Levkas Man

by Innes, Hammond;

  I passed it to him then, and he snatched it from my hand in his eagerness to see what he’d been living with in darkness—his fantastic discovery. Slowly he swung the beam, illuminating that butcher’s cavern with its great beasts tumbling into traps, driven over cliffs, or caught in the moment of death with the weapons of the hunters scoring their flanks. ‘Look!’ he breathed, the beam steadying on the red shape of a bison painted on the roof. ‘See how the cave artist used the bulge of that rock to emphasise the weight of the head, the massive power of the shoulders.’ The torch trembled in his hand, the croak of his voice almost breathless with wonder. ‘I haven’t seen anything like this since I was in Font de Gaume. I was just a youngster then, and I had left the Dordogne before they discovered Lascaux. I’ve seen photographs, of course, but that’s not the same.’

  By then I had got a grip on myself, was thinking of Bert, and Holroyd’s body in the pool out there beyond the further cavern. ‘What happened after the rock fall trapped you?’ I took hold of his arm. It was thin and hard, all bone under my hand as I pressed him for an answer. But he was still intent upon the beam of the torch, lost in a world of his own as he feasted his eyes on the paintings. It was only when I asked him how he’d found them that I got any sensible reaction.

  ‘By accident,’ he said, his eyes following the beam as it illuminated a gory mêlée of animals superimposed one upon another. ‘I’d only matches. And not many of those—no other light. But that’s how I saw it first—this temple to Man the Killer.’ He said those words as though they carried a personal message. ‘Look! See how the charcoal has been used to express the terror in that reindeer’s eyes—marvellous!’

  I slid my hand down his arm and took hold of the torch. ‘I have to save the battery,’ I said. But he didn’t seem to understand. He was beyond practicalities, entirely rapt at the wonder of his find, and he tightened his grip on the torch so that I had to wrench it from him. It wasn’t difficult. There was no strength left in him.

  ‘Give it to me.’ He was suddenly like a child, pleading. ‘You don’t realize what it means—all the hours sitting here—waiting, praying for a light to see them by.’

  ‘Sit down.’ My hand was on his shoulder, urging him. And then I switched off the torch and in the dark he cried out as thought I’d hurt him physically. Then suddenly he sank to the floor of the cave, exhausted.

  ‘Now,’ I said, sitting down beside him, my back against the wall. ‘Tell me what happened. You were through the old rock fall, exploring the upper cave, when that earth tremor brought the roof down. What happened then?’

  The darkness was total, and in the darkness I could hear his breathing, a rasping sound, very laboured.

  ‘Did you have your acetylene lamp with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’d found the blow-hole?’

  ‘Yes. I was in there, examining the walls, when it happened—the ground trembling and the crash of rock falling.’ In the blackness, without the distraction of the cave paintings, he began to talk. And once he had started, it was like a dam breaking, the whole story of his discovery pouring out of him.

  He had gone back up to the cave-shelter to examine the rock fall, and realizing there was no way out, that he was trapped with little chance of being rescued, he had explored the only alternative, going down the blow-hole until at last he reached the end of it. Then, with his back braced against the wall of it, he had peered down, leaning perilously over the gap and holding his lamp at the full stretch of his arm. He had seen the glint of water, the vague shape of the rock ledges and the shadowed entrance to a gallery beyond. ‘I was afraid at first.’ His voice breathed at me out of the darkness, a croaking whisper, tired and faint. ‘It seemed a desperate step, to let myself fall into the water, the lamp extinguished—no light, nothing but darkness.’

  He had tried to climb back up the slope of the blow-hole, but it was too steep and his muscles were tired. And then gradually the acetylene flame of his lamp had weakened. Finally he had worked his way back down to the end of the blow-hole. There he had managed to slip the box of matches he carried into the empty wallet in his hip pocket, and as the flame of his lamp dwindled to nothing, he had let himself fall. ‘I had no alternative. I was at the end of my strength.’ He paused, breathing heavily, re-living in the darkness his experience. ‘It was easier than I had expected. The water was cool, refreshing. And when I’d hauled myself out and recovered from the shock, I felt my way into the gallery and worked along it with my arms stretched wide, touching the walls, and when the walls fell away, I knew I had entered some sort of a cave. That was when I struck my first match.’

