Drome/Chapter 23
Chapter 23
That We only Knew the Secret
"Well," remarked Milton Rhodes, his expression one of the utmost gravity, "when in Drome, Bill, do as the Dromans do."
And we returned the bow of the Hypogeans, whereupon the men stepped back to their weapons, which they at once resumed, and the young woman, without moving from the spot, inclined her head to us in a most stately fashion. Bow again from Rhodes and myself.
This ceremony over—I hoped that we had done the thing handsomely—the angel turned to us and told us (in pantomime, of course) that we were now friends and that her heart was glad.
"Friends!" said I to myself. "You are no gladder, madam, than I am; but all the same I am going to be on my guard."
The girls moved to the angel and with touching tenderness examined her bleeding wrist, which the younger at once proceeded to bandage carefully. She had made to bathe the wound, but this the angel had not permitted—from which it was patent that there would be no access to water for some time yet.
Our Amalthea and her companions now held an earnest consultation. Again AA r e heard her pronounce that word Drome. And again we saw in the look and mien of the others doubt and uneasiness and something, I thought, besides. But this was for a few moments only. Either they acquiesced wholly in what the angel urged, or they mashed their feelings.
I wished that I knew which it was. And yet had I known, I should have been none the wiser, forsooth—unless I had been cognizant of what it was that the angel was urging so earnestly and with such confidence. That it was something closely concerning ourselves was, of course, obvious. That it (or part of it) was to the effect that we should be taken to some place was, I believed, virtually certain. Not that this made matters a whit clearer or in any measure allayed my uneasiness. For where were we to be taken? And to what? To Drome? But what and where was this Drome? Was Drome a place, was it a thing, was it a human being, or what was it?
Such were some of the thoughts that came to me as I stood there. But what good to wonder, to question, when there could be no answer forthcoming? Sooner or later the answer would be ours. And, in the meantime—well, more than sufficient unto the day was the mystery thereof. And, besides, hadn't Rhodes and I come to find mysteries? Assuredly. And assuredly it was not likely that we would be disappointed.
This grave matter, whatever it was, decided, the angel plunged into a detailed account of what had happened on the bridge. We thought that we followed her recital very closely, so expressive were her gestures. When she told how we had saved her from that frightful chasm, she was interrupted by exclamations, all eyes were turned upon us, and I felt certain in that moment that we were indeed friends. Still heaven only knew what awaited us. Tt was well, of course, to be sanguine; but that did not mean that we should blink facts, however vague and mysterious those facts might be.
There was a momentary pause. When she went on, I saw the angel's lower lip begin to tremble and tears come into her eyes. She was describing the death of her demon, her poor, poor demon. Well, as regards appearances, I must own that I would greatly prefer that hideous ape-bat of hers to many a bulldog that I have seen. The others, too, looked distressed. And, indeed, I have no doubt that we ourselves, had we known all about demons, would have been—well, at least troubled. Little did Milton and I dream that the loss of that winged monster might entail upon our little band the most serious consequences. So, however, it was, as we were soon to learn.
When she had ended her account, the angel turned to us forthwith and went through an earnest and remarkable pantomime. She and the others awaited our answer with the most intense interest. But the only answer we could give her was that we did not understand. That pantomime had been wholly unintelligible to Milton Rhodes and myself. I say wholly unintelligible; we could see, however, that it had something to do with ourselves and something to do with something up above; but everything else in it was an utter mystery.
The angel went through it again, more slowly, more carefully and more fully this time. But still we could not understand.
"Perhaps," I suggested, "she could tell us with paper and pencil."
"Not a bad idea, Bill."
Thereat Rhodes produced pencil and notebook. These he gave to the angel, with a sign that she put it down in the book. She regarded the pencil curiously for some moments, tried it upon the paper, and then—with some difficulty and undoubtedly some pain, what with her wounded wrist—she began. Rhodes moved to her right side, I to her left.
Yes, there could be no mistaking that she had drawn the Tamahnowis Rocks. Then she drew a crevasse and two figures, plainly. Rhodes and myself, going down into it. That was clear as the day. Then sh. put those figures that were Rhodes and I into the tunnel, and presto, with a wave of the hand, she brought them down to that very spot where we were standing. Clear again, lovely Sibyl. What next? More figures, and more and more.; and were they too coming down the tunnel? Yes, at last it all was plain, at last we wise numskulls understood her.
Were we alone?
Rhodes made it clear to her that we were. But he did not stop there; he proceeded to make it clear to her that we only knew the secret. She was some time in understanding this; but when she did understand it, what a look was that which passed across her lovely Sibylline features!
"Great heaven," said I to myself, "lie's gone and done it now!"
The look was one of joy, the look of a soul triumphant. In a moment, however, it was gone; her features were only lovely, impassive.
But the thoughts and the feelings which that strange look of hers had aroused were not gone. I felt a shudder pass to my heart. Of a truth, this woman was dreadful.
I glanced at Rhodes; I thought that even he looked grave and troubled. Well, so I thought, might he be!
I said nothing, however, until the angel had rejoined her companions. Then: "There can be not the slightest doubt that they look with great fear upon the coming of people from that world above, a world as mysterious, I suppose, to them, as this subterranean world of theirs is to us. And, now that they know that they have the great secret also when they have you and me—well, Milton, old tillicum, I think it will indeed be strange if either of us ever again casts a shadow in the sun."
"It may be so, Bill," he said soberly. "I did pot think of that when I told her. Still, who knows? Certainly not I. It is possible, indeed probable, it seems to me, that We may do them, her, Bill, a harsh injustice."
"I sincerely hope so."
That grave look left his face, and he smiled at me,
"And, besides, Billy me lad, maybe we won 't ever want to return to that world we have left—that world so full of ignorance, and yet so full of knowledge and science too; that world so cruel, and yet sometimes so strangely kind; that world so full of hate and mad passion, and yet with ideals and aspirations so very noble and lofty. Yes, who knows, Bill? It is possible that we may not want to return."
Was it significant, or was it purely casual? I could not decide. But Rhodes' gaze was now on the angel. And, whilst I stood pondering, she turned and signed to us that they stood in readiness to proceed.
She raised a hand and pointed down the cavern, in some subtle manner making it clear that she was pointing to something far, very far away.
"Drome!" she said.
"Drome," nodded Milton Rhodes.
He turned to me.
"Ready, Bill?"
"Ready," I told him.
And so we started.