CHAPTER VII - Larry O'Keefe
Pressing back the
questions I longed to ask, I introduced myself. Oddly enough, I found that he
knew me, or rather my work. He had bought, it appeared, my volume upon the
peculiar vegetation whose habitat is disintegrating lava rock and volcanic ash,
that I had entitled, somewhat loosely, I could now perceive, Flora of the
Craters. For he explained naively that he had picked it up, thinking it an
entirely different sort of a book, a novel in fact - something like Meredith's
Diana of the Crossways, which he liked greatly.
He had hardly
finished this explanation when we touched the side of the Suwarna, and I was
forced to curb my curiosity until we reached the deck.
"That thing
you saw me sitting on," he said, after he had thanked the bowing little
skipper for his rescue,”was all that was left of one of his Majesty's best
little hydroairplanes after that cyclone threw it off as excess baggage. And by
the way, about where are we?"
Da Costa gave him
our approximate position from the noon reckoning.
O'Keefe whistled.”A
good three hundred miles from where I left the H.M.S. Dolphin about four hours
ago," he said.”That squall I rode in on was some whizzer!
"The
Dolphin," he went on, calmly divesting himself of his soaked uniform,”was
on her way to Melbourne. I'd been yearning for a joy ride and went up for an
alleged scouting trip. Then that blow shot out of nowhere, picked me up, and
insisted that I go with it.
"About an
hour ago I thought I saw a chance to zoom up and out of it, I turned, and blick
went my right wing, and down I dropped."
"I don't
know how we can notify your ship, Lieutenant O'Keefe," I said.”We have no
wireless."
"Doctair
Goodwin," said Da Costa,”we could change our course, sair - perhaps -”
"Thanks - but
not a bit of it," broke in O'Keefe.”Lord alone knows where the Dolphin is
now. Fancy she'll be nosing around looking for me. Anyway, she's just as apt to
run into you as you into her. Maybe we'll strike something with a wireless, and
I'll trouble you to put me aboard." He hesitated.”Where are you bound, by
the way?" he asked.
"For
Ponape," I answered.
"No wireless
there," mused O'Keefe.”Beastly hole. Stopped a week ago for fruit. Natives
seemed scared to death at us - or something. What are you going there
for?"
Da Costa darted a
furtive glance at me. It troubled me.
O'Keefe noted my
hesitation.
"Oh, I beg
your pardon," he said.”Maybe I oughn't to have asked that?"
"It's no
secret, Lieutenant," I replied.”I'm about to undertake some exploration
work - a little digging among the ruins on the Nan-Matal."
I looked at the
Portuguese sharply as I named the place. A pallor crept beneath his skin and
again he made swiftly the sign of the cross, glancing as he did so fearfully to
the north. I made up my mind then to question him when opportunity came. He
turned from his quick scrutiny of the sea and addressed O'Keefe.
"There's
nothing on board to fit you, Lieutenant."
"Oh, just
give me a sheet to throw around me, Captain," said O'Keefe and followed
him. Darkness had fallen, and as the two disappeared into Da Costa's cabin I
softly opened the door of my own and listened. Huldricksson was breathing
deeply and regularly.
I drew my
electric-flash, and shielding its rays from my face, looked at him. His sleep
was changing from the heavy stupor of the drug into one that was at least on
the borderland of the normal. The tongue had lost its arid blackness and the
mouth secretions had resumed action. Satisfied as to his condition I returned
to deck.
O'Keefe was
there, looking like a spectre in the cotton sheet he had wrapped about him. A
deck table had been cleated down and one of the Tonga boys was setting it for
our dinner. Soon the very creditable larder of the Suwarna dressed the board,
and O'Keefe, Da Costa, and I attacked it. The night had grown close and
oppressive. Behind us the forward light of the Brunhilda glided and the
binnacle lamp threw up a faint glow in which her black helmsman's face stood
out mistily. O'Keefe had looked curiously a number of times at our tow, but had
asked no questions.
"You're not
the only passenger we picked up today," I told him.”We found the captain
of that sloop, lashed to his wheel, nearly dead with exhaustion, and his boat
deserted by everyone except himself."
"What was
the matter?" asked O'Keefe in astonishment.
"We don't
know," I answered.”He fought us, and I had to drug him before we could get
him loose from his lashings. He's sleeping down in my berth now. His wife and
little girl ought to have been on board, the captain here says, but - they
weren't."