  He was excited then, his words coming faster: ‘Can you imagine, Paul—how I felt? The sudden realization. All those paintings. And nobody to share my discovery, no means of telling the world what I had found.’ He laughed then, that same hard jeering laugh that I remembered and hated. But this time he was laughing at himself, at the irony of it. ‘All my life—seeking. And now suddenly I had stumbled by chance on what I had been searching for. I struck match after match. I was crazed with excitement.’ He paused. Then added slowly, ‘In the end there were no more matches. I was in darkness, complete darkness, standing like a fool in the greatest art gallery in the world and I couldn’t see it.’ He sighed, a dreadful, tearing sigh. ‘Well, that’s how it was. That’s how I stumbled on the work of Levkas Man.’ He repeated those words slowly—Levkas Man. ‘That’s the name I have given to him. Sitting here in the dark I’ve had time to think—about this cave and about what it means. I’ve no doubts now. My theory was right. A land-bridge did exist. And now I must start at the other end—at Pantelleria. If something similar exists on Pantelleria … Give me that torch again.’ His hand clawed at my arm. ‘I’ve been in the dark so long. How long have I been here, did you say? Three days?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘Seventy-two hours.’

  ‘But not all in darkness,’ I said. ‘You had a spotlight, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. For a few hours. It was magnificent—very bright. But then it faded.’

  ‘Bert could have helped you. He was an expert diver. He could have got you out.’ I was angry, angry at his stupidity. ‘Why did you do it? If you’d only spoken to him …’

  ‘So it was Barrett. I didn’t know.’ His voice sounded suddenly tired. ‘If he’d spoken to me, explained who he was. I thought—’

  How could he?’ I cut in. ‘You damn near killed him. He’s suffering from concussion and a broken arm.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was that torch of his. I had to see.’

  ‘He was lucky to get out alive.’

  His hand was on my arm again. ‘You don’t understand. You can’t imagine. To be alone—in the dark—unable to see these paintings. All my life—’

  ‘To hell with your life, and your scientific searchings! We’re talking about people now. Live people. A man called Barrett.’ And I added harshly, ‘There’s Holroyd, too. He’s dead now. But he was alive when he came down that rope.’

  There was silence then, a ghastly stillness, no sound of breathing even. It was as though the shock of my words had rendered him speechless.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Silence.

  ‘He was dead when you hooked the spotlight on to his fingers. He’d been dead some time.’

  ‘The battery was just about exhausted then,’ he murmured, as though that constituted some sort of an explanation.

  ‘Was that why you took Bert’s spot—for fear he’d see what you’d done?’

  He sighed. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be in total darkness and then to watch his glow-worm figure climbing down out of that hole in the cave roof.’

  ‘You knew who it was then?’

  ‘Of course.’ His voice sounded remote, infinitely sad. And then, as though Holroyd’s death was of no real importance, he said, ‘When I began my Journal, I was endeavouring to strike a balance between the good and the evil that was i
nside me, to find out whether there was any hope for our species—what sort of a being Man really was. Well, now I know.’ There was a pause, and then he said, ‘Do you remember that night you came to me, up above in the entrance to the cave-shelter, I said this place was evil?’

  ‘It was outside,’ I said. ‘Under the stars, and you were holding that stone lamp in your hand.’

  ‘Yes. I could feel it in the stone of that lamp. And all the time I have been alone here in the dark, that sense and knowledge of evil has burned itself into me. Man is a killer, and he carries the seed of his own destruction in him. Switch the torch on again, just for a moment—so that you can see what I’m talking about.’

