher would pour upon the faithful. So the First Seeplin was constructed between the Mounts of [text incomplete] that but once a year the longest light would bless the deepest part and the waters would know.
In the first part, the Tuatha would gather with their offering of soil. In the second, the cleansed warriors and priests with their offerings of cattle. The final third was reserved for the most purified of the Conductors, with the offering of water, oil, and light.
Within this last third of the Seeplin were two more columns – one to the north and one to the south - built as the others and inscribed with The Ceremony of Marriage. Between these, the two the Well of Kidesh was sunk at a width of four shaftments and nine-tenths, to the water table, that Danu would manifest herself and be nourished.
So Fiacha finished the First Seeplin and the Earth and Sky were united in Sacred Marriage. Thus the Raven Men were called forth to carry the sun across the skies of Fiacha’s kingdom, for as below so above.
Pleased, Danu bade Fiacha, “This land is married well to its sky. Yet there are others who are suffering the darkness of parting [translation contested; light]. Send forth your only son, Greine, to distant skies that they too might be married.
“So mote it be,” said Fiacha.
“So mote it be,” said Greine, who had studied his father well. “I take the Sign of Danu upon my skin that my mind too be like parchment with only the words of our Goddess.”
“Until the dawn breaks me,” finished Danu, “I remain.”
On the night of longest light, Danu received into herself all of Greine and there in the Well of Kidesh was Greine blessed. By Greine’s leadership, the Tuatha constructed a mighty boat, and, taking one-third of the able men, set sail for the next land. The Ghazal saw Greine leaving the Holy Isle and called up a storm wherein dwelt the Abgallu – The Mighty of The Deep.
Greine beheld the Abgallu and perceived the fear of his clansmen. Striding to the prow of the boat, Greine declared to the creature; “I am Greine of the Tuatha, son of Fiacha, and I bear the Sign of Danu. In the name of the Goddess, you will let us pass.”
Seeing the Sign of Danu, the Abgallu quaked in fear and parted the clouds that Greine might pass. As an offering to assuage Danu’s anger, the Abgallu searched the depths and presented Greine with the Four Lost Treasures:
The Stone of Fal – lost from the City of Falias, it would glow when it was touched by a righteous king
The Spear of Lug – stolen from the Kingdom of Esras, no battle was ever sustained against a faithful king who held it.
The Dagger of Nuadu – taken from the Court of Uscias, the sun would never set whilst it was unsheathed by a virtuous king.
The Horn of Dagda – lost during the Battle for Semias, all were honest friends when poured by a true king’s hand.
So Greine was prepared for all that would come [translation contested; befall].
*
“Gods...” gasped Price. He had never seen anything like it before, not even in Egypt, and he had a jolly good poke around The Pyramids during The War. King turned towards Tuther’s torch. “The Russians did this?”
The wall was covered with inscriptions and carvings. Lines of text disappeared high towards the ceiling and extended along the width of the wall.
Tate guessed the opposite wall would be similar. “I very much doubt the Communists could be responsible,” he said, filling Tuther’s silence. “These are old. Very old. See that one; looks like a back to front R? And the one next to it, like half an arrow? That’s Norse. Then these few here... and again here; round like cups and rings? That’s almost certainly Pictish. Like those at Kilmartin, on the West Coast. Ah.... those, higher up. That could be Cornish. Those next to them – they look Pictish too, but it’s an older script than these ones here and...”
In the pitch dark, Tate was suddenly aware of his voice and could feel the eyes of the other three staring at him. He gave a nervous laugh and turned towards Tuther’s torch.
“What did you say you did for a living Mr Tate?” That was Price, and there was suspicion in his voice.
“I’m a curator at the British Museum... in the Department of Prehistory and Europe.” The silence of the other three continued. “I specialise in Neolithic, Bronze Age, and Iron Age research,” he said, acutely aware of how this looked. The only civilian amongst them just happened to know about ancient European scripts and had, by chance, followed them into a monstrous cave that was adorned with his specialty.
“Bit of a coincidence?” Tate said. He heard the weakness in his own voice and could feel the eyes of Tuther and Price narrowing on his single illuminated spot. For the briefest moment, Tate felt like a piece in a chess game, as though his movements were guided by another.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr Tate,” Tuther growled.
Neither did Tate. There were not even half a dozen men in the country today who would recognise this. A score or less in Europe.
“What does it say?” King said.
“What?”
“The writing,” came the voice of Tuther. The torch beam jerked back to carvings in the wall. “What does it say?”
Tate laughed properly this time. “My dear fellow, I have no idea. I can recognise some of the scripts, but that is like recognising French or Spanish as being a Roman script. Reading it is a totally different thing. I’ve only just got my doctorate. This is something for the experts. And even then it will take them years. Trying to raise the funding alone will...”
“Try Mr Tate. Try reading it.” Price this time.
The sound of Tuther playing with his shotgun slide echoed around the chamber. For a moment no-one said anything.
“Right. Ok,” began Tate. He could, of course, have made a translation up. Price and King would not have been any the wiser, but something told him that Tuther would know, or at least suspect. “Well, this is Norse. This Pictish.... uh. Well, this looks like an Irish dialect. I don’t recognise all the symbols, but let’s see... uh, this looks like something about building a boat. Many ancient myths speak of this, a variant of the Noah story if you will.
“Let’s see. Sailing a sea. Something about a monster. Then being rewarded with four objects. A spear, a dagger – although that maybe sword- and a horn. I’m not sure about the fourth object. A stone. A pendant maybe. Perhaps a rock. It’s not really clear. It’s not entirely dissimilar to the Argonautica stories. And then the next section... I’m sorry I have no idea what this is. I don’t recognise the script at all.”
“How did they make it?” Price said.
“Who?”
“Those... things. The creature.”
“Mr Price, it is nearly incomprehensible that the poor man we saw could have made these. These... these have to be thousands of years old. I... I’d say that our man probably found this cavern... or whatever it is, and has just been using it as his home. It is just a dark
warm place for him to...”
A scrabbling scratching sound cut Tate off, and the single torch beam swung around wildly in front of them, trying to locate its source.
“What was that?” King said. His rapid shallow breathing matched the others. He sank to one knee, swept the barrel of his revolver about, keeping within the torch beam.
“Have you got anything?” asked Price.
“Nothing,” came Tuther’s voice.
“It was close. It sounded like... like a crab scuttling,” Price continued.
Tuther was silent, his torch beam still swinging slowly across the width of the chamber.
There is something in here with us, thought King, and it’s more than just that creature.
The light of the torch only picked out thick dust hanging in the air.
“Wait!” King said, making them all jump.
“What?” Price again.
“The dust.”
“What about it?”
“My mum is always making me dust my room. She says it’s all skin and hair and stuff.”
“So?”
“It could just be flakes from the sandstone,” said Tate, sensing where King’s train of thought would lead.
“The boy is right,” said Tuther. “All this dust. Either there are a lot more of them in here. Or our friend has been in here a very long time.”
The four men were silent again, the torch beam still swung the across the cavern, desperately seeking the source of the noise.
“Or both,” said Tate eventually.
“What?” Tuther turned to face Tate.
“Maybe there are a lot more of them and they’ve been down here a long time.”
Tuther did not reply, mulling over whether to continue on or not.
“We should press on,” said Price.
“Is that wise?” Tate asked. “We could be hopelessly outnumbered...”
“Or it could just be one of them,” Price said, cutting Tate off. “We need to know what we are up against and, if necessary, how many additional bodies we need. What do you say Mr Tuther?”
A Gathering of Twine Page 7