The End of the Tunnel

by Paul Capon

  “I just woke up,” she said. “I heard you talking to Boyd.”

  “Fine. Wake Jane while I turn back the tarpaulin to let in some light.”

  Working with extreme caution, he lifted the tarpaulin and folded it over until there was a foot-wide gap from side to side of the gondola at the back. It wasn’t much, but at least it let in a little light and fresh air.

  “Keep your voices lower than ever,” he warned the others. “With that gap at the back it will be easier for the driver to hear us.”

  They could just make out one another’s faces now, and Boyd got out his compass and shifted it this way and that in an attempt to read it. Finally Tom struck a match for him, and he announced that they were traveling southeast.

  “Hey, that doesn’t add up,” Boyd said. “We’ve been riding for over nine hours, and, as far as we know, we’ve been moving practically all the time. Say we’ve averaged twenty miles an hour, it would mean we’ve traveled nearly two hundred miles. No, it just doesn’t add up at all!”

  “Why not?” asked Jane, whose geography was vague.

  “Why, because if we were two hundred miles from Ridgefield in a southeasterly direction, we’d be out in the middle of the North Sea. That’s right, isn’t it, Tom?”

  “Yes, but what about your compass? Could it be cockeyed?”

  “Well, yes. I guess that’s the only explanation.”

  The train was slowing down, and the children, tense with expectation, fell silent. Then, when the train was moving hardly faster than walking pace, there came a drastic change in the noise of its wheels on the rails. The sound became hollow with undertones of surging water.

  “We’re crossing a bridge,” whispered Ruth, then she noticed a lift in the movement of the gondola. “It’s a floating bridge!”

  Tom crept to the back of the gondola and cautiously pushed his head through the gap he had made. The train was crossing a lake. The light was stronger now, and in spite of the mist he could see water stretching for great distances in every direction. It struck him that he had never seen such a large body of water so absolutely still — it was more like oil than water. There were no waves and no swell; the only ripples were those spreading from the pontoons as the train rolled forward.

  The driver moved as if he were about to look around, and Tom ducked under the tarpaulin quickly.

  “Say, are we really on a pontoon bridge?” asked Boyd.

  “Yes, and there’s miles of it. It has big, square floats the size of diving rafts.”

  “I don’t get it. Pontoons are O.K. for getting an army across a river, but you can’t use them like real bridges. The first bad storm that comes along breaks them up. O.K. if I have a look?”

  “Sure, but for Pete’s sake be careful! The driver may look around.”

  Boyd crawled to the back of the gondola while Ruth searched her rucksack in the hope of finding a sandwich that had been overlooked. “Tom, do you think we’ll ever eat again?” she asked plaintively.

  “I certainly hope so! Actually, though, I’m not so much hungry as thirsty. The sight of all that water nearly finished me off. I had a good mind just to jump in and — ” He interrupted himself, then added excitedly, “That gives me an idea!”

  “What?” asked Jane.

  “Just a minute. I’m thinking.”

  Boyd rejoined them. “It’s a pontoon bridge, all right,” he said. “But it still doesn’t make sense. On a day as calm as this, O.K., but I’d like to see a train cross it with the least bit of wind blowing.”

  “Could you see the far shore?” asked Tom.

  “No. Nothing but mist. Why?”

  “I’m wondering if we could swim for it. That is, when we get near the other shore. With the train going at this speed it would be safe enough to dive from it; then, when we got ashore, we could simply walk to the nearest house and explain.”

  Boyd considered the plan for a few seconds, then exclaimed, “Hey, you’ve missed a trick, Tom. There’s no need to dive into the lake. The train’s going slowly enough for us to slip off the flatcar onto the floats.”

  “Of course!” Tom exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come on, kids, get your rucksacks on and try not to make any noise. We’re going home!”

  Jane started to fold her ground cloth, but Boyd stopped her. “Leave it, Janie. We have to move fast. We don’t know how long this bridge is.”

  Tom was already at the back of the gondola, folding the tarpaulin back another foot and keeping his eyes on the driver, who was slumped in his seat.

