CHAPTER X

THE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS

Throughout the night Alan watched. Never did Kulmervan move from his place in the clearing—never did his eyes close nor did he show the slightest inclination to sleep. Towards morning Waiko raised himself from the ground. He was pitiable to look upon. Led on by a stronger will the madness had come upon him also. But it was a weaker madness than that which affected Kulmervan—it was a madness that chattered and gibbered in the sun, that laughed and cackled insanely—a madness that was pitiful to behold.

Alan watched through the leafy branches, and as the dawn rose, many times he met Chlorie’s questioning gaze with looks of encouragement and help. And she knew that when the time was ripe, this strange Lord from another world would save and deliver her.

As Kulmervan still made no attempt to move, Alan wondered whether it would be possible to overpower him. He made a movement and the slight sound was heard. Kulmervan sprang to his feet and looked round, and Alan saw he was clutching the huge limb of a tree—a formidable weapon in a madman’s hands. He was evidently not satisfied, and peered round the tree trunks carefully. Quietly Alan crept behind a large bush, and dropping on his belly he wormed himself underneath it until he was completely hidden.

The crackling of a twig was heard by the madman, who, with his dormant passions aroused was a dangerous enemy. He spoke sharply to Waiko. “What sound is that, my Waiko? Is it the stranger that tracketh us?”

“I know not,” said Waiko shuddering. “Oh, Kulmervan, my friend, let us leave the Ipso-Rorka here, and flee from the wrath of her father.”

“Nonsense, my Waiko! When the Rorka is told that his daughter, Chlorie the Fair, Chlorie the Pure, has spent forty and one nights with us in the darkness, he will be glad to give his soiled goods into my keeping for ever. Then in good time, I shall become Rorka. Shall I not punish my Chlorie then, for her indifference and insults?”

Waiko shuddered.

“My Chlorie,” cried Kulmervan suddenly, his manner changing. “Will you not promise me your hand? Oh, my darling, forgive me—I love you so—I love you. Give me your hand—swear before Waiko that you’ll take me for your mate. I’ll be so good to you—I’ll love you so” His voice was pleading. His earnestness could not be doubted, yet Alan knew it was but a moment’s lull in the disordered brain.

Chlorie never answered a word, and her silence drove Kulmervan again to threats. Tearing a handful of withes from the side of a running brook, he lashed the captive Princess across her legs with the stinging rushes. With an oath Alan burst from his hiding place, and was on the back of his enemy, before Kulmervan could recover from his astonishment.

Then followed a terrific fight. Alan with all his knowledge of the scientific sport was unable to get in a knockout blow. He parried and thrust, and landed Kulmervan a heavy blow under his jaw. His opponent tottered for a moment, but the blow had no lasting effect, and the heavy Keemarnian struck mightier blows still at his enemy. Waiko was entirely demoralized. He stood watching the fight—his breath coming in gasps, his blue eyes staring, his teeth chattering. As an ally, he was useless to Kulmervan; as an enemy he counted as naught to Alan.

Chlorie, tied tightly to the tree, was unable to move. Her wide open eyes followed the fighters in an agony of spirit; but not a sound came from her lips. True to the tradition of her land, the daughter of the Rorka gave no audible sign of her terror. Alan knew he was weakening. Imperceptibly at first he lost ground, but gradually he realized that his blows had no effect upon the Keemarnian. His hasty rush into the field of battle was worse than useless—he could no longer help his love. The Keemarnian gave him one terrific blow in the stomach. His wind went—he gasped, choked for breath, crumpled up and sank to the ground.

Kulmervan left his vanquished enemy’s side and went to Waiko who had been stupidly watching the scene.

“Watch him,” he commanded. “If he show any sign of awakening, give him a blow with this. It will be sufficient to put him to sleep again,” and he tossed the heavy stick beside the prostrate body.