"Wife and
child gone!" exclaimed O'Keefe.
"From the
condition of his mouth he must have been alone at the wheel and without water
at least two days and nights before we found him," I replied.”And as for
looking for anyone on these waters after such a time - it's hopeless."
"That's
true," said O'Keefe.”But his wife and baby! Poor, poor devil!"
He was silent for
a time, and then, at my solicitation, began to tell us more of himself. He had
been little more than twenty when he had won his wings and entered the war. He
had been seriously wounded at Ypres during the third year of the struggle, and
when he recovered the war was over. Shortly after that his mother had died.
Lonely and restless, he had re-entered the Air Service, and had remained in it
ever since.
"And though
the war's long over, I get homesick for the lark's land with the German planes
playing tunes on their machine guns and their Archies tickling the soles of my
feet," he sighed.”If you're in love, love to the limit; and if you hate,
why hate like the devil and if it's a fight you're in, get where it's hottest
and fight like hell - if you don't life's not worth the living," sighed
he.
I watched him as
he talked, feeling my liking for him steadily increasing. If I could but have a
man like this beside me on the path of unknown peril upon which I had set my
feet I thought, wistfully. We sat and smoked a bit, sipping the strong coffee
the Portuguese made so well.
Da Costa at last
relieved the Cantonese at the wheel. O'Keefe and I drew chairs up to the rail.
The brighter stars shone out dimly through a hazy sky; gleams of
phosphorescence tipped the crests of the waves and sparkled with an almost
angry brilliance as the bow of the Suwarna tossed them aside. O'Keefe pulled
contentedly at a cigarette. The glowing spark lighted the keen, boyish face and
the blue eyes, now black and brooding under the spell of the tropic night.
"Are you
American or Irish, O'Keefe?" I asked suddenly.
"Why?"
he laughed.
"Because,"
I answered,”from your name and your service I would suppose you Irish - but
your command of pure Americanese makes me doubtful."
He grinned
amiably.
"I'll tell
you how that is," he said.”My mother was an American - a Grace, of
Virginia. My father was the O'Keefe, of Coleraine. And these two loved each
other so well that the heart they gave me is half Irish and half American. My
father died when I was sixteen. I used to go to the States with my mother every
other year for a month or two. But after my father died we used to go to
Ireland every other year. And there you are - I'm as much American as I am
Irish.
"When I'm in
love, or excited, or dreaming, or mad I have the brogue. But for the everyday
purpose of life I like the United States talk, and I know Broadway as well as I
do Binevenagh Lane, and the Sound as well as St. Patrick's Channel; educated a
bit at Eton, a bit at Harvard; always too much money to have to make any; in
love lots of times, and never a heartache after that wasn't a pleasant one, and
never a real purpose in life until I took the king's shilling and earned my
wings; something over thirty - and that's me - Larry O'Keefe."
"But it was
the Irish O'Keefe who sat out there waiting for the banshee," I laughed.
"It was
that," he said somberly, and I heard the brogue creep over his voice like
velvet and his eyes grew brooding again.”There's never an O'Keefe for these
thousand years that has passed without his warning. An' twice have I heard the
banshee calling - once it was when my younger brother died an' once when my
father lay waiting to be carried out on the ebb tide."
He mused a
moment, then went on:”An' once I saw an Annir Choille, a girl of the green
people, flit like a shade of green fire through Carntogher woods, an' once at
Dunchraig I slept where the ashes of the Dun of Cormac MacConcobar are mixed
with those of Cormac an' Eilidh the Fair, all burned in the nine flames that
sprang from the harping of Cravetheen, an' I heard the echo of his dead
harpings -”
He paused again
and then, softly, with that curiously sweet, high voice that only the Irish
seem to have, he sang:
Woman of the
white breasts, Eilidh;
Woman of the gold-brown hair, and lips of the red,
red rowan,
Where is the swan that is whiter, with breast more
soft,
Or the wave on the sea that moves as thou movest,
Eilidh.
CHAPTER VIII - Olaf's Story
There was a
little silence. I looked upon him with wonder. Clearly he was in deepest
earnest. I know the psychology of the Gael is a curious one and that deep in
all their hearts their ancient traditions and beliefs have strong and living
roots. And I was both amused and touched.