  I did so and his skull-like head leaped out of the dark at me, its beetling brows, its deep lines and the mane of white hair standing up from the dome of his forehead. He was leaning back, his head against the wall, pressed against the red belly of that bull. His eyes stared past me as I swept the beam of the torch over the cave. ‘Now, just the two of us—seeing it for the first time. There have been bears here—those pits in the floor are their hibernating beds. But no humans. We are back twenty thousand years at least and in all that time man hasn’t changed.’

  ‘You killed him? Is that what you’re saying?’

  He stared at me, frowning. ‘Haven’t you understood a word I’ve been saying? I’m talking about my Journal—about my attempt to define the nature of Man.’

  ‘And I’m talking about Holroyd,’ I said, trying to pin him down. ‘I have to know what happened.’

  ‘Why? What possible interest is it to you?’ And he added slowly, staring up at the bison pawing the roof, ‘He shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have let him.’ And he added wearily, ‘He could have climbed back up that rope.’

  ‘He was trapped, trying to rescue you.’

  But my words didn’t register. ‘Instinctive defence of territory,’ he murmured. ‘It’s in all of us, and it goes very deep.’ He gave a dry cough. ‘You didn’t bring any water with you, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Nor any food.’

  ‘The food doesn’t matter. But I’m dry—very dry. It makes it difficult to talk.’ He leaned forward, his eyes fastening on mine. ‘All my life has been a struggle. Always seeking after truth. Nothing else has ever mattered to me—not since your mother was killed. There was a moment when I thought I could live life differently, through you. But I failed in that, and afterwards I resumed my restless seeking.’ He reached out suddenly, grabbing hold of my hand, his fingers hard and dry, his voice urgent. ‘When we get out of here—we’ll go on together, eh? Promise me, boy.’ His grip was weak, his hand trembling. ‘You’re bound for Pantelleria, isn’t that right? We’ll start there—on Pantelleria. Then we’ll complete the chain of evidence—irrefutable proof. They’ll have to recognize me then. They’ll have to accept my theory.’

  It was fascinating, almost terrifying, his sheer egotism. He seemed to be living in a world of his own, divorced from other people. ‘All the time we’ve been talking,’ I said, ‘there are men up above us working at that rock fall, trying to get through to you.’

  His eyes widened, suddenly blazing. ‘Then stop them.’

  ‘They’re trying to reach you.’

  ‘I don’t want them here. This—’ His hand moved, indicating the cave—‘This is something between us alone. Just the two of us. Nobody else. Tell them I’m dead, anything—but keep them out of here. I’m not going to have anybody else—’

  ‘They’re also looking for Holroyd,’ I said.

  ‘Then tell them you’ve seen him and that they needn’t bother any more.’

  I shook my head. ‘There’s still the Greek. There was a Greek with him.’

  He was suddenly very still, his body sagging. ‘Who’s up there—Cartwright?’

  ‘Cartwright and Hans Winters, about half a dozen men from Vathy. Zavelas, too, and Kotiadis.’ He didn’t say anything after that and I got to my feet. ‘If they don’t get through that fall by tonight, I’ll have to try and get you out underwater.’

  ‘No.’ He said it emphatically, a total rejection of the possibility that made me turn and look at him. His eyes were closed and there was a stillness about him, a resignation. I had a feeling then that he had accepted the inevitability of death and that his closed eyes were a conscious rejection of sight, preparation for the darkness that would close in on him again when I had left. This feeling was so strong that for a moment I felt completely numb. It was strange, the two of us so distant all these years and yet the sense of closeness, of communication without words.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ I heard myself murmur.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, his body shuddering. ‘I’m not afraid of death.’ It was a declaration. His eyes opened and he stared about him with extraordinary intensity, as though trying to fix the painted walls of his prison firmly on the retina of his brain. And then suddenly he put his hands up to his face, covering his eyes, and his body shook with a strange sobbing sound.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, go—quickly. And remember, when you sail from Levkas, there’ll be nobody alive but yourself who has seen the work of these cave artists. It will be your secret—and mine. Do you understand?’

  I was staring at him, appalled.

  ‘Do you understand, Paul?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so.’