  Tom duck down and asked the others, “Ready?”

  “Sure,” answered Boyd, who was fastening Ruth’s rucksack for her. “You go ahead, Tom, and I’ll bring up the rear.

  “All right.”

  The train was crawling along at a snail’s pace. There was only a two-foot gap between the backboard of the gondola and the front of the flatcar, and Tom managed to step from one to the other without making a sound. Once on the flatcar he grasped the rope that bound the crates and beckoned to Ruth to follow.

  She stepped across the gap as effortlessly as a ballet dancer, and Tom gave her a hand to steady her. He kept his gaze on the driver and whispered with his mouth to Ruth’s ear, “Squeeze past me and go to the back of the flatcar. We’ll join you there in a couple of ticks.”

  She nodded and started working her way along the edge of the car, holding to the rope binding the crates as she edged past them.

  Tom looked toward the gondola and was just about to beckon to Jane when he realized that something was wrong. She was standing by the backboard gazing down in horror at the floats passing under the coupling of the two cars. Even in that strange light Tom could see that her face was ashen.

  Holding the rope, he leaned as far toward her as he could. “Don’t look down, Jane. Boyd, give her a hand.”

  Boyd shook his head. “She’s dizzy,” he whispered. “I’m scared she’ll fall. Tom, she just can’t make it!”

  “She must,” Tom said. He looked at the driver, saw that nothing threatened from that quarter, then went on, putting as much authority in his voice as a whisper could convey, “Boyd, help her onto the backboard. I can reach her then.”

  Jane managed to overcome her dizziness, and with Boyd holding her she climbed onto the backboard. She put her arms out, and Tom’s right hand closed firmly over her left wrist.

  “O.K., I’ve got you,” he told her, “you can’t fall. Now . . . jump!”

  Jane jumped bravely, but just then the train, passing from one float to the next, gave a lurch, and momentarily the gap shortened. Both Tom and Jane misjudged the distance. Jane landed safely, but her shoe struck one of the crates with a loud noise.

  At once the train slowed down, and Tom wildly considered leaping into the lake and swimming for it. Immediately he knew he wouldn’t have a chance. There was nothing to do but face the music.

  The train stopped with a jerk, and the driver swung around in his seat. His astonishment when he saw Tom and Jane standing on the flatcar would have been funny had the situation not been so serious. His beard bristled and his eyes popped.

  “Undee ven vos?” he roared.

  Slowly he climbed from the dinkey and started along the floats toward the foursome. Now that Tom could see his face, he was greatly relieved. This man certainly was huge, but he had a mild, good-natured expression and, if he was not exactly smiling, he at least looked more amused than angry. The children watched him as he made his way to them. He looked like a kindly pirate with his huge beard, blue eyes and shaggy hair. His black trousers were voluminous, gathered tightly at the ankles, and he was barefoot. His jersey, which had once been white, was an uncertain gray, suggesting that he used it for wiping his hands.

  He stopped when he came even with the flatcar and stood, hands on hips, looking at the strangers. Then one of his great hands shot out and closed tightly around Tom’s forearm, but his manner was so good-humored that Tom was not so scared as he might have been otherwise. In fa
ct, he even managed a weak smile.

  “Kis vos es?” asked the giant.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Tom, “but we don’t understand. We’re English.”

  “American,” put in Jane timidly.

  “Komot?” muttered the giant, then he caught sight of Boyd in the gondola and looked more bewildered than ever. “Allee?” He gasped. “Kiskam plur?”

  Ruth, who had been watching from behind the crates, decided it was time she made her presence known. She jumped onto the float and startled the big man so that he let go of Tom’s arm and nearly fell into the lake.

  “Hello,” said Ruth brightly. “I’m Ruth. What’s your name, sir?”

  “Yoaf!” exclaimed the giant, and, although the word seemed to be an exclamation, Ruth decided it would serve for a name.

  “How do you do, Mr. Yoaf?” she said. “That’s my brother, Tom. And our two American friends, Jane and Boyd.”