Here was this
soldier, who had faced war and its ugly realities open-eyed and fearless,
picking, indeed, the most dangerous branch of service for his own, a modern if
ever there was one, appreciative of most unmystical Broadway, and yet soberly
and earnestly attesting to his belief in banshee, in shadowy people of the
woods, and phantom harpers! I wondered what he would think if he could see the
Dweller and then, with a pang, that perhaps his superstitions might make him an
easy prey.
He shook his head
half impatiently and ran a hand over his eyes; turned to me and grinned:
"Don't think
I'm cracked, Professor," he said.”I'm not. But it takes me that way now
and then. It's the Irish in me. And, believe it or not, I'm telling you the
truth."
I looked eastward
where the moon, now nearly a week past the full, was mounting.
"You can't
make me see what you've seen, Lieutenant," I laughed.”But you can make me
hear. I've always wondered what kind of a noise a disembodied spirit could make
without any vocal cords or breath or any other earthly sound-producing
mechanism. How does the banshee sound?"
O'Keefe looked at
me seriously.
"All
right," he said.”I'll show you." From deep down in his throat came
first a low, weird sobbing that mounted steadily into a keening whose
mournfulness made my skin creep. And then his hand shot out and gripped my
shoulder, and I stiffened like stone in my chair - for from behind us, like an
echo, and then taking up the cry, swelled a wail that seemed to hold within it
a sublimation of the sorrows of centuries! It gathered itself into one
heartbroken, sobbing note and died away! O'Keefe's grip loosened, and he rose
swiftly to his feet.
"It's all
right, Professor," he said.”It's for me. It found me - all this way from
Ireland."
Again the silence
was rent by the cry. But now I had located it. It came from my room, and it
could mean only one thing - Huldricksson had wakened.
"Forget your
banshee!" I gasped, and made a jump for the cabin.
Out of the corner
of my eye I noted a look of half-sheepish relief flit over O'Keefe's face, and
then he was beside me. Da Costa shouted an order from the wheel, the Cantonese
ran up and took it from his hands and the little Portuguese pattered down
toward us. My hand on the door, ready to throw it open, I stopped. What if the
Dweller were within - what if we had been wrong and it was not dependent for
its power upon that full flood of moon ray which Throckmartin had thought
essential to draw it from the blue pool!
From within, the
sobbing wail began once more to rise. O'Keefe pushed me aside, threw open the
door and crouched low within it. I saw an automatic flash dully in his hand;
saw it cover the cabin from side to side, following the swift sweep of his eyes
around it. Then he straightened and his face, turned toward the berth, was
filled with wondering pity.
Through the
window streamed a shaft of the moonlight. It fell upon Huldricksson's staring
eyes; in them great tears slowly gathered and rolled down his cheeks; from his
opened mouth came the woe-laden wailing. I ran to the port and drew the
curtains. Da Costa snapped the lights.
The Norseman's
dolorous crying stopped as abruptly as though cut. His gaze rolled toward us.
And at one bound he broke through the leashes I had buckled round him and faced
us, his eyes glaring, his yellow hair almost erect with the force of the rage
visibly surging through him. Da Costa shrunk behind me. O'Keefe, coolly
watchful, took a quick step that brought him in front of me.
"Where do
you take me?" said Huldricksson, and his voice was like the growl of a
beast.”Where is my boat?"
I touched O'Keefe
gently and stood before the giant.
"Listen,
Olaf Huldricksson," I said.”We take you to where the sparkling devil took
your Helma and your Freda. We follow the sparkling devil that came down from
the moon. Do you hear me?" I spoke slowly, distinctly, striving to pierce
the mists that I knew swirled around the strained brain. And the words did
pierce.
He thrust out a
shaking hand.
"You say you
follow?" he asked falteringly.”You know where to follow? Where it took my
Helma and my little Freda?"
"Just that,
Olaf Huldricksson," I answered.”Just that! I pledge you my life that I
know."
Da Costa stepped
forward.”He speaks true, Olaf. You go faster on the Suwarna than on the
Br-rw-un'ilda, Olaf, yes."
The giant
Norseman, still gripping my hand, looked at him.”I know you, Da Costa," he
muttered.”You are all right. Ja! You are a fair man. Where is the
Brunhilda?"
"She follow
be'ind on a big rope, Olaf," soothed the Portuguese.”Soon you see her. But
now lie down an' tell us, if you can, why you tie yourself to your wheel an'
what it is that happen, Olaf."
"If you'll
tell us how the sparkling devil came it will help us all when we get to where
it is, Huldricksson," I said.
