by Don Wilcox
Did a goddess deserve to be a goddess when, with human weakness, she begged to run away from her people in the face of disaster?
The basket came to a stop above the pond in the center of the star-shaped city. Cables were caught from below, so that its pendulum action was stilled. Stupe looked out upon the wide paved plaza. Ropes held the crowds back to make room for the pageant of dignitaries.
The artists had outdone themselves to prepare a colorful pageant for this occasion. The committee of six appeared at the head of the parade, dressed in their starchiest black and white suits adorned with epaulets of red and yellow wing feathers. They marched slowly, smiling with dignified restraint to their favorites among the crowd. When they came face to face with the “Old Man” they bowed stiffly, then moved on to their seats at the edge of the plaza.
They were followed by a band of little children looking gay in their costumes of pink and yellow seashells. Undoubtedly they had been given a last minute curtain lecture, for they were being watched by their leaders and reprimanded by slight signals whenever they exchanged excited whispers.
Several of the leaders of city industries and civic activities followed along in turn. The Inspector himself was the most conspicuous among these, partly because of his huge bulk, partly because of his outrageously funny costume—a purple suit with immense yellow polka dots. Always the exhibitionist, he waved gaily to the crowd. But his reception was not as wholehearted as he might have expected. Many faces turned quickly from him to glance at the distant wall where seven streams of water glided down.
At the end of the procession came Zaleena-Zaleese-Ocella-Dudu, riding the white stallion, Marble Boy. She was escorted by eighteen youths who marched in groups of threes. They were dressed in uniforms of brown and orange, with creamy white sashes that matched the brilliant white of the stallion. Stupe liked the way they held their heads as if inspired by the proud carriage of the goddess they honored. Too many citizens of this hidden city went about with heads bowed and shoulders humped, Stupe had noticed. Perhaps it was the effect of working in the low-tunneled mines that branched out beneath the ocean’s floor.
Stupe waited until everyone was seated. His turn had come at last. It was almost perfectly quiet throughout the city. Perhaps you could not have heard a pin drop because there was always the low echo of winds from the open mine shafts near the city walls. Then, too, today there was the unusual gurgling of waters, gliding from the streets into one of the open shafts—a cheerful sound, yet ominous. It was Stupe’s duty to reassure these people against a flood while these very sounds of the spilling sea competed against his voice.
“Citizens of the undersea world,” began Stupe in the aged and cracked voice of the Old Man, “You have remained here through many generations because you believe-” he changed the words hastily—“because you know that this area is sacred. The gods have asked you to remain here. They have promised you everlasting prosperity as long as your faith in them holds fast. Today you have come to honor me, not because I, alone, am responsible for the walls which safeguard you, but because I am a symbol of the one who assisted you when the sea rose high around you.”
He drew a deep breath. He felt that he was about to set forth in words a falsehood that would blacken his conscience the rest of his life. He must say it with all the force he could muster.
“I have come before you to reassure you—” For some reason his eyes were diverted toward the wall momentarily. He thought that he had detected some movement there. He counted the streams that were flowing downward. Seven? No, eight. A new one had appeared!
“I have come to reassure you that you are safe.” His voice cracked. “That you will always be-”
His eyes again turned toward the wall, as if magnetically drawn. But instantly two unseen hands pressed against his cheeks to turn his head away.
In that moment Stupe was enveloped in a white mist. His words were choked off. The Spirit had entered in the form of a cloud, and everyone saw . . .
CHAPTER XLIV
Through the coils of lavender mist, Stupe looked out upon the sea of faces. The light from overhead filtered down in pink and orange shafts, moving slowly with the twists and turns of the cloud.
No one knew where it had come from. Stupe in his confusion tried to remember. He thought it had grown out of the huge gray patch on the wall. But it had also formed around him at the same time, for it was at this very second that his speech had been cut short and his eyes had been diverted from the wall.
The pressure against his cheeks was cool, like wet velvet, yet undeniably strong. The touch was ridged with fingers. The fingers glided over his cheeks and crossed his lips and pressed against his throat.
He was shocked by his own helplessness. The crowd had been waiting expectantly for his next words. His promise of safety had been bluntly posed and had not been driven home with enough conviction.
However, to his great relief, the people were no longer watching him. Their eyes were roving to catch the beauty of the shifting lines of light and shadow. This was their god, the Spirit, reaching down with ten thousand mist-like hands to bless each of them.
If there were whispers of confidence to each, Stupe could not hear them. Yet, from the low rustle of sounds and from the lighted expressions on the faces before him, he was led to wonder whether each person present was not receiving an individual communication.
In his own ears the one word, “Patience,” sounded. And so he waited, watching.
A low roar of thunder rumbled through the vast circular shell. Stupe trembled. The walls must have quivered, he thought. His ears were attuned to every sound. Somehow he expected the crackle of stone-glass and the crash and splash of an angry sea leaping in through a bursting patch. But again there was only the low whisper, “Patience.”
Then his basket began to turn slowly, and the light around him had become a dense purple, so that he felt the protection of darkness from the eyes of the throng.
