Part 8

With a hoarse cry, Pic sprang to his feet. Before he could turn, something descended upon his head with crushing force. Slowly he rolled over in a crumpled heap. His limbs stiffened, then relaxed and his senses flew to the winds, shutting out all sight and sound and thought of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros anxiously awaiting on the opposite side of the gorge.

XIII

A straggling spray of light reflected from the cliffs overlooking the Düssel, penetrated a dark cavity in the southern limestone wall—the Cave of the Neander Gorge. It dimly disclosed a dark mass heaped in one corner of the cave. The mass—something lying beneath a frayed hyena-skin—was surmounted by a large bun-shaped head, faced with gaping eye-sockets, protruding muzzle and chinless jaws. The head seemed lifeless. It remained cold and still, as a wasted hand, thin and nail-clawed, emerged from under the hyena-skin and stole tremblingly upward. A pair of eyelids fluttered in the gaping sockets as the hand encountered the cold brows above them. The eyelids lifted and two eyes gazed up at the low roof and dusky walls, then rolled in the direction of the cave entrance. As they encountered the outside light, they blinked feebly and stared through the glare in wonder at the pale blue sky and feathery clouds beyond. Then the head turned slightly and permitted the eyes to look upon a shelf or platform of rock, fronting the cave-mouth.

Upon the platform, sat an image which appeared out of harmony with the lifeless things about it; nor did it resemble sky or cloud. It was the figure of a man sitting upon a rock near the cave entrance; a man bare of all vestment except that which covered his body from head to foot—his own hair, thick and bristly like a boar’s. His head was inclined forward so that only the base of the skull-cap could be seen. The latter was of lesser girth than the huge neck which joined it to the shoulders. And such shoulders! They and the broad back were proportionately even more massive than the bull-like neck. That was all. The image sat with features averted and the wondering eyes could see no more.

And then, as though sensible of something regarding it from behind, the image moved. The great back turned slowly around and a face peered from behind one shoulder at the figure lying on the cave-floor. As its gaze met that of the wondering eyes, the image unfolded its limbs and stood erect, a living man.

A man?—rather a giant; stranger from another world. The eyes staring from the grotto had never gazed upon a more extraordinary human being. The heavy brows so characteristic of all cave-folk, were exaggerated into great bars of bone which transformed the deep eye-sockets into cavernous recesses. They continued far forward from the sloping forehead like the eaves of a roof. The skull top receded at a low angle to meet the hind portion. The mouth was large, the lips thin, the nose prominent but well-formed. The body and, limbs, particularly the arms and shoulders were of tremendous size and strength.

The apparition now strode to the cave entrance whose roof barely cleared the huge head. As it stood silhouetted against the sky, its herculean proportions were clearly displayed. And yet in spite of his gigantic stature the Man of the Neander Gorge was but an exaggeration of a familiar type—the race of Moustier.

He entered the cave and bent over the figure lying there. The wondering eyes followed his every motion as in a dream. What with the sombre surroundings, the death-like silence and this vision of a motionless image suddenly transformed into a living being, the eyes continued staring as though just opened for the first time upon the marvels of an unknown world.

Slowly the Giant’s huge hand reached down and stroked the cold forehead,—a hand of iron and yet so soothing, the eyes drifted back to earth and became one with the mind and substance of the body. They lost their blank expression and stared curiously into the strange face now bending over them. A touch of crimson warmed the sunken cheeks and the sick man asked in a hollow voice: “Who are you?”

“A man.” The Giant’s face brightened as he answered. That touch of the hand, the look of sympathy, were indications of certain elements which define human character and which men alone possessed. The Cave Man of the Neander Gorge was fierce and terrible to look upon; but all the more, a man.

The sufferer’s eyes closed and he sighed as though content. The corners of his mouth expanded slowly backwards towards his ears. The Giant stared amazed; but as he looked and wondered, a warm glow arose within his breast. His face reflected the sunshine of that smile whose like he had never seen light the features of beast or man. It was but a grinning mouth; and yet for the first time he gazed upon white teeth that neither snapped nor threatened but touched a responsive chord in his own breast.