On O'Keefe's face
there was an expression of well-nigh ludicrous doubt and amazement. He glanced
from one to the other. The giant shifted his own tense look from me to the
Irishman. A gleam of approval lighted in his eyes. He loosed me, and gripped
O'Keefe's arm.”Staerk!" he said.”Ja - strong, and with a strong heart. A
man - ja! He comes too - we shall need him - ja!"
"I
tell," he muttered, and seated himself on the side of the bunk.”It was
four nights ago. My Freda" - his voice shook -”Mine Yndling! She loved the
moonlight. I was at the wheel and my Freda and my Helma they were behind me.
The moon was behind us and the Brunhilda was like a swanboat sailing down with
the moonlight sending her, ja.
"I heard my
Freda say: 'I see a nisse coming down the track of the moon.' And I hear her
mother laugh, low, like a mother does when her Yndling dreams. I was happy - that
night - with my Helma and my Freda, and the Brunhilda sailing like a swan-boat,
ja. I heard the child say, 'The nisse comes fast!' And then I heard a scream
from my Helma, a great scream - like a mare when her foal is torn from her. I
spun around fast, ja! I dropped the wheel and spun fast! I saw -” He covered
his eyes with his hands.
The Portuguese
had crept close to me, and I heard him panting like a frightened dog.
"I saw a white
fire spring over the rail," whispered Olaf Huldricksson.”It whirled round
and round, and it shone like - like stars in a whirlwind mist. There was a
noise in my ears. It sounded like bells - little bells, ja! Like the music you
make when you run your finger round goblets. It made me sick and dizzy - the
hell noise.
"My Helma
was - indeholde - what you say - in the middle of the white fire. She turned
her face to me and she turned it on the child, and my Helma's face burned into
my heart. Because it was full of fear, and it was full of happiness - of
glaede. I tell you that the fear in my Helma's face made me ice here" - he
beat his breast with clenched hand -”but the happiness in it burned on me like
fire. And I could not move - I could not move.
"I said in
here" - he touched his head -”I said, 'It is Loki come out of Helvede. But
he cannot take my Helma, for Christ lives and Loki has no power to hurt my
Helma or my Freda! Christ lives! Christ lives!' I said. But the sparkling devil
did not let my Helma go. It drew her to the rail; half over it. I saw her eyes
upon the child and a little she broke away and reached to it. And my Freda
jumped into her arms. And the fire wrapped them both and they were gone! A
little I saw them whirling on the moon track behind the Brunhilda - and they
were gone!
"The
sparkling devil took them! Loki was loosed, and he had power. I turned the
Brunhilda, and I followed where my Helma and mine Yndling had gone. My boys
crept up and asked me to turn again. But I would not. They dropped a boat and
left me. I steered straight on the path. I lashed my hands to the wheel that
sleep might not loose them. I steered on and on and on -
"Where was
the God I prayed when my wife and child were taken?" cried Olaf
Huldricksson - and it was as though I heard Throckmartin asking that same
bitter question.”I have left Him as He left me, ja! I pray now to Thor and to
Odin, who can fetter Loki." He sank back, covering again his eyes.
"Olaf,"
I said,”what you have called the sparkling devil has taken ones dear to me. I,
too, was following it when we found you. You shall go with me to its home, and
there we will try to take from it your wife and your child and my friends as
well. But now that you may be strong for what is before us, you must sleep again."
Olaf Huldricksson
looked upon me and in his eyes was that something which souls must see in the
eyes of Him the old Egyptians called the Searcher of Hearts in the Judgment
Hall of Osiris.
"You speak
truth!" he said at last slowly.”I will do what you say!"
He stretched out
an arm at my bidding. I gave him a second injection. He lay back and soon he
was sleeping. I turned toward Da Costa. His face was livid and sweating, and he
was trembling pitiably. O'Keefe stirred.
"You did
that mighty well, Dr. Goodwin," he said.”So well that I almost believed
you myself."
"What did
you think of his story, Mr. O'Keefe?" I asked.
His answer was
almost painfully brief and colloquial.
"Nuts!"
he said. I was a little shocked, I admit.”I think he's crazy, Dr. Goodwin,"
he corrected himself, quickly.”What else could I think?"
I turned to the
little Portuguese without answering.
"There's no
need for any anxiety tonight, Captain," I said.”Take my word for it. You
need some rest yourself. Shall I give you a sleeping draft?"