Brutally he untied the ropes that bound Chlorie. She was stiff and weak, and the agony as the blood once more coursed freely through her veins, was almost more than she could bear. Still she remained silent, and with a noble gesture of majesty, stooped, and drew her mantle of blue about her naked body. Two other garments still lay on the ground—with a sudden thought she caught one up, and drew it within the folds of her cloak. She had a plan! Love had been born to her, in that exquisite moment of agony when she saw Alan knocked down. Her soul cried out within her that here was her mate at last. Her fine sense of belief and trust told her that it was impossible that he was sleeping the sleep of serquor. Sometime he would rise again—bruised, bleeding, torn, perhaps, but rise he would, and come to her aid.

Kulmervan took her roughly by the arm. “Come,” said he. “Waiko wait until the Kymo is full in the Heavens—it is but a short time. If Alan the Evil has not moved by then, follow me quickly. Always to the East, my friend. Always take the most easterly path, and you will find me.”

“Where are you going?” asked Waiko in horror.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness,” said he, and involuntarily Chlorie shuddered.

“Do you know where it is, my Kulmervan?” asked Waiko.

“Yes. Have I not been there often? Ah, my friend, I arranged that the engines should fail. Ah, oft times should I have been in the Hall of Sorrows, but I came here instead, and of my own free will. I know the place I intend taking you to—I will show you sights—sights I have seen—ha! ha! ha!” and with a wild burst of laughter he dragged his unwilling captive through the bushes, and made his way Eastward.

Waiko remained silent, watching his vanishing friend. His mind was working strangely. The madness had left a deep sense of fear in the heart of Waiko. The inanimate body of Alan seemed to point to his undoing. The blood trickled slowly down the unconscious man’s face till there was a little red pool shining wickedly on the green grass. With a cry, Waiko picked up the club and swung it once, twice round his head. But as he would have swung it a third time, it slipped out of his nerveless fingers, and went spinning a hundred feet away. With a cry at his loneliness, Waiko turned and fled after Kulmervan. In a short space of time he had caught them up, and noticed with surprise that Chlorie was walking almost willingly with her captor. There was a rope passed round her body, it was true, but it was slack in the centre, and although she lagged somewhat behind, there was no need to drag her along.

“Alan?” questioned Kulmervan, as Waiko reached him.

“Is serquor.”

“Good.”

“I struck him, as he rose to hurt me. With one mighty blow I felled him to the ground. The heavy weapon you left with me I dashed on his head.— Now he lies quiet, and cold and bloody.” Waiko almost believed his story, and as he recounted it, he looked upon himself as a hero.

“’Tis well, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “What say you to that, my Chlorie? Alan is serquor—never more will Kymo rise upon his smiling face. Never more will he force his presence upon the people of Keemar. He is gone for ever from our sight.”

But Chlorie made no reply—only from beneath her mantle could be seen a slight convulsive movement, and from underneath came a tiny tatter of blue, that caught on a rose bush and fluttered in the breeze.

Birds singing—sweetly smelling flowers—a sense of hunger and thirst. These were the first conscious thoughts Alan had, as he opened his eyes on the world once more. He rose from the ground. His head was sore, but the bleeding had ceased. He plucked some luscious fruit that grew low to the ground. It revived him. Then he tried to think. Chlorie had been taken from him once more—but he would find her yet. He tenderly touched the tree to which she had been bound—and stooped and picked up the silken garment she had left behind. It was just a piece of soft, blue drapery that crumpled into nothingness in his hand. He kissed it reverently—it was part of his love.

He looked round wearily—there, attached to a bush was a piece of something blue—he bent over it—it was part of her gown. Further down, in the very centre of the path was another piece, while in the distance he could see yet a third. It was a sign. Chlorie was directing him the way she had gone. The trail was difficult to follow. The breeze had blown many pieces away altogether—others it had carried away playfully into a wrong direction, but by careful watchfulness, he discovered the right way, and there were always the little pieces of blue to guide him.