One shaft of creamy white light blazed down through the mist upon the goddess, sitting like a statue upon the back of the white stallion. The animal was poised, alert, its pink nostrils distended with the excitement of this weird moment.
The girl’s arms extended slowly, her palms reaching in an attitude of accepting the will of the Spirit that was speaking to her. Stupe was sure that never in his life would he see a more impressive picture—a rare combination of beauty and power and something mystical that he could not fathom.
The shaft of light edged slowly toward the pond beneath Stupe’s basket. As it moved, the goddess and her mount moved with it. She was riding slowly across the plaza . . . across the surface of the water . . . and Stupe was simultaneously being lowered. The shaft of light was upon him too, and he felt the warmth of its blaze filtering through the locks of snowy white hair that covered his head.
To the audience, Zaleena and the Old Man were now side by side. She, the embodiment of youth and beauty, was about to be wedded to the white bearded old foreigner who symbolized wisdom and protection.
It was the low whispering thunder from the surrounding cloud that wedded them. The words in themselves were not distinguishable to Stupe, yet he knew their meaning.
Zaleena-Zaleese extended her hand to him. He saw the false lines of gray that had been painted on his own wrist—the color of old age. But the pounding, surging fever of youth was in his touch as his fingers closed over Dudu’s.
The shaft of light from overhead moved down. Darkness crowded in above it, and the whole city was enshrouded in a deep opaque purple. Only a singing sphere of light was still visible, large enough to hover over Dudu and Stupe. Then it became a swirl of colors, a hundred spinning colors that enveloped the two of them for one long breath-taking moment, and it was gone.
The enclosed city was lost in total darkness.
“Dudu,” Stupe whispered.
“Yes, Stupe, I am here . . . I am yours now. We are husband and wife, now, Stupe.”
In the darkness Stupe kis
sed her and held her tightly. They were being lifted, he knew. He could hear the hoofs of the stallion, splashing through the pond and on to the pavement of the plaza. But Zaleena-Zaleese-Ocella-Dudu was with him in the basket, rising with him toward the unseen balcony eight hundred feet above the city.
“Listen,” she whispered. “The Spirit is revealing to them a secret that concerns us.”
The darkness was broken by a yellow flash of lightning that leaped around the walls. A flare of brilliance, the sharp crackle of electricity and then, once again, the return of the purple mist.
This time it was like an encircling wreath.
The whispering voice which had once spoken the word, “Patience!” now echoed softly from wall to wall.
“The Spirit which guided your fathers and their fathers before you comes to you again in this hour of danger.”
A pause. Dudu huddled close in Stupe’s arms, waiting.
“What the Spirit has revealed to your fathers and their fathers before you, it now reveals to you. It is not the ocean that weighs you down. It is your deities.”
Another pause. Then—
“It is we, your gods, who weigh you down. If you would be lifted, why not bid us leave?”
CHAPTER XLV
“At last!” said Hefty Winkle. The little runaway, winged boy had just come running back from the tunnel into his arms. “At last, you little rascal. Don’t you know I have been chasing you for days? What do you mean by running away from us?”
Little Gooyay was not ready with an answer. In the glow of Hefty’s flashlight, the excitement in the little fellow’s eyes shone too brightly. “What’s the matter?” Hefty said, changing his tone. “Are you scared? Never mind, I’ll not scold you. We’ll go back to your Aunt Gypsy and let her talk to you.”
The lad was reluctant to move. He was frightened, all right. He clung to Hefty’s arm, his hands quivering.
“Out with it, pal. Give, give. Did you run into a den of snakes or something?”
The little voice piped, “It was the thunder. Thunder and lightning—it always scares me.”
“Thunder and lightning? You’re talking through your hat.”
“And the funny lights,” Gooyay went on. “Everywhere it was purple. Then the girl on the white horse rode up to the man.”
“Huh?” Hefty was suddenly on nerve’s edge. “Where did you see any such thing?”
The urchin pointed down the tunnel. “It’s all light down there now,” he said. “It’s a big city with walls all around.”
“M-m-m. Maybe you and I had better take a walk, Gooyay.”
Several minutes later they came upon the sight which the little winged boy had described. There was no thunder or lightning; this Hefty took to be the child’s imagination. But the city was there, solid and in three dimensions and enclosed. Hefty’s heart was in his throat. He seemed to have walked out of one world and into another.
At first glimpse, the fantastic beauty of the place overwhelmed him. Dizzily he groped along the wall, keeping his hand tightened over Gooyay’s. Then remembering his long and all but fruitless chase, he decided to take more adequate precautions before there was another runaway. With the bit of rope that dangled from Gooyay’s waist he did have a satisfactory leash on the lad. He tied the end to his own belt.
“Now, Buddy, we are ready to do a little exploring. Not long ago I received a letter from someone down here—a guy named Stupe—but never mind, you wouldn’t understand.”
They edged along the wall toward a paved street which came to a point at the outer fringe of the city. They could hear the voices of persons who were clustered in front of their residences, and as Hefty peeked around the side of the building to catch his first view of these underworld people, his fears diminished. They were human beings like himself. They appeared to be so much concerned with their own interests that he saw no reason to fear them.
