“Then we shall be pleased to show you the sights of the new queen of the South.”
“Where are you putting me?”
“We have reserved a good motel room in Decatur. That’s on the side of town near our plant.”
“Fine. When can I see your plant?”
“There’s no hurry about that. First, we shall give you a general orientation tour. Take Mr. Newbury’s bag, Forrest.”
I was not so naïve as to expect an Atlanta of Southern belles in crinolines and parasols. I was, however, surprised by its bustling, up-to-date air, with skyscrapers and freeways sprouting here and there. As I was being whirled through the Memorial Arts Center, the Cyclorama, and other sights, I kept trying to pin down my hosts on their operations.
“Why,” I asked, “did you come to us, instead of to a local bank?” Owens and I were sitting in back while Bellamy drove.
“I thought you might ask that,” said Owens. After a pause, he answered: “I might as well confess that we tried the local sources but were refused—not, however, for reasons germane to our finances.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well—ah—”
“What he means,” said Bellamy, “is we reckon like there’s a certain prejudice against us, irregardless of how sound the business is.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, Mr. Owens ain’t a Georgian. He’s not even a native-born American, but a naturalized Englishman.”
“Excuse me, Forrest,” said Owens. “I am a Briton but not an Englishman. I am Welsh.” He turned to me. “I never can get Americans to make the distinction. Go on, Forrest.”
“For another. United Imp is, in a kind of a way, a sideline with us. Some folks are ignorant about our main business, so they get funny ideas.”
“And what’s your main business, if I may ask?”
Owens’s faded blue eyes took on a faraway look. “Merely endeavoring to dissuade our fellow men from inflicting needless ‘wounds and sore defeat’ upon one another, by the application of the ancient wisdom.”
“You mean you head a religious sect or cult?”
“What’s in a name? The Anthropophili are a benevolent society devoted to the pursuit of truth, peace, and beauty . . .”
Owens gripped my forearm, while his guileless blue eyes stared into mine as he launched into a sermon—lofty, earnest, and cloudy. It did not greatly differ from what you can hear every week in a church or a temple—or for that matter at a Vedanta meeting. He spangled his talk with tags from Aeschylus, Shakespeare, and Milton.
My reaction to Owens’s preaching was mixed. On one hand, I rather liked this learned old occultist. On the other, I shuddered at the thought of entrusting our depositors’ money to him. Still, I tried to view his project objectively.
###
When we were fifteen miles or so east of Atlanta, Bellamy turned his head to say: “Here’s Stone Mountain.” On the plain ahead, a huge granite dome loomed up for nearly a thousand feet, like the half-buried skull of some mythical monster. “We got time to take him up before dinner, Master?”
Owens looked at his watch. “I fear not, Forrest. ‘The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth.’ Continue on to the Oecus; Maggie can be quite difficult if we are late for meals.”
Bellamy made a couple of turns and drew up in a small graveled parking lot, near a large house shaded by longleaf pines.
The Oecus was a rambling structure, which seemed to have been built by a committee, each member of which had designed one part to suit himself, without reference to his colleagues’ plans. No two rooms appeared to be set on the same level. There were spiral stairs in odd places, decorative mosaics of colored glass set in cement, and a couple of amateurish mural paintings of winged beings flapping around a cloudy sky. Sounds of hammering came from one end of the building, and I glimpsed a small group of young men and women in work clothes, nailing and plastering.
“What’s the origin of this house?” I asked.
Owens explained: “It was built before the First World War by an eccentric architect. The property was subsequently abandoned and had fallen into disrepair before the Anthropophili obtained the title and restored the building. As you see, the repairs are not quite complete. Would you like a drink before dinner?”
“Why, yes indeed,” I said.
Owen disappeared and returned with three small glasses and a bottle of sherry. “Ordinarily we do not indulge in alcoholic beverages in the Anthropophili, but we make exceptions for eminent visitors. ‘Moderation is the noblest gift of heaven.’ ”
He poured me, Bellamy, and himself each a thimbleful. It was good stuff as far as it went. While we sipped, Owens talked a monologue about the ideals of his organization. I was ready for a second when the dinner gong sounded and Owens put his bottle away.
There were about thirty members of the cult at the long table. The members, including those who had been working on the house, were mostly young and casually dressed. Several were black. Since this was in the early days of civil rights agitation in the South, I wondered if the racial integration of Owens’s cult had barred him from local financing. That subject, however, never came up.
The food was plain but excellent. The conversation was mostly over my head, dealing with local politics and personalities. When dinner was over, Owens said: “Mr. Newbury, I should like to show you our products.”
He led me to one end of the house, down steps, and into a storage room. There were heaps of wrought-iron grilles, railings, gates, wall brackets, planters, outdoor furniture, and other examples of the modern blacksmith’s art. While I am no judge of such matters, these artifacts seemed well-made.
“It’s a matter of price,” said Owens. “With the unusual personnel of my crew, I can undersell any other maker of such products. If I can expand, there won’t be the slightest difficulty about repaying the loan, with a handsome profit to our organization. This profit will be used to further the aims of our movement.”