"I do wish
you would, Dr. Goodwin, sair," he answered gratefully.”Tomorrow, when I
feel bettair - I would have a talk with you."
I nodded. He did
know something then! I mixed him an opiate of considerable strength. He took it
and went to his own cabin.
I locked the door
behind him and then, sitting beside the sleeping Norseman, I told O'Keefe my
story from end to end. He asked few questions as I spoke. But after I had
finished he cross-examined me rather minutely upon my recollections of the radiant
phases upon each appearance, checking these with Throckmartin's observations of
the same phenomena in the Chamber of the Moon Pool.
"And now
what do you think of it all?" I asked.
He sat silent for
a while, looking at Huldricksson.
"Not what
you seem to think, Dr. Goodwin," he answered at last, gravely.”Let me
sleep over it. One thing of course is certain - you and your friend
Throckmartin and this man here saw - something. But -” he was silent again and
then continued with a kindness that I found vaguely irritating -”but I've
noticed that when a scientist gets superstitious it - er - takes very hard!
"Here's a
few things I can tell you now though," he went on while I struggled to
speak -”I pray in my heart that we'll meet neither the Dolphin nor anything
with wireless on board going up. Because, Dr. Goodwin, I'd dearly love to take
a crack at your Dweller.
"And another
thing," said O'Keefe.”After this - cut out the trimmings, Doc, and call me
plain Larry, for whether I think you're crazy or whether I don't, you're there
with the nerve, Professor, and I'm for you.
"Good
night!" said Larry and took himself out to the deck hammock he had
insisted upon having slung for him, refusing the captain's importunities to use
his own cabin.
And it was with
extremely mixed emotions as to his compliment that I watched him go.
Superstitious. I, whose pride was my scientific devotion to fact and fact
alone! Superstitious - and this from a man who believed in banshees and ghostly
harpers and Irish wood nymphs and no doubt in leprechauns and all their tribe!
Half laughing,
half irritated, and wholly happy in even the part promise of Larry O'Keefe's
comradeship on my venture, I arranged a couple of pillows, stretched myself out
on two chairs and took up my vigil beside Olaf Huldricksson.
CHAPTER IX - A Lost Page of
Earth
When I awakened
the sun was streaming through the cabin porthole. Outside a fresh voice lilted.
I lay on my two chairs and listened. The song was one with the wholesome
sunshine and the breeze blowing stiffly and whipping the curtains. It was Larry
O'Keefe at his matins:
The little red
lark is shaking his wings,
Straight from the
breast of his love he springs
Larry's voice soared.
His wings and his
feathers are sunrise red,
He hails the sun
and his golden head,
Good morning, Doc,
you are long abed.
This last was a most irreverent interpolation, I
well knew. I opened my door. O'Keefe stood outside laughing. The Suwarna, her
engines silent, was making fine headway under all sail, the Brunhilda skipping
in her wake cheerfully with half her canvas up.
The sea was
crisping and dimpling under the wind. Blue and white was the world as far as
the eye could reach. Schools of little silvery green flying fish broke through
the water rushing on each side of us; flashed for an instant and were gone.
Behind us gulls hovered and dipped. The shadow of mystery had retreated far
over the rim of this wide awake and beautiful world and if, subconsciously, I
knew that somewhere it was brooding and waiting, for a little while at least I
was consciously free of its oppression.
"How's the
patient?" asked O'Keefe.
He was answered
by Huldricksson himself, who must have risen just as I left the cabin. The
Norseman had slipped on a pair of pajamas and, giant torso naked under the sun,
he strode out upon us. We all of us looked at him a trifle anxiously. But
Olaf's madness had left him. In his eyes was much sorrow, but the berserk rage
was gone.
He spoke straight
to me:”You said last night we follow?"
I nodded.
"It is
where?" he asked again.
"We go first
to Ponape and from there to Metalanim Harbour - to the Nan-Matal. You know the
place?"
Huldricksson
bowed - a white gleam as of ice showing in his blue eyes.
"It is
there?" he asked.
"It is there
that we must first search," I answered.
"Good!"
said Olaf Huldricksson.”It is good!"
He looked at Da
Costa inquiringly and the little Portuguese, following his thought, answered
his unspoken question.
"We should
be at Ponape tomorrow morning early, Olaf."
"Good!"
repeated the Norseman. He looked away, his eyes tear-filled.