Then he lost the trail altogether. The last piece of blue was caught on a stone at the bottom of a mighty face of rock. No matter where he looked, there was no shred of blue to cheer him. He ran his hand over the surface of the rock, it was of a reddish sandstone and quite smooth. All around was a low-lying valley with neither a stone nor a tree behind which any one could hide. He could see for about ten miles, and there was no sign of the fugitives. Backward and forward he walked by the mighty wall of rock, and always his journey ended by the last little flutter of blue. The cliff rose sheer perhaps three hundred feet, and the solid wall extended as far as eye could reach. It was unthinkable that Kulmervan had scaled the wall—yet whither had he gone?

Suddenly he heard a rumbling noise; the sound of a thousand people whispering, and in front of him a huge slab of rock swung back, revealing a cavity within. The whispering grew louder and louder. He looked round for a hiding place. There was none—so without a moment’s hesitation he leapt inside the darkened cavern. A narrow path led downwards, and it was up this path the whispering seemed to be coming; whispering that sounded like a veritable army speaking in hushed tones. There was a piece of rock jutting out—Alan slipped into its embracing shadows, and waited. The sounds came nearer and nearer—then Kulmervan appeared with Waiko at his side. “The voices whispered that a stranger was coming. The voices are never wrong. See, my Waiko, see yonder if Alan the Evil is approaching.” The voice whispered and rolled in the darkness. The whole place was unwholesome and terrifying.

Kulmervan followed Waiko into the sunlight. Immediately they were out of sight, Alan slipped from his hiding place and ran swiftly down the narrow passageway. The faster he ran, the faster he drew in his breath, and it seemed as if a thousand men were mocking him. He sighed as his breath caught in his throat—immediately there were a thousand sighs behind him. Quicker, quicker he tore down the passage, to where he hoped, somewhere he would find his love hidden. The path was steep and narrow and was in total darkness, and he risked his life in his mad rush through the whispering horrors. He heard the voices again! Kulmervan and Waiko had returned. Blindly he rushed on—stumbling here, tripping there, in his haste to reach the Ipso-Rorka.

The path took an upward turn—he tripped over something. Putting his hands out before him, he felt on the ground. Rough steps had been cut out of the rock. Steadily he mounted upwards—upwards—the darkness was intense—the whispering shadows terrifying; but he never ceased his mad pace, so eager was he to reach Chlorie.

Steadily he ascended the stairs—they seemed interminable. Then in the distance, he saw a yellowish spot of light. As he rose higher, it became bigger, until it ended in a blaze of brightness. He had reached the top and was in an enormous cavern lit by torches in sockets all round the walls. The awful grandeur of the place startled him. In the very centre was a huge figure, twenty feet high. It was seated on a throne and had its hands outspread as if in benediction. It possessed a terrible face, cruel, hard, sensual,—and the incongruity of the posing of the hands struck Alan at once. Round the cave, at equal distances, were other figures, all enormous in stature, and possessing in their features the same bestial cruelty and lust. Stalactites hung from the roof. Stalactites forty feet long—Stalactites fifty feet long. Stalactites glorious, yet like deadly serpents with heads outstretched ready to strike. In one corner of the place was a huge beast in stone. Once it had lived, no doubt, now it was fossilized and cold. It was similar to the ichthyosaurus of prehistoric days—an evil-looking beast in its life, but infinitely more terrible in its stone period.

Every movement Alan made was intensified a thousand times in this Cave of Whispering Madness. He realized what the name meant. It could indeed, drive the sanest man mad. He realized that he had a fair start of the two Keemarnians, and hurriedly hunted for his lost love. Softly he called, but although her name reverberated from floor to roof, no answering cry took up his challenge. Then whispering voices sounded nearer. Silently he slipped behind the stone monster that had once lived and mated. He was only just in time. Still louder grew the whisperings, and Kulmervan and Waiko appeared at the top of the stairway. With the greatest difficulty Alan was able to distinguish their words. The whisperings were so loud, so sibilant, that the voices sounded like one long hiss.

The two Keemarnians came close to the big carved figure in the centre of the cave. Kulmervan bent low on both knees before the hideous figure. “Spirit of our Fathers,” he cried out. “Humbly I pray, take my soul into thy keeping. It is thine—thine for ever—but in return, I pray you, grant me Chlorie’s love. See, I sprinkle thee with my blood in ratification of my bond,” and with a short knife he severed a vein in his arm and sprinkled the statue with the warm, red fluid.