“Do you use the members of your society as workers?”
“Oh, dear, no! They are seekers of truth, fully occupied with our crusade to bring peace and prosperity to the world. My workers are persons of quite a different sort.”
He steered me gently to the door. Then he and Bellamy whisked me off to my motel.
“We’ll see you first thing in the morning,” said Bellamy. “What time do y’all like to get up?”
###
In the morning, they drove me to Stone Mountain. We parked and took one of the new cable cars to the top. The car soared up over the colossal statues of Davis, Lee, and Jackson on horseback, which were carved in the west face. I understand that the sculptors meant, when the project began, to add a mile-long parade of Confederate soldiers as well. They ran out of money, however, before the project got that far.
Holding a stanchion in the crowded cable car, Bellamy said: “Every year, some young numbskull tries to show off to his girl by climbing all the way down one of the steep sides. Then he gets to where it’s too steep to hold on, and that’s the end of him.”
On top, we strolled about admiring the view. Bellamy told me of their further plans for my entertainment—the riverboat ride, the restored antebellum plantation—until I said: “I certainly appreciate your hospitality, gentlemen. But, before we do business, I simply must see your plant and these extraordinary workers.”
Owens said: “Well—ah—you saw the quality of our ironwork last night. I can show you lists of the prevailing prices for such products and what we sell ours for. I can explain our system of advertising and distribution—”
“Please. I am merely a trustee for our depositors’ money; I have to know what I’m putting it into. So I must see your facilities with my own eyes.”
Owens coughed. “There are—ah—some practical difficulties to that. You see, sir, there is some question of the title to the site of our factory. If the precise location should become generally known, it might cause us great inconvenience. We mi
ght have to relocate. Furthermore, our personnel are averse to letting outsiders see them at their tasks.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, fellows. No factory tour, no money.”
Owens and Bellamy exchanged looks. Bellamy scowled, glared, and took a step towards me, as if his temper were about to explode in violence. A slight movement from Owens caused Bellamy to step back and make his face blank. Owens said: “Put your ear down against the granite, Mr. Newbury, and tell me what you hear.”
The prospect did not look promising for my pants; but, I thought, I could bill the bank for a new pair. I got down and put my ear to the elephant-gray rock. A couple of other tourists, fifty feet away, stared at me.
“I hear a faint rumble,” I said. “A vibration almost below the lower limit of audibility. I suppose it’s the machinery that runs the cable cars.”
Owens shook his head. “We are too far from that machinery, as you can ascertain by repeating the test in other parts of the rock.”
“What then?” I said, getting up and dusting off my clothes.
“Are you familiar with the lines form Spenser:
‘. . . such ghastly noise of iron chains
And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear,
Which thousand sprites with long enduring pains
Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains . . .’?”
“ ’Fraid not,” I said. “The Faerie Queene is one of those things I’m always promising myself to read but never getting around to. What’s the point?”
“The story, as Spenser tells it, is that Merlin once summoned up a host of spirits and compelled them to set about prefabricating a brazen wall for his native city of Carmarthen. Then he went off and got himself entombed by Vivien, or whatever her name was. But nobody told the poor devils to stop, so they are still at work. Or at least, they were before I got in touch with them.”
“Yes?” I said. “You mean you’ve got Spenser’s spirits hammering out wrought-iron grilles in a cave beneath Stone Mountain?”
“Quite. Some might question the propriety of the term ‘spirits’ for my workers, who are very solid, substantial creatures.”
“You mean gnomes or dwarves?”
“They are called by various names. I shan’t try to explain how I secured their service, because that would take us into the complexities of magical theory.”
“But how did you get them to this country? Did you smuggle them aboard a ship, or did they tunnel under the Atlantic?”
Owens smiled. “Such beings have their own resources, their own—ah—mysterious ways.”
“If the demons of Carmarthen were brass workers, did they have to learn how to handle iron?”
“Be assured, they can handle any metal. Now, since you insist, we shall descend the mountain and visit our manufactory—at least, to the extent that it is safe to show it to you.”
###
We drove back to the Oecus. Owens and Bellamy took me around the house to the rear. Here I found a curious structure: a large sunken area bounded by stone walls, which rose to waist height above the outer ground surface but extended down fifteen or twenty feet below ground level on the inner side. It was as if someone had begun to build a big house but had gotten no further than the cellar. A couple of honey locust trees shaded the area with their feathery leaves.
A ramp between two curving stone walls provided access to the lower level. There were also a couple of other down-sloping passageways, but these came to blind ends. The thing conveyed the impression of being the product of a very strange mind.
In the middle of the lower level was another, narrower depression, perhaps six feet deep, ten wide, and thirty long, and brick-paved. Owens and Bellamy led me down steps to this sub-basement. At one end, I saw a heavy iron door, which Owens unlocked and opened with a screech of hinges.
“Watch your head,” he said.
I ducked under the lintel and followed the little magus, while Bellamy brought up the rear. The down-sloping tunnel was lined with planks and dimly lit by an occasional electric light bulb. We hiked for some minutes in silence. The planks gave way to solid granite, and the passageway became level. Owens paused to indicate a series of side chambers.