“This way,” he said to Gooyay. “Let’s get an earful of their talk.” He soon gathered that they had recently attended some very important public meeting which was having its aftermath in their excited comments.
“It was perfect except for one thing,” he understood one of them to say. “If there had only been the sacrifice according to the ritual, the whole affair would have been complete.”
Hefty should have taken warning. The residents of this city lived in a watertight world of their own. They weren’t used to foreigners. They had no official greeter to extend the glad hand to wandering men or wingmen who drifted into their midst. Instead, it was their policy to seize strangers (as one Dick Bracket could have testified).
Hefty and Gooyay walked freely through the street for a record hour and a half before some citizenry reported them.
The guards flew upon them like demons. Hefty was flabbergasted at this uncivil reception. He couldn’t understand why he should be roughly seized and searched, or why they feared that he might climb a tower or throw explosives against the wall.
“I just happened to drop in,” he said weakly. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
They looked at him sourly. Their suspicions turned upon Gooyay. Spies? What was this, the forecast of a winged invasion? Or was this youthful wingman only the guide for the other foreigner?
“I told you so,” one of the onlookers said, reviving the earlier rumor that a foreigner had been hiding in their midst. “He’s the one we looked for before the celebration. He’s that same trouble maker who blasted our wall.”
Hefty swung a free fist. The fellow who had spoken out of turn dodged the blow and one of the guards caught it on the jaw. Hefty’s hidden punch had floored more than one man twice his size. It floored the guard. The bystanders backed away and held their silence.
But Hefty was soon brought under control, his two hands bound. All be could do was talk. He might have fared better if they had sealed his lips.
“You weren’t looking for me, brothers. I’ve never seen this place before. It’s all a mistake. I don’t belong here. I want to get back to the rest of my party with this young whippersnapper.”
“The rest of your party? Back where?”
“Back there in the—huh? Who wants to know?”
The guards glanced toward the open entrance of one of their mines. So those subterranean channels made contact with the outer world! And there was a band of people back there somewhere . . .
As the guards dragged Hefty and Gooyay toward the nearest elevator tower, a small crowd fell in, eyes and ears, questions and taunts. Hefty had never been in a jam like this before. He couldn’t keep from shouting back at his hecklers.
“Darn it, I never came here to make trouble. You’ve got to believe me. I’m a friend of Stupe Smith. You didn’t rope him and drag him up before a judge when he came, did you?”
“When who came?”
“Stupe, Stupe Smith. He wrote me from here. He said . . .”
Hefty swallowed his words. He had said far more than he had intended. He looked around helplessly. The little winged boy was grinning at him as if to say, “We’re having a wonderful adventure, aren’t we?”
The two prisoners were tossed into a cell in one of the towers where they could look across the web of high footbridges that led to a central balcony. The city was so far below that it made Hefty dizzy to look down. But Gooyay, accustomed to flying, felt entirely at home at this altitude. His sharp eyes watched the comings and goings of the uniformed guards and workmen with the greatest of interest.
What fascinated Hefty most was the throne, a few steps above the balcony, where a very old man could be seen talking with six starchily dressed committeemen.
“What an ancient relic,” Hefty thought.
“That must be the old gray-beard that Stupe mentioned in his letter.”
After many hours of waiting, Hefty was surprised to see several other prisoners being escorted to nearby cells. The whole earth party that he had left back in the tunnels had been ferreted out—Gypsy Brown, the three Stevens girls, Jake Fiddle, Dr. Jabett
a, and Frenchy.
“We’re all in the same doghouse,” said Hefty gloomily. “The judge will probably find us all guilty and condemn us to death—or maybe make us work in the mines.”
His little companion suggested that the wingmen might come and rescue them.
“My parents will want to find me. They will try to follow us.”
“Don’t worry, son. Nobody’s going to follow that awful trail we took, unless it’s by accident.”
They could now hear echoes of Gypsy Brown’s funny pleadings, which the guards evidently couldn’t understand. The Stevens girls were too weary to talk. Dr. Jabetta tried to argue his way out of this gross mistreatment, but his efforts were futile.
“Save your arguments,” one of the guards said. “Maybe the Old Man will listen to you when you are brought to trial. But I warn you, he is a stern judge.”
“What’s more,” another guard added, “he is pretty busy just now, honeymooning. I don’t think he’s in the mood to listen to your troubles.”
CHAPTER XLVI
Hefty slept like a dead man and did not awaken until someone rattled the iron bars of his tower cell. He opened his eyes. The disturbance was being caused by the little winged boy.
“Gooyay! What’s all the noise about?”
“I want to get back in.”
Hefty’s jaw sagged and he blinked his sleepy eyes. “Huh? You were in. How in sam-hill did you get out?”
“Right there.” Gooyay pointed to the space between two bars. “I was hungry.”
“Well, I reckon you can squeeze back in.
“No. I ate too much dinner.”
Hefty looked his companion over from head to foot. It was an unusual situation one of two prisoners on the outside trying to get back in. Hefty wasn’t too sleepy to see some possible advantages to this arrangement.
“Take it easy, Gooyay. You’re more useful where you are. Tell me—” Hefty looked about to make sure no guards were within hearing—“Where did you get the square meal?”,