A restraint fell
upon us; the embarrassment all men experience when they feel a great sympathy
and a great pity, to neither of which they quite know how to give expression.
By silent consent we discussed at breakfast only the most casual topics.
When the meal was
over Huldricksson expressed a desire to go aboard the Brunhilda.
The Suwarna hove
to and Da Costa and he dropped into the small boat. When they reached the
Brunhilda's deck I saw Olaf take the wheel and the two fall into earnest talk.
I beckoned to O'Keefe and we stretched ourselves out on the bow hatch under
cover of the foresail. He lighted a cigarette, took a couple of leisurely
puffs, and looked at me expectantly.
"Well?"
I asked.
"Well,"
said O'Keefe,”suppose you tell me what you think - and then I'll proceed to
point out your scientific errors." His eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Larry,"
I replied, somewhat severely,”you may not know that I have a scientific
reputation which, putting aside all modesty, I may say is an enviable one. You
used a word last night to which I must interpose serious objection. You more
than hinted that I hid - superstitions. Let me inform you, Larry O'Keefe, that
I am solely a seeker, observer, analyst, and synthesist of facts. I am
not" - and I tried to make my tone as pointed as my words -”I am not a
believer in phantoms or spooks, leprechauns, banshees, or ghostly
harpers."
O'Keefe leaned
back and shouted with laughter.
"Forgive me,
Goodwin," he gasped.”But if you could have seen yourself solemnly
disclaiming the banshee" - another twinkle showed in his eyes -”and then
with all this sunshine and this wide-open world" - he shrugged his
shoulders -”it's hard to visualize anything such as you and Huldricksson have
described."
"I know how
hard it is, Larry," I answered.”And don't think I have any idea that the
phenomenon is supernatural in the sense spiritualists and table turners have
given that word. I do think it is supernormal; energized by a force unknown to
modern science - but that doesn't mean I think it outside the radius of
science."
"Tell me
your theory, Goodwin," he said. I hesitated - for not yet had I been able
to put into form to satisfy myself any explanation of the Dweller.
"I
think," I hazarded finally,”it is possible that some members of that race
peopling the ancient continent which we know existed here in the Pacific, have
survived. We know that many of these islands are honeycombed with caverns and
vast subterranean spaces, literally underground lands running in some cases far
out beneath the ocean floor. It is possible that for some reason survivors of
this race sought refuge in the abysmal spaces, one of whose entrances is on the
islet where Throckmartin's party met its end.
"As for
their persistence in these caverns - we know they possessed a high science.
They may have gone far in the mastery of certain universal forms of energy - especially
that we call light. They may have developed a civilization and a science far
more advanced than ours. What I call the Dweller may be one of the results of
this science. Larry - it may well be that this lost race is planning to emerge
again upon earth's surface!"
"And is
sending out your Dweller as a messenger, a scientific dove from their
Ark?" I chose to overlook the banter in his question.
"Did you
ever hear of the Chamats?" I asked him. He shook his head.
"In
Papua," I explained,”there is a wide-spread and immeasurably old tradition
that 'imprisoned under the hills' is a race of giants who once ruled this
region 'when it stretched from sun to sun before the moon god drew the waters
over it' - I quote from the legend. Not only in Papua but throughout Malaysia
you find this story. And, so the tradition runs, these people - the Chamats - will
one day break through the hills and rule the world; 'make over the world' is
the literal translation of the constant phrase in the tale. It was Herbert
Spencer who pointed out that there is a basis of fact in every myth and legend
of man. It is possible that these survivors I am discussing form Spencer's fact
basis for the Malaysian legend.[1]
"This much
is sure - the moon door, which is clearly operated by the action of moon rays
upon some unknown element or combination and the crystals through which the
moon rays pour down upon the pool their prismatic columns, are humanly made
mechanisms. So long as they are humanly made, and so long as it is this flood
of moonlight from which the Dweller draws its power of materialization, the
Dweller itself, if not the product of the human mind, is at least dependent
upon the product of the human mind for its appearance."
"Wait a
minute, Goodwin," interrupted O'Keefe.”Do you mean to say you think that
this thing is made of - well - of moonshine?"
"Moonlight,"
I replied,”is, of course, reflected sunlight. But the rays which pass back to
earth after their impact on the moon's surface are profoundly changed. The
spectroscope shows that they lose practically all the slower vibrations we call
red and infra-red, while the extremely rapid vibrations we call the violet and
ultra-violet are accelerated and altered. Many scientists hold that there is an
unknown element in the moon - perhaps that which makes the gigantic luminous
trails that radiate in all directions from the lunar crater Tycho - whose
energies are absorbed by and carried on the moon rays.