“And what strange being are you?” he asked in a deep voice. “You whose snarl would make even a rabbit lose its fear of red jowl and gleaming fang?”

“I?” The eyes of the sick man opened wide. His brows wrinkled as vainly he strove to collect his thoughts. “Arrah; I do not know,” he answered faintly. “Where am I? Why am I here?”

The Giant’s face darkened. “Ugh; that I would like to know. Did you think to drive me from my cave? Who are you?”

“I do not know,” replied the sick man, startled by the other’s manner. “I remember nothing but what I have seen these few passing moments.”

The Giant’s wrath subsided as he observed the invalid’s perplexity. He even chided himself for his hasty display of temper. As the sufferer dozed off, he resumed his seat near the cave-mouth, turning from time to time to glance at the sleeper like a nurse awaiting the patient’s pleasure.

This was but the awakening,—light emerging from obscurity; the return of a mind long dead to the living body. But in that which lay upon the cave-floor, none would now recognize the once powerful Ape Boy of Moustier.

Long illness had wasted his muscular frame almost to a skeleton. His head was a grinning skull with hairy parchment stretched so tightly over its ridges and hollows, they threatened to break through. His body and limbs were little more than hide and bone. He was dead to look upon. The life-spark glowed feebly; but it burned. The fever had now left him, permitting his strength to return and repair the ravages of disease. His mind ceased to wander. It rejoined the body newly arisen from the grave and both followed the thread of life anew.

The Giant kept his patient supplied with food and water and covered him at night with the hyena robe. It was this latter that brought a first message from the forgotten past. One morning as Pic raised himself on one elbow to take his fare, his eyes fell upon the skin under which he lay. A strange look came over his face as he ran his fingers through the long thick fur.

“This skin?” he asked. “How came it here?”

“It came with you,” was the answer. “You wore it.”

“Yes, I remember now,” muttered Pic. “I wore it to keep warm. The air was cold. I do not feel cold now.”

“That was long ago,” said the Giant. “The snow and ice are gone. The birds have returned and all creatures have crawled from their holes. Buds and green leaves brighten every bush and tree. Until their coming, you lay as one dead. This is the first time you have awakened since my club crashed down upon your skull——”

“You struck me?” Pic cried. “Then it was you who crept upon me from behind—the shadow on the wall.”

“Yes it was I.” The Giant pointed to an object on the cave floor, a bludgeon of seasoned oak, the length and thickness of his arm. “The one blow failed to kill. I withheld the second and brought you back to life instead.”

“Why? Men are none too gentle with those who intrude upon them, I know.”

“Nor do men of this day carry great hand-stones,” the Giant replied. “But for it, your bones would now be whitening at the bottom of the gorge. Who are you—a boy who comes upon me as though from the sky bearing the blade of a race long dead—the Terrace Men—?”

“Terrace Men? Agh-h-h!” Pic’s eyes were starting from his head. His jaw dropped until the chin touched his breast. A lump arose in his throat. He could say no more.

“Yes, the Terrace Man’s hand-stone,” said the Giant. “The one you bore bound to a wooden haft. Wait and I will fetch it. When you see, you will remember.”

He entered the cave and returned in a few moments with a great almond-shaped flint of lustrous grey—the blade of Ach Eul still bound to its long wooden handle with strips of hide. He laid it in the Ape Boy’s trembling hands.

“Agh; I know it now—my ax, my father’s ax made by a man of the River Terraces.” Pic clasped the weapon to his breast while the Giant looked curiously on. In a moment he turned to his companion with a puzzled look upon his face.

“Hand-stone; hand-stone?” he repeated several times. “I do not understand. Does the flint please you—as it pleases me? You spoke of Terrace Men. What do you know of them?”

“I know of a race long dead,” the Giant replied in a voice so deep and hollow, it seemed to arise from the earth. “A race of mighty men who roamed along the river banks; who fought and hunted in the warm sunlight and slept beneath the blue sky and twinkling stars. They vied with the Mammoth, the Rhinoceros——”

“Agh! I am listening,” Pic muttered hoarsely. “Go on.”