  He reached up and seized hold of my hand again. ‘If I’m right—and I am right—the trail of Levkas Man leads on through the Sicilian offshore islands of Levanzo and Marettimo to Pantelleria and the coast of Africa—Tunisia probably, maybe Djerba.’ The grip on my hand tightened convulsively. ‘Paul! Promise me. Promise me that you’ll go on. That you’ll follow the trail, prove me right.’

  ‘I’ve no qualifications. And anyway …’

  ‘You don’t need qualifications. All you need is conviction and the driving urgency that it gives you. Experts will always follow a dedicated, determined man. Look at Schliemann—an amateur. He believed in Homer. And as a result, he discovered Troy, Mycenae, Knossos. You could be the same. Building on my reputation and on the manuscripts I have left with Sonia. Promise me.’ He was staring up into my face, the grip of his fingers suddenly like iron.

  I didn’t know what to say. That I’d no money? That his world was too remote? That, anyway, Cartwright would break through that rock fall to discover Holroyd’s body and the painted cave that he so desperately wanted to preserve for himself as a total secret? ‘I’m going now,’ I said finally.

  The grip on my hand slowly relaxed until his arm dropped slackly, and he sat there, his back against the wall, his body bowed. He seemed suddenly to have shrunk, the collapse of his spirit deflating him physically. I left him then, feeling sick at heart, hating the place and the evil that lurked there, glad when the paintings were behind me. I didn’t look back as I entered the gallery of the mammoths. I didn’t want to see his loneliness, the crumpled dejection of his body squatting there below the red belly of that bull.

  I came out into the cave beyond with its pool of black sea water. And there was Holroyd’s body still floating, a reminder that something had been done here that could not be undone. The atmosphere of evil breathed down my neck, emanating from the painted caves. Alone, I had difficulty getting the heavy cylinder on to my back. I did it in a sitting position, and as I struggled to my feet, the torch shone on a half-segment of stone. I recognized it instantly—another of those Stone Age lamps. I should have realized the significance of it, lying there broken on the rock floor, but my mind was on other things and it didn’t connect. All I knew, as I slung the lead belt round my waist and pulled the mask down over my face, was that its presence added to my sense of evil. I was in such a hurry then that I almost forgot to check the state of my air. Nervously my fingers felt for the stem indicator, relieved to find that the cylinder was still almost half full.

  I entered the water with only one thing in my mind, to get the hell out of
that place as quickly as possible. But then, when I was in the water, my fears left me. The practical side of me seemed to take command. Almost without thinking I swam over to the rope, drew the diver’s knife from the sheath strapped to my calf, and cut the end of it where it trailed in the water. I tied a bowline, and then, making a noose, slipped it over Holroyd’s arm. That was when I saw the wound in his head, the white of bone jagged around a grey pulp. His skull had been cracked like the shell of an egg. I trod water for a moment, staring at that wound half-concealed by the dark hair waving like weed in the water, understanding now what the old man had been talking about, his total rejection of rescue. Understanding, too, the broken segment of that stone lamp.

  I felt suddenly very cold, cold in my guts, and I turned quickly and dived for the blow-hole, trailing the corpse behind me like a dog on a lead. What I had started to do instinctively, a sort of tidying-up operation, now became a matter of urgency, for I couldn’t leave it there in the pool to stare the first rescuer in the face. But it was only when I came out through the roof into the lower caverns, the hiss of the demand valve in my ears and the blatter of my bubbled exhalations disappearing into the hole behind me, that I paused to consider what I was going to do with it.

  If I took it out into the channel it would be discovered almost at once, and then the questions would start. The alternative was to conceal it in a crevice, but that meant weighting it with a rock, and the only means I had of fastening a rock to it was with the rope. I hung there in the cave, the body ballooning above me, ghostly at the end of its umbilical nylon cord. Tie a rock to it and if it were discovered, then it would be obvious that his death had not been a natural one. The bubbles of my breathing warned me that I could not stay there indefinitely. I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was 11.12—almost an hour and a half since I had left the boat. And I had forgotten to check the time when I had entered the water in the cavern above.