"At any
rate, whether by the loss of the vibrations of the red or by the addition of
this mysterious force, the light of the moon becomes something entirely
different from mere modified sunlight - just as the addition or subtraction of
one other chemical in a compound of several makes the product a substance with
entirely different energies and potentialities.
"Now these
rays, Larry, are given perhaps still another mysterious activity by the globes
through which Throckmartin said they passed in the Chamber of the Moon Pool.
The result is the necessary factor in the formation of the Dweller. There would
be nothing scientifically improbable in such a process. Kubalski, the great
Russian physicist, produced crystalline forms exhibiting every faculty that we
call vital by subjecting certain combinations of chemicals to the action of
highly concentrated rays of various colours. Something in light and nothing
else produced their pseudo-vitality. We do not begin to know how to harness the
potentialities of that magnetic vibration of the ether we call light."
"Listen,
Doc," said Larry earnestly,”I'll take everything you say about this lost
continent, the people who used to live on it, and their caverns, for granted.
But by the sword of Brian Boru, you'll never get me to fall for the idea that a
bunch of moonshine can handle a big woman such as you say Throckmartin's Thora
was, nor a two-fisted man such as you say Throckmartin was, nor Huldricksson's
wife - and I'll bet she was one of those strapping big northern women too - you'll
never get me to believe that any bunch of concentrated moonshine could handle
them and take them waltzing off along a moonbeam back to wherever it goes. No,
Doc, not on your life, even Tennessee moonshine couldn't do that - nix!"
"All right,
O'Keefe," I answered, now very much irritated indeed.”What's your
theory?" And I could not resist adding:”Fairies?"
"Professor,"
he grinned,”if that Thing's a fairy it's Irish and when it sees me it'll be so
glad there'll be nothing to it. 'I was lost, strayed, or stolen, Larry avick,'
it'll say, 'an' I was so homesick for the old sod I was desp'rit,' it'll say,
an' 'take me back quick before I do any more har-rm!' it'll tell me - an' that's
the truth.
"Now don't
get me wrong. I believe you all saw something all right. But what I think you
saw was some kind of gas. All this region is volcanic and islands and things
are constantly poking up from the sea. It's probably gas; a volcanic emanation;
something new to us and that drives you crazy - lots of kinds of gas do that.
It hit the Throckmartin party on that island and they probably were all more or
less delirious all the time; thought they saw things; talked it over and - collective
hallucination - just like the Angels of Mons and other miracles of the war.
Somebody sees something that looks like something else. He points it out to the
man next him. 'Do you see it?' asks he. 'Sure I see it,' says the other. And
there you are - collective hallucination.
"When your
friends got it bad they most likely jumped overboard one by one. Huldricksson
sails into a place where it is and it hits his wife. She grabs the child and
jumps over. Maybe the moon rays make it luminous! I've seen gas on the front under
the moon that looked like a thousand whirling dervish devils. Yes, and you
could see the devil's faces in it. And if it got into your lungs nothing could
ever make you think you hadn't seen real devils."
For a time I was
silent.
"Larry,"
I said at last,”whether you are right or I am right, I must go to the
Nan-Matal. Will you go with me, Larry?"
"Goodwin,"
he replied,”I surely will. I'm as interested as you are. If we don't run across
the Dolphin I'll stick. I'll leave word at Ponape, to tell them where I am
should they come along. If they report me dead for a while there's nobody to
care. So that's all right. Only old man, be reasonable. You've thought over
this so long, you're going bug, honestly you are."
And again, the
gladness that I might have Larry O'Keefe with me, was so great that I forgot to
be angry.
[1] William Beebe, the famous
American naturalist and ornithologist, recently fighting in France with
America's air force, called attention to this remarkable belief in an article
printed not long ago in the Atlantic Monthly. Still more significant was it
that he noted a persistent rumour that the breaking out of the buried race was
close. - W.J. B., Pres. I. A. of S.
upon these bees and these beehives, causing them to multiply and to produce and to be kept from harm, so that their yield of wax can be turned to your honor, to that of the Son and Holy Spirit, and to the veneration of the blessed Virgin Mary; through Christ our Lord.