“And other beasts,” the Giant continued. “Then”—his voice sank almost to a whisper—“the Storm Wind descended upon them from the north. They were mighty men—the People of the Terraces—but even their strength could not match that of the Storm Wind. One by one they died of cold, hunger and disease. Wild beasts set upon them in their weakness. Those who survived, fled to the shelter of caves—gloomy holes where many sickened and died. The others lost all remembrance of things. They sat still and stared and snapped like wolves—and they died too. All were gone—all but one who yet lives; here alone in a cave high above the gorge——”

“You—a Terrace Man?” cried Pic as he gazed up awe-stricken into the Giant’s face. “Arrah, I have found you now: big, strong Man of the Terraces, maker of wonderful flints. I have searched the world for you and now I will learn the secret of how flints like this were made.”

The Ape Boy was now soaring in the clouds. His eyes shone with the zeal of a fanatic, as every moment he took in more inspiration from the ax of Ach Eul which he held closely to his breast. The Giant was speechless with amazement. He could only listen as Pic rambled on:

“You see how large and shapely it is; the same on both edges—on both surfaces. Such work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone. Some other tool was used after the blank was hewn. See where the tiny chips were removed to form the point and edges. Soon I will know how they were struck off and the flint thinned down, when a blow however slight might break and spoil it.”

The Giant shook his head vigorously. “You mistake,” he said. “I know nothing of flint-working nor did any others of my tribe. We carried hand-stones—the ones our fathers’ fathers made long before my time. They were poignards—axes without handles. They and clubs were our weapons; but the blades were lost or broken one by one and none knew how to replace them. The hand-stone has long passed away. Those are dead who can tell of its making. I never knew. I do not know now.”

Pic’s heart sank. His head fell forward upon his breast. “And so I will never know. What is left, worth living for—to the miserable Ape Boy hiding in a man’s skin? Nothing; not even the friends you spoke of.”

“Friends?” the Giant exclaimed. “I spoke of none. Who were they?”

Pic’s head sank yet lower. His eyes stared vacantly at his companion’s feet.

“The Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros,” he replied.

XIV

For moments which seemed hours, Pic remained silent, staring at the ground; and in those few moments, his remembrance of past events drifted slowly back; his alliance with the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, his travels and adventures with those wonderful beasts and the various incidents leading up to his mishap in the Giant’s stronghold.

He had been very ill, his mind a blank and his body all but consumed by wasting fever. Now he was on the mend, his brain cleared; but the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone—forever.

“You spoke of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros.” The Giant was regarding him with amazement. “Those two are animals, not men. No man has animals for his friends. You do not remember. Your head is not yet well.”

“You are mistaken,” Pic replied with an earnestness that impressed the other deeply. “All is well here;” he pointed to his forehead. “I have been very ill, I know. Once I remembered nothing; but now everything is clear. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were my friends,—the best I ever had—but now they have gone away; where, nobody knows.”

The Giant gulped. Never had he heard the like. Here was a man who chose to debase himself by associating with inferior creatures and was not ashamed to confess it. Preposterous! He found it difficult to hold his temper.

“What matters it if a mammoth and rhinoceros are friends or not?” he growled. “But any man who chooses to associate with them is no better than they—a beast.”

“But I am alone,” said Pic. “That is why I chose the Mammoth and Rhinoceros——”

“Quite right. Men cannot live alone either,” the Giant interrupted. “It destroys something here;” he touched a finger to his forehead—“Return to your own people before it is too late.”

“But I am an outcast, a renegade from my tribe and am not permitted to return,” said Pic, sobered by the other’s earnestness. “I was lonely. I met the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. They were wonderful creatures. We had many adventures. They saved my life and I saved theirs. Men never did as well for each other. I will give up my friends for no man.”

A low rumble sounded in the distance. The Giant looked up with a start and stared across the gorge—at a mass of dark clouds slowly rising above the horizon. His eyes shone with a strange light. He shivered and trembled like a frightened child. Pic began to understand. The Giant was afraid of the thunder-clouds. All men feared thunder and lightning.