Waiko was whispering, “Mitzor the Mighty, have mercy! Have mercy!”

“Fool,” cried Kulmervan. “Why mention that name here? I have bargained with Pirox the Killer—I belong to him. Chlorie shall be mine. You have come thus far with me, my Waiko, but further thou shalt go. Down, down on thy knees before Pirox—admit that he is great—greater than Mitzor! Ask a favour—nay demand a favour—seal it with thy blood.”

Waiko went down on his knees. His face was ashen—he was trembling in every limb. Then came a strange duet, intensified a thousand times by the whisperings. “Mitzor the Mighty.” “Pirox the Killer.” “Pirox.” “Mitzor.” “Mitzor.” “Pirox.”

In a passion Kulmervan arose, and struck Waiko, down. “Lie there, thou dog,” he cried. “May thou sleep for ever in serquor. I alone am mighty. Pirox alone is great.” Waiko never moved, he showed no signs of breathing. Had he indeed fallen into the trance-like state that the inhabitants of Keemar so dreaded? It seemed hopeless to Alan, that he would ever find Chlorie in this cavern of horror. He realized at last that Kulmervan was a degenerate. The entrance of poor Murdoch had not caused the madness. No doubt he had posed as a good Keemarnian, but he suffered from the madness, and deep in his heart even denied the existence of Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, and indulged in devil worship and fetish honour. What this Cave of Whispering Madness was Alan could not conjecture—perhaps in some far gone age, fallen Jovians had met here; made the Temple for their abominable worship, and lived a second life, unsuspected by their friends.

That the image in the centre was their god, Alan was convinced. But how had Kulmervan discovered it? Had it been handed down to him from his childhood, or had he in some way found it for himself? If was pitiful to see—a young Keemarnian of noble lineage, saturated with heathen mythology and heretical dogma. In truth he was a menace to his companions, living a life of deceit and sin. His was a complex character, for there was much that was sweet and lovable about him, and he was much to be pitied, for when his secret was discovered he would indeed become a pariah and an outcast. At the moment he felt he was safe, and continued his “Black Sacrifice.”

For Chlorie’s sake, Alan was forced to witness in silence the horrors that followed. At the foot of the statue was a slab of stone—raised perhaps ten inches from the ground. Upon it were ominous red stains. Quickly Kulmervan set about his business. In one corner of the cave were piles of brushwood—these he piled high under the stone slab. With a mighty effort he lifted the senseless Waiko upon it, and rested his head in a tiny curve at one end. Alan shuddered to see how it fitted the neck. The use of the slab was plain to see. He set fire to the wood by one of the torches, and the smoke curled up and the wood hissed and sizzled.

When the fire was safely alight, Kulmervan went to a corner of the cavern, and touched a hidden spring. A door opened, and revealed a flight of steps inside, leading below. As soon as he was out of sight, Alan rushed from his hiding place, lifted Waiko from the altar and hid him behind the mammoth fossil.

But the noise of his movements was magnified a thousandfold by the hideous whispering echoes of the place. Waiko was still and quiet—he scarcely breathed, and Alan dared not try to revive him. Kulmervan returned bearing in his arms a precious burden in blue. Alan started, and leant forward; his darling was not unconscious, but was submitting to the indignity put upon her with her usual patience. At the altar he stopped in frozen amazement. The stone was beginning to show red,—the deadly fire should have begun its work—but the altar was empty. He looked round—there was no one in sight. With a cry of rage he let go the rope to which Chlorie was fastened, put her to the ground, and darted to the head of the stairway leading to the cave’s entrance. And the yells of his curses and imprecations rose on the air, in volumes of sinister whisperings.

Alan was but six feet from his dear one. With a mighty rush he leapt from his hiding place, and caught Chlorie in his arms. He made for the secret door through which Kulmervan had brought her; Kulmervan heard the sounds and was just in time to see two figures disappearing through the little door. With another oath he strode across the cave—but the figures had a big start. They had closed the door behind them, and his fingers hesitated over the secret lock; so he was delayed by his own impatience and anger.