  Yoaf gazed from one to another of the visitors, evidently trying to decide what to do. Then he noticed Tom’s wrist watch, and his whole manner changed. He seemed awestruck. A frightened look came into his eyes, and he favored Tom with a little bow.

  “You’ve got him on the run,” murmured Ruth. “Ask him if he has any food.”

  “How can I? He doesn’t understand English.”

  “Point to your mouth and pretend to chew.”

  Tom did so, and Yoaf seemed to understand at once. He nodded obediently, then stumbled back along the floats to the dinkey.

  “It was your watch that shook him,” remarked Boyd. “But why should an ordinary watch have that effect on him? He’s behaving as if you were a god or something.”

  “When he comes back, Boyd, make sure he notices your watch, too. Let’s keep him worried,” Ruth said.

  “Here he comes,” Jane announced.

  Yoaf had produced a round, flat loaf of bread and a squat bottle filled with pink liquid. He approached the explorers and humbly thrust the bread and the bottle into Tom’s hand with a series of apologetic little bows.

  “We can’t take the whole loaf,” said Ruth in spite of her gnawing hunger. “It’s probably his breakfast. He’s a poor man, I’m sure.”

  Tom broke the loaf in two and handed half back to Yoaf. The big man was so grateful that Ruth had the impression no one had ever been kind to him before. Then, backing away and still bowing, his glance fell on Boyd’s watch, and he hastily offered Boyd the half loaf.

  “For Pete’s sake, that’s yours!” Boyd exclaimed, pushing the bread away. “We have plenty.”

  Tom carefully divided their half loaf into four portions and each of the group had a piece about as large as a slice of cake. The bread was coarse and hard, but no food ever tasted better. The pink liquid they washed it down with was delicious.

  “Yoaf, you’ve saved our lives,” said Ruth, “and, when we get home, we’ll send you the best and biggest present we can think of.”

  Yoaf merely looked anxious, and Tom pointed at the train to suggest they should be getting along. Yoaf gave him a hurried bow and whipped the tarpaulin from the gondola. He folded it several times, then padded the bottom of the car with it as if he would not dream of letting his passengers sit on the bare boards. Then he helped Tom back into the gondola and fussed over him and Boyd until he was sure they were comfortable. The girls he left to shift for themselves. Perhaps this was because they had no watches, or perhaps girls did not count for much with Yoaf.

  When everyone was settled, he bowed deeply and retreated to the dinkey. He climbed aboard, glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were all right, then put his hands to the controls. The train moved off.

  The strange, violet light was a little stronger now, but the mist persisted and visibility was limited to about a hundred yards. The mist was uncanny. There was no suggestion of moisture in it, and the foursome felt as if they were surrounded by motionless smoke or by a thin cloud of fine dust.

  “Well, that passed off all right,” said Ruth, indicating Yoaf. “Now the question is, where are we? Not in England, apparently.”

  “Listen,” said Boyd. “What I’m going to say will sound absolutely insane, but since we discovered this bridge is a pontoon bridge, my brain’s been going like a dynamo — ”

  He broke off as if his idea seemed too ridiculous to explain. “Go on,” said Jane encouragingly.

  “O.K. But you’ll think I’m crazy. The fact is, I’m sure we’re still underground. . . . Yeah, that’s what I said. We’re still underground.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jane was the first to recover. She made a wide gesture that included the bridge, the lake and the mist, and said, “But we’re not!”

  “Not what?” asked Boyd.

  “Underground.”

  “How do you know? How do you know that somewhere above this mist — maybe a mile or more — there isn’t a roof?”

  “But Boyd,” said Tom, “if we’re underground, why isn’t it dark? Where’s this light coming from?”

  “That’s something we’ve got to find out.”

  “Then you think,” Ruth said, “that there are a lot of people living here? A sort of . . . well, a sort of nation?”

  “That’s just what I do think,” said Boyd. “This bridge sure had me worried, because it didn’t make sense, unless — and this is where my brain really started humming — unless it was on a stretch of water so sheltered that no wind could ever disturb it. Only where could such a stretch of water be except indoors? Or — and then I got it — underground!”