“It makes him nervous and ill-tempered,” thought Pic. “When the clouds pass, he will be himself again.”

Suddenly the Giant sprang to his feet and glanced behind him, listening attentively and sniffing as animals do when they strive to catch the scent. His club lay on the cave floor. With the stealth of a panther, he glided to the weapon, seized it and edged nearer to the rear wall. Pic waited in breathless suspense. He could now barely discern the Giant’s dark figure standing with bludgeon held across his shoulders as though awaiting the attack of some unknown enemy.

All was as quiet as death. While Pic looked on, scarcely daring to breathe, he heard a faint scratching sound. It came from the rear wall, low and muffled as though originating in the heart of the rock. Gradually it grew louder, more distinct and with it, the labored breathing of some living thing. The Giant must have heard the sounds but he made no sign, only stood like a stone image with weapon held ready—and waiting. Pic raised his ax and kept his eyes and ears open for something which might break the spell and explain the scene before him.

Suddenly a loud scuffling sounded from the darkness; a fearful snarling and growling and a gaunt, shaggy figure bounded to the entrance. The bludgeon descended with a crash and a great wolf fell sprawling on the ledge. Like a flash, the Giant dropped his club and dashed upon the struggling brute. It snapped and snarled horribly as he seized it by the scruff of the neck with his bare hands. In a twinkle the wretch was raised aloft like a kitten. One mighty heave; and it whirled high into space, then descended with a splash into the river below.

“A wonderful toss,” muttered Pic as the brute went spinning aloft; and he gazed in awe upon the Giant who now stood watching him with arms folded across his broad chest.

“Cave-wolf?” asked Pic. It seemed an absurd question, but he could think of nothing else to say.

“Ugh; a cave-wolf,” growled the other. “I heard him coming and was prepared to strike. Thus I kill all who intrude in my cave.” He glared at Pic so savagely, the youth shrank back alarmed; and yet his fear failed to silence the question that arose involuntarily to his lips:

“The wolf came from the cave. How did he get in?”

Without replying the Giant abruptly left the cave and began to ascend the cliffs where, on one side of the cave-mouth, the steep wall was broken by corners and crevices. This was the Giant’s stairway, his means of ascending from the grotto to the plateau above.

Pic followed and looked on while his surly host clambered up the rock-ladder and disappeared over the top. Once alone, he squatted upon the cave threshold to think over the recent happenings and make his plans.

“I will leave with the next sunrise,” he determined; and as he made this decision, he remembered the Giant’s warning: “Return to your people before it is too late.” He felt lonely and now that the Mammoth and Rhinoceros were gone he longed for a glimpse of his home on the Rock of Moustier. “Perhaps you and your people have misunderstood each other,” a low voice within him said; but the truth was he felt homesick and now longed for human companionship. The Giant’s latest mood inspired his mistrust. In his weakened condition, Pic fully realized his own helplessness, even when armed with his wonderful flint-ax, the blade of Ach Eul.

As he looked upon it, he felt that it had brought him nothing but trouble. His search had ended in failure. True, he had at last found a Terrace Man, only to learn that the latter knew nothing of what he sought—the art of retouching hammered flakes. That art would never again see the light and with that hope gone, his ambition was gone with it. His efforts at flint-making would end now and for all time. He would return to his people—to be a hunter and warrior and live as a man should. The finger of scorn would no longer point at him, the Ape Boy—the little beast without a tail, hiding in a man’s skin. He would be known as Pic, leader of men, enemy of beasts; the Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros alone excepted. He glowed, he smiled; for on the morrow he would be on his way—back to his people and the Valley of the Vézère.

A dull, rumbling noise overhead disturbed Pic’s reverie. He looked up startled and saw that the sky had become heavily overcast. Black, threatening clouds were slowly closing the last gap of blue in the southwest quarter. He arose to his feet and entered the cave to find refuge from the storm-clouds that threatened at any moment to pour down their wrath upon his head.