Chlorie had given herself up for lost, and when she felt two strong arms encircle her a vague terror came over her, but even as she was lifted up, a voice whispered in her ear—“Have no fear. ’Tis I—Alan. Trust yourself to me and I will save you.” Her emotion was too great for her to speak, but she let herself nestle in comfort in the arms of the powerful stranger.

The door clanged behind them—more stairs, very narrow. Down Alan went, and the darkness gave place to a faint light.

“Where are we?” asked Alan.

“I don’t know—but there is a cave down here which is kept padlocked—it was there I was imprisoned.”

Alan looked round quickly; the passage had widened and openings led off on either side. Immediately in front of them seemed to come the daylight.

“Can you run?” he asked tenderly.

“Yes—yes. Oh, to be free of Kulmervan!” Through the dim light they went. The whisperings were not quite as bad as in the upper cave, but still they were quite fearsome enough. They seemed to people the place with dead men—men who laughed, and jeered, and pointed their clammy fingers at their victims. But upon the whisperings came a more fearful sound—Kulmervan’s laughter!

“Hurry—hurry, my Princess.”

“I cannot,” she breathed. “My heart beats—it hurts me to talk.” Without a word he picked the light burden again up in his arms and made off at a still greater pace; she flung one arm round his neck and clung to him confidingly. Nearer came the laughter. It was so close that it seemed almost on the top of them. Alan never forgot that journey; with his precious burden in his arms he hurried onward, always following the light. And nearer and nearer came the footsteps of the madman. At last they turned a corner—the cave opened out and they saw Kymo, shining in all his glory; the sea was breaking gently on the golden shore.

There was plenty of shelter near; rocks abounded and the vegetation was thick. Alan ran to where a dozen rocks, man high, rose from the seashore. There was in one a crevice that was wide enough to admit Chlorie.

“Stay there,” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you for long I promise you—but I want to watch for Kulmervan.”

“Take care of yourself,” she pleaded. “Oh, run no risks, I pray.”

With a quick glance round Alan left the shelter of the rocks. No one was in sight—Kulmervan had not shown himself. Quickly Alan made his way to the cave from which they had emerged. He entered it, and to his amazement found it had no exit. Solid walls blocked his way—it was just a hollowed out rock on the sands, going inland, perhaps ten or twelve feet only. Alan was perplexed. He had marked it as he thought by a big coloured boulder at its entrance; but upon careful examination he found there were dozens and dozens of such boulders all over the beach. Stepping from his hiding place he walked to the next cave; that upon examination proved to go deep into the earth, but it was not the cave from which they had escaped into the open. Wildly he rushed up and down. Twenty, thirty caves he encountered all like, very like, the one he was seeking. Some had narrow passages that twisted and turned and ended in a cave next door. Others went further, and after many serpentine turnings, brought him back to the place from which he had started. He knew he was in a dangerous position; any one of these caves might hold Kulmervan—an observer, but unobserved. Rapidly Alan made up his mind. With Chlorie he would leave the cave district altogether—they would strike inland. If they were still on the island, they would endeavour to find their way back to where the air bird had been anchored. That Waz-Y-Kjesta would return Alan was convinced—and when he did so, they would be saved.

Having made up his mind, he began to retrace his footsteps—but a hoarse burst of laughter startled him. He rushed to the mouth of the cave. There, sailing away to sea in a frail craft, was Kulmervan. It was just a raft he was on, with a tiny makeshift sail. But it was not at Kulmervan that Alan was staring horror stricken—incredulous. But at a blue figure near the helm—a little blue figure that was tied to a post to which the main-sail was fastened; a little blue figure that held out her arms imploringly to the shore. Alan could only stare and stare, incredulous, unbelieving—but the little craft grew smaller and smaller as it was tossed on the waves. Alan rushed to the rocks—the crevice was empty—Chlorie had once more been snatched from his arms.