  Tom found the proposition too outrageous to be easily grasped, yet the explanation was more convincing than any he could think of. They certainly weren’t in England, nor in any foreign country he recognized.

  “Hey, I think we’re nearly across the lake!” exclaimed Boyd. “You can just make out the shore through the mist.”

  He pointed, and they all gazed eagerly in that direction. Slowly a rugged shore line loomed up, and, as the shapes of great, contorted crags became clear, Boyd claimed them as further proof of his theory.

  “Say, did you ever see such strange rocks?” he cried. “They’re just like something out of a bad dream. Know why they’re such funny shapes?”

  “Why?” asked Ruth.

  “Because there’s nothing down here to weather them. No wind, no rain, no sun. I guess they’ve hardly changed since the earth first cooled down.”

  “But I thought,” said Ruth, “that the middle of the earth was hot and molten.”

  “Sure it is, farther down,” said Boyd. “I guess we’re just under the skin. Twenty miles down, maybe.”

  The girls exchanged nervous glances, then Ruth looked at Tom and said, “Oh, Tom! Will we ever get home again?”

  “Of course,” Tom assured her. “We got here, so obviously we can get back.”

  They were coming to the end of the bridge, and now the fantastic crags seemed to be almost directly above them. As Boyd had said, they were the scenery of a nightmare. Most of them were black, some were gray, and a few, brown. Some had deformed resemblances to familiar objects. One that overhung the lake looked like the head of a horse gone mad, and another looked like a dying buffalo, but mostly they suggested impressions of unpleasant emotions — agony, terror, malice, hate.

  The visitors became silent as they left the bridge. Then for a full half hour the little train weaved among the appalling rocks, rattling over viaducts and roaring through tunnels, picking its way between mist-filled chasms and mist-shrouded peaks. The foursome did not see a single bird, animal or human being, nor any grass or trees.

  The crags dwindled until presently there were none, then the train crossed a boulder-strewn desert of reddish sand. At one side of the track ran a broad canal of clear, swiftly running water, and Boyd remarked that at least the inhabitants of this strange land were not savages. “They have electricity, railroads and irrigation,” he said, “so there must be at least some who are less ignorant than Yoaf.”

  “I think we’re com
ing to a station!” exclaimed Ruth. “I see some white buildings.”

  At first the others thought the white shapes shimmering in the mist were only chalky rocks. However, Ruth’s eyes were evidently better than theirs, for soon the objects were revealed as squat, flat-roofed, white buildings, one very large and several smaller.

  “Men, too,” said Tom, shading his eyes against the glare, for it was from that direction that the light was coming. “They look like soldiers drilling.”

  “There’s a big gate across the track,” remarked Ruth. “I think it’s a sort of frontier. Gosh, I hope they give us some food.”

  They were near the buildings now, and the train was slowing down. From the big building, which was the one nearest the track, came a squad of marching soldiers led by a sergeant — if that was what he was — who lined up to receive the train. The soldiers wore black and white kilts, green tight-fitting tunics, brass helmets, and heavy black boots that came halfway up their legs; and the sergeant was dressed the same except for a red pompon on each shoulder. Each soldier had a short sword in a scabbard strapped at an angle under his left arm — the hilt of the sword at chest level for easy grasping, and the closed tip of the scabbard just below his waist. They all held small, light shields in their left hands. The men’s faces, without exception, had a battered, brutal look, and the sergeant had the same flinty, remorseless expression as the man with the scar had had.

  “He doesn’t look very kind,” whispered Jane. “Be sure he notices your watches, boys.”

  The cold-faced sergeant drew his sword as the train came alongside and slapped his shield with the flat of the blade. He roared a word that sounded like Klowt, and the train pulled up with a jerk.

  Yoaf leaped from the dinkey and with a nod in the boys’ direction started explaining volubly, but the sergeant silenced him with a blow on the head with the side of his sword blade. Tom and Boyd both jumped up, putting themselves between the girls and the sergeant, who was now stalking toward them with his sword held threateningly.

  “Ga! Ga!” he bellowed. “Kis dahbloch es vos?”