The rumbling sounded again. It was as though some savage beast were growling in the sky. Pic peered into the darkness of the cavern. The wolf had sprung from there—from where? Pic had never examined the cave interior. His whole interest had been in sunshine and fresh air. But the wolf had come from it and others might do the same. For some unknown reason, the Giant had resented any questioning on the subject. The mystery could be investigated during his absence—now.

After a moment’s wait to accustom his eyes to the darkness, Pic groped his way to the rear wall. As his hands glided along the clammy rock, it suddenly sank into empty space; a large hole partly covered with a limestone slab and large enough to admit a man’s head and shoulders. He was about to examine further when he heard a low scraping noise—rustling—as of something moving in the heart of the rock. “Another wolf;” he smiled grimly and raised his ax all prepared to strike—just as the Giant had struck. The noise grew louder,—scraping, scratching, growls and mutterings. Pic’s hair stood on end. His knees trembled. He bent down and hastily replaced the stone slab across the opening; then tip-toed to a far corner of the cave—his corner and bed of leaves. For an instant, the latter rustled noisily as he made a nest for himself, then all was quiet there except for loud breathing as of one who sleeps.

His face was turned towards the crack in the rear wall. One eye watched the limestone slab through half-closed lids. It saw the stone thrust gently aside. A head appeared in the opening. Two eyes—fire-specks in the center of great black blotches—turned this way and that; towards the cave entrance, the outside ledge and lastly the interior of the cave itself. In a moment, they alighted upon the figure lying on the bed of leaves. Pic’s eyes were closed. To all appearances, he was sound asleep. The head, then shoulders and body drew themselves clear of the dark hole and re-set the stone in place. This done, the newcomer glided to the far corner of the cave and stood over the figure huddled in the nest of leaves.

For Pic, this was a terrible moment. He breathed heavily—so heavily and his heart pounded so loudly against his ribs, he dreaded less they arouse suspicions as to the soundness of his slumber. Great was his relief when he heard the intruder turn away towards the entrance. He opened one eye and saw a huge, dark figure standing in the cave-mouth, peering up at the sky. The figure was the Giant of the Neander Gorge.

The sleeper stirred, yawned audibly and rubbed his eyes, whereupon the Giant looked around, growled and straightway resumed his sky-gazing. Pic sat up; but he made no effort to leave his nest. He was wondering how he could leave the grotto and reach the stairway leading to the plateau above without being observed. His host blocked the exit. No longer did he think to withhold his departure until morning. His plans were laid to leave at the earliest possible moment.

He shuddered, for just then the Giant whined as though in fear and shrank back within the cave. Pic glanced through the entrance into the world outside. The clouds no longer moved. They hung so thick and low, it seemed as though any moment, they might fall and fill the gorge. The air was warm and stifling beneath the black pall overhead. It was not air; only a dark greenish haze occasionally lighted by a momentary radiance. The storm was at hand. All grew dark. Pic shut his eyes and tried to forget.

A tremendous crash and a flood of dazzling light penetrated the innermost recesses of the cave. With a cry of terror, Pic looked wildly about him. His eyes were half-blinded by a succession of brilliant flares which momentarily lighted up the cave-mouth and platform outside. The flares alternated with thunderous roars which made the rock-roof tremble above his head. Outside, the rain descended in torrents. The wind swept in blind fury across the gorge—a black, howling madness, battering against the southern limestone wall.

As he cowered trembling in his corner, a low, beast-like snarl fell upon his ears—more menacing, more terrifying than the roaring tempest. Suddenly a flash of light revealed a sight that made his hair stand on end. The staring eyes, bared teeth and distorted features of a fiend were seared upon his brain as with a red-hot iron.

“Men cannot live alone;” Pic remembered his companion’s recent warning; and now he understood. No human being could long endure the companionship of none but his own thoughts, the gloom of a cave and the cold and darkness of winter, when even the sight of his own shadow was denied him. The Neander Giant had gone mad.

Pic’s blood ran cold. He had no fear of the storm now. He feared nothing but the fiend beside him. Not even the Cave Lion could have inspired a fraction of the terror he felt at that one glimpse of the madman’s distorted face. The Giant had warned him to leave. He must go now—at once.