The marvellous land of Snergs
animal was walking upright because it was evidently the only way he
could carry them in his pouch without tipping them out. He waddled
clumsily up to one of the biggest mushrooms, sniffed at it, purred
horribly with delight, bit a large section out of it, and bent his head
carefully so as to place it in his pouch. And then Sylvia let out a
loud scream.
I do not blame her; perhaps I should have screamed myself if I had
been there. But the effect was marvellous. The animal turned its head
smartly and stared at them, its fore-paws held up as if in fear and
astonishment. The big mouth drooped, giving it a weak appearance;
bits of mushroom dribbled from the corners. Then, with a sound like
a roaring sob, the animal turned and scuttled away on all fours,
scattering sections of mushroom from its pouch as it went.
The sounds of scuttling feet and sobs died away in the far distance and
all was silent as before. Gorbo put his arrow back into his quiver.
“There’s a cowardly custard for you,” he remarked, using an expression
he had heard from the children. They went back to the fire and had
some more breakfast, greatly relieved to find that the denizens of this
strange part, so far as they could judge from this sample, were not
ferocious ones.
Joe was apparently the bright one: he discovered that there was
something like a path going more or less straight through the forest of
monstrous fungi, and suggested that it would be a wise idea to follow
it. They did so, walking on and on until they were weary of the sight
of the thick white stalks, and a good long time afterwards. Strange,
is it not, that here Nature should be so lavish of mushrooms, while in
England they are so rare that hard-worked men are forced by their wives
to rise from their beds before they have had their fill of sleep in
order to gather a few poor specimens?
The path came to an end at a blank face of rock. They had reached the
other side of the cavern. Sylvia repeated her little poem again, and
“out” was to the left, so to the left they went. This time they did
not go so very far before they were rewarded by the strange sight of a
stone seat, and in front of it, a stone table, both very neatly carved.
What was it doing here? What strange forgotten race had gone to the
trouble of chopping a stone seat and table out of hard rock--and not
only chopping them out but carving some strange figures on them and
smoothing the legs down? They all looked carefully at the carvings; so
far as they could judge they were intended to represent rabbits walking
upright. Why?
“This cheers me up,” said Gorbo. “I _can’t_ be the biggest fool.
When I consider that people have gone to the length of making this
difficult table and bench and carving rabbits on it for the sole
purpose--apparently--of eating mushrooms in this dismal cavern, I feel
that there is hope for me.”
“But _we_ don’t think you’re a fool, Gorbo,” said Sylvia soothingly.
“No, Sylvia,” replied Gorbo with a sigh. “But you haven’t seen me at my
best.”
“But there must be some way out close by here!” exclaimed Joe. “Of
course they’d put this table near the coming-in place, wouldn’t they?”
“You’ve got it, Joe,” said Gorbo. “Unless the people who did it were
much worse than me.”
Joe was right; at a very little distance away they found a tunnel. It
was as narrow as the tunnel they had passed through on the other side
and it was just as smooth, but it had this difference, that it sloped
upwards, on a gentle slope. They went up it until they were sick and
tired of the monotony, and at last they had to sit down, for Sylvia was
getting very tired.
When they started off again Gorbo picked up Sylvia in his arms and
carried her. “This beastly tunnel’s going on like this for about five
miles,” he said, as he walked on with her. After about twenty steps he
put her down again.
“We get fooled every time,” he observed bitterly. They had arrived at a
little flat place, like a room. Two passages branched out from it, and
there was a stone bench on either side, highly finished and each with
what appeared to be a pig carved on it.
“Pigs, you see,” remarked Gorbo. “However, I suppose they couldn’t help
it.”
Again Sylvia repeated the rhyme and they took the right-hand passage.
It went winding about with bold curves for a long distance and then
came to a sudden end, but this time, to their great joy, it ended in a
small door, iron bound and rusty; like the one they had unfortunately
found under the twisted trees. They raised a shout of joy, for surely
their long strange journey was over--that is, the underground part of
it.
Gorbo pushed at the door, but it did not move. Then he pushed harder.
Then he put his shoulder to it and shoved with all his might. And still
the door remained shut hard and fast.
“I’ll do it!” he cried. “Luckily there’s plenty of room for a run.”
With that, he ran and hurled himself at the door with a mighty crash.
And he might as well have flung himself against Westminster Abbey.
He sat down and looked mournfully at the children and they looked
mournfully back at him.
There seemed nothing for it but to try what the left-hand passage would
show them. So they went back and followed it through devious twists and
turns until it ended in a small bare chamber, on the walls of which
were carved what was undoubtedly meant to represent goats. There was
absolutely nothing else to see.
“Goats this time,” said Gorbo sourly. “Well, well, well! Yes, it’s
clear to me that I’m not the worst.”
They sat down on the floor and thought melancholy thoughts, for the
adventure was beginning to have a very black look. Sylvia hugged the
small dog to her, feeling very unhappy. At last Gorbo sprang up and
said he was going to have another try at that door if he broke his back
at it.
He examined the door all over very carefully. In the sickly greenish
light he could see huge iron hinges and plates; certainly it was a very
massive type of door for its size. He bent down and put his eye to a
tiny chink on one side.