“Storage for our products,” he said.
A glimpse showed piles of wrought-iron artifacts, like those I had seen in the Oecus. We plodded on.
Early in the descent, I had become aware of a sound like the rumble I had heard atop Stone Mountain. As we went onward, the sound waxed louder.
We came to a dimly lit vestibule, containing stacks of wrought-iron objects and several chairs. The noise was now so loud that we had to raise our voices. I could feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes.
There was a great metallic banging and clanging, mixed with guttural shouts. The speech was too much mingled with the clangor to make anything of. I could not even guess the language.
“This is as far as we shall go,” said Owens. “As I have explained, our workers are extremely shy. They allow nobody but Forrest and me into their workshop. In any event, you can now report that we do have a production work force, can’t you?”
“I guess so,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get the hell out of here.” I was finding the noise and the confinement oppressive.
“Surely,” said Owens.
We hiked back up the long slope in silence. When to my relief we reached the surface, it was lunch time. I ate one of the Oecus’s simple but sumptuous meals and spent the afternoon with Owens, going over his books and learning the economics of the wrought-iron business.
They invited me to dinner, but I begged off. I had to get back to the motel to organize my thoughts, write up my notes, and telephone Drexel.
When I called Esau Drexel that evening, I told my story, saying: “I still don’t know what he’s got in that cave, but it must be something. I can’t imagine that all that wrought-iron stuff and correspondence that he showed me is some elaborate charade. His business seems to be thriving.”
“Then why is he so hell-bent to expand? Why can’t he be satisfied with his current profits?”
“He’s an idealist who wants to save the world from blowing itself up. Maybe he’s got something there. He figures to earn enough from this expansion, while the vogue lasts, to make his Anthropophili a force in world public opinion.”
“As if any dictator ever cared a hoot for world public opinion! You didn’t see these gnomes or whatever the hell they’re supposed to be?”
“No, but I heard them. Nearly busted my eardrums. I’d say to go ahead with the loan.”
“Willy,” growled my boss, “you’ve got a thing or two to learn about the lengths to which people will go to get their hands on the other guy’s money. How do you know all that racket wasn’t a recording, played over a loudspeaker?”
“Unh,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’re just being too suspicious.”
“Any time somebody wants to borrow half a million bucks on the pretext that he has spooks or fairies working for him, you’re damned right I’m suspicious. What’s the name of Owens’s cult again?”
“The Anthropophili.”
“Doesn’t that mean ‘man-eaters’ or ‘cannibals’?”
“No; you’re thinking of ‘Anthropophagi.’ I think this name means ‘lovers of man.’ ”
“Maybe they love man the way I love a good steak. Now, you go back and tell ’em: if you don’t see their alleged gnomes, it’s no deal.”
“They say their workers—whatever they are—are touchy about letting people see them.”
“That’s their problem. You do as I say.”
###
Next morning, when Owens and Bellamy came to the motel, I delivered Drexel’s ultimatum. Again, Bellamy seemed about to burst with suppressed rage. Owens soothed him: “Never mind, Forrest. ‘Even the gods cannot strive against necessity.’ ” To me he said: “You understand, Mr. Newbury, that there may be certain—ah—difficulties in dealing with these b
eings? There might even be some risk.”
“I’m not worried,” I said.
Overnight, I had become half-converted to Drexel’s suggestions that the noise was from a recording. In any case, I was ninety-eight per cent certain that the workers, if any, would prove to be ordinary mortal men.
Back at the Oecus, Owens again unlocked the iron door in the pit. Down we went.
As we descended, I noticed a difference. The metallic clangor, instead of starting faintly as we entered the tunnel and slowly rising to an earsplitting din, was missing. There was a faint susurration, which grew to the sound of a multitude of bass voices, all talking at once. But this time, there was no anvil chorus.
My companions noticed it, too. Owens and Bellamy stopped to confer in low tones.
“Are they taking a coffee break?” I asked.
“Dunno,” said Bellamy. “They sure ain’t doing what they’re supposed to.”
“Some emergency must have arisen,” said Owens. “Perhaps an accident. We shall know when we get there.”
We entered the vestibule. The noise was loud, although nothing compared to the previous uproar. Owens said: “You and I shall wait here, Mr. Newbury, while Forrest goes ahead to make the arrangements.”
“You mean to get these trolls’ permission to bring me in?”
“Quite. Sit down and relax; this may require some time.”
Owens and I sat. Bellamy disappeared into a passage at the far end of the chamber. This passage was angled so that one could not, from the vestibule, look into the working space beyond.
The rumble of voices died to near-silence. I heard Forrest Bellamy’s voice, too muffled to tell what he was saying. Then the bass voices rose again. I still could not identify the language.
Owens and I sat and sat. Owens spoke of his ideals and his grandiose plans for the Anthropophili. At last he took out his watch.
“There must be more difficulty than I anticipated,” he said. “I’ll give Forrest another quarter-hour.”
We sat for fifteen minutes more. Then, with another look at his watch, Owens rose.
LITTLE PEOPLE! Page 3