“I can see daylight,” he cried excitedly. “We’ve _got_ to get out! Just
watch me this time.”
He took a good long run and then came against it with a terrific smash.
Then he did it again. After that he did it again. It takes a good deal
of bumping to hurt a Snerg, but Sylvia was frightened that he would
overdo it.
“Don’t, Gorbo!” she cried. “You’ll hurt yourself badly.”
“I deserve it,” said Gorbo. “Yes, I _am_ the worst.” He sat down and
buried his face in his hands.
“I wonder whether----” began Sylvia. Then she stopped and thought.
“You wonder what?” asked Joe.
“Just an idea of mine. Perhaps--yes I’ll try.”
She got up and went to the door and grabbed hold of a piece of
iron-work where it stuck out a little. Then she pulled as well as she
could with her little fingers.
The door opened inwards smoothly and sweetly, and a flood of daylight
poured in.
Gorbo looked up, and then smote his head with his clenched fist.
“Never mind,” said Sylvia, going up to him and stroking his head
tenderly. “_Poor_ old Gorbo!”
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER
The first glance that Gorbo gave as he came out into the warm sunlight
showed him that they were now (as the reader will have guessed from the
heading of this piece) on the other side of the river.
This was more serious news to him than to Sylvia or Joe. To them it
meant daylight, freedom from the subterranean gloom; possibly the
prelude to new adventures (it was). To him it meant trouble and danger
and the fear of unknown things. The wide deep river, rushing far below
between steep cliffs, had been a barrier keeping the Snergs secure
from a horror-haunted land, a land of distressful legends of dragons
and other fierce monsters, of Kelps and giants, and a ruthless king
who tyrannized over his people. No wonder he gazed sadly at the fair
green woods on the other side and wished--chiefly for the sake of the
children--that he was less of a fathead.
“It isn’t such a nice part on this side,” said Sylvia, looking about at
a dull landscape, dotted here and there with patches of coarse grass
and clumps of thorny trees. “But it’s jolly to get out of that dark
place.”
“Yes, isn’t it,” agreed Joe contentedly. At his age the present time
lasts quite a good bit. “I’m jolly glad we got here. Perhaps we’ll have
some real adventures now.”
“I’m thinking we will,” said Gorbo.
They went on a little way and, coming to the top of a gentle slope,
saw before them a round grey tower some half-mile or so away. It was
surrounded by a high outer wall and looked very lonely and dreary.
Gorbo stared long and hard at it.
“Yes,” he said at length, “that’s old Golithos’ tower. I can see him
outside, doing something to the wall. I know him by his whiskers.”
“Then,” said Joe logically, “we’d better scoot. Come along, Sylvia!”
“No, don’t scoot,” said Gorbo; “it’s safe enough. Golithos is quite
harmless now because he’s reformed. We’d better go over and see if he
can tell us how to get back. Don’t be frightened, Sylvia, I’ve heard
he’s quite kind-hearted now. In fact they say he’s rather overdoing it.”
Though they were not exactly at their ease (what child is at the
thought of visiting an ogre?) they were impressed by Gorbo’s
confidence, and they went on hand-in-hand with him towards the tower,
Joe carrying the puppy.
GOLITHOS THE OGRE
A huge man, about seven feet high, was working with a heap of mortar
and some big stones, repairing a loose part of the wall. As they drew
near he turned and saw them; then he smacked his hands together to
knock the mortar off and rubbed them in his hair and waited for them
with a friendly but weak-looking smile. He had a great silly face and
coarse hair and whiskers like bits of a cheap goatskin rug. His dress
was the usual shabby dress of ogres in books. It is perhaps slightly
unfair to call him an ogre, for as Gorbo had said, he was reformed. Not
a child had passed his lips for years, and his diet was now cabbage,
turnip-tops, cucumbers, little sour apples and thin stuff like that.
“Aha!” he said as they came up, “you are all heartily welcome. It is
long since I had any nice visitors. How are _you_, my little maid? And
_you_, my little man? And you also, my dear Snerg? Let me see, have I
had the pleasure of meeting you before?” He shook hands with them in a
very friendly way.
“I don’t think so,” replied Gorbo. “You see,” he added delicately, “I
was quite a boy when they--I mean when you--well, when you changed your
address.”
“Exactly,” said Golithos, with a conscious blush. “Well, come inside
and make yourselves at home.”
There seemed nothing for it but to go on through his door, though all
Gorbo wanted was to ask the way back across the river, not to make
morning calls. When they were inside Golithos slammed the heavy door
and locked it.
“I get so nervous if I leave it open,” he explained. “But come in and
I’ll have a meal ready for you. You must be tired and hungry after your
long journey from wherever you have come.”
“Look here,” said Gorbo, “we don’t want to trouble you too much. All we
want to know is how to get back across the river.”
“To get back across the river,” replied Golithos, bending down and
placing a hand affectionately on his shoulder, “is easier than you
think. Much easier. In fact I think I am right in saying that however
easy you think it is it will prove to be easier still.”
“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Gorbo.
“Naturally you would be. But come inside and make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks, but I should really like to know the way.”
“The way?” Golithos looked a bit puzzled.
“Yes, the way across the river of course.”
“Oh, yes, of course. What am I thinking of? Well, it’s perfectly easy.