The world below
that no man has been able to cross, and I should confuse assumption with
evidence: nor can I, for the same reason, and for others also, claim
that we are of greater wisdom than they. Greater knowledge we may have,
but it is of the race rather than the individual, and it would be a poor
ground for such a claim, at the best.
“If I should seek to support such a plea, I would rather urge the
difficulty of the conditions against which we contend, than the extent
to which we triumph.
“Our ancestors broke from their environment, and may have shown a
doubtful wisdom in so doing. But having so broken, we are confronted
with difficulties from which the rest of the creation is free. If our
conduct be worse, our circumstances are more treacherous.
“But there is another difference. Most other creatures, though we may
not prematurely destroy them, are even shorter-lived than we. They lack
the assistance of our inventions for recording knowledge, and, to some
extent, handing it down to our children. So far as we can judge, they
have no substitute for these, and their individual ignorance of our
purpose to destroy them, and of the methods we use, is a natural
consequence.
“I am not sure that this thought does not bring us nearer to
understanding the difference between my kind and other animals than
would any of the three tests you proposed. All animals have an inherited
fear of pain or damage to their bodies, and this leads them to such
actions or reactions as will conserve their lives, but it is a curious
thought that, since the hidden beginning of created things, no one can
have had any inherited experiences of death, of which we know by
observation only. Our parents were alive at our conceptions and births,
as were all their ancestors before them, and our direct inherited
experience could be no different were they all alive and immortal. But
the accumulated observations and records of the race familiarise us with
the nature of death--at least in its physical consequences,--and teach
us its inevitability, from our earliest years. ‘_In his eyes
foreknowledge of death_,’ that is the burden, and perhaps the glory, of
our kind; and that which may divide us furthest from those who have been
content to obey the laws of their creation. It is curious fact that such
animals as we may allow to associate with us in any intimacy must share
to some extent this difference, be it height or depth, which divides us
from the rest of our creation. A lion cannot sin: but a dog can.
“--But perhaps I weary you with details which are beyond your interest?”
She answered, “No, for I would gladly know more of these things, were
there time for the learning, though we must leave them now. For it seems
that the more our thoughts exchange, the more nearly do our minds
approach to a common point. It may be that we both see truly, though the
same things may appear different. Looking from a distant point, I see
the outlines of your existence as you cannot easily do. Knowing it more
closely, you are aware of dangers and fertilities which I overlook,
seeing only the contours of the mountain peaks, and of the depths which
divide them.
“But there is one thought in which you may take some comfort. You have
told me that your kind, or some of them, will eat their fellow-men when
occasion offers. The Dwellers are, at the worst, so entirely incapable
of such conduct, that you may reasonably hope that there will be a
similar measure of difference between your own treatment of your
domestic animals, and that which you will receive from them, should you
be captured or surrender to them.”
I replied, “I should be glad to think so; but the fact is that the
practice I mentioned is almost entirely confined to men with darker
skins than mine. I have, as you observe, a light skin, tinged with pink.
All men whose skins are of this kind believe it to be an evidence of
every kind of superiority,--and how the darker cannibals may treat their
domestic animals it is unfortunate that I do not know.”
Her mind replied with a sudden ripple of merriment. “I suppose you jest.
But let us turn from these things, and consider what next we shall do,
and how quickly. For time is short before I must take decision as to
whether I shall return within the limit fixed. Yet much may be done, if
we are fortunate, in the space remaining; and, as you said in your
anger, the Dwellers are not quick to discover us. Yet I think you err
when you make light of our peril. Are there no vermin in your own
buildings, which you might disregard for more urgent matters, but which
you would destroy very easily at the allotted time, or should occasion
arise to do so?”
I said, “Yes, there are; yet some of them have found craft by which they
continue, and so must we also. But, first, cannot we learn something
more from this book which we have borrowed so easily? For myself, I am
determined to seek my friend, till I know of his death, or have found
him. He may be near us now, or he may be a thousand miles away, or in
depths beyond our imaginations. What can we tell, with so little to
guide our guessing? And for you, if we can discover whether we have yet
intruded into one of the Sacred Places to which the treaty alludes, it
may make a vital difference to the action which you should take for your
own security.”
She answered “Let us try,” and we rose, and moved again as quietly as
possible into the lighted room. I do not think that this was really
necessary, but it gave us a sense of secrecy to interrogate the red
globe from the shorter distance, and appeared to reduce the risk that
our thoughts would disturb the mind of the sleeper.
CHAPTER IX
THE FLAME OF LIFE
For a long time we asked questions to which we could obtain no answer,
or not such as conveyed any meaning to us.
We tried to learn the extent and depth of the domain of the Dwellers,
and the location of the Reservations in which my friend might be
confined. But the book was not a geography. Neither was it a first
volume. Its records evidently assumed a mass of knowledge which we did
not possess.
We made progress of a kind when it occurred to me that it would give us
some indication of the probable extent of the subterranean world if we
could learn its population.
“How many are there of the nation of the Dwellers?” I queried.
There was no answer.
“How many were there last year?”
No answer came.
“Have you any records of population?”
It seemed as though there were a mental impulse of hesitation, but still
no answer came.
“How many children were born last year?” it occurred to me to ask.
The answer was immediate, “_It was reported to the Council of Five that
three boys had been born in the Great Nursery, and one in the Place of
Renunciation._”
“And how many girls?” I replied, in a natural supposition that this
information was incomplete, but there was no answer.
I then went back, querying from year to year, getting for each year a
similar answer but with a total that increased as the years receded, and
with a record of male births only, till, at ten years’ distance, the
reply came--
_It was reported to the Council of Five that eight boys had been born in
the Great Nursery, and twenty-four boys and one girl in the Place of
Twilight._
I would have asked further, but my companion interposed with reason. “I
think that we are learning little. If it can tell how long they live,
and how many are their deaths, (for as they are born, I suppose that
they may die also), we can then judge how numerous they may be, but from
their births only we cannot.” This we tried, but only to be met again
with silence, or with baffling answers.
By persistence and variety in the form of queries we obtained allusion
to “those of the Great Lethargy,” and to “The Desire of the Darkness,”
but nothing more definite. In a final desperation I tried to obtain
information by means of inquiry as to their customs of marriage, and at
last obtained abstracts from the report of a very lengthy trial or
debate, which threw a sombre and uncertain light upon the information
which we had obtained already.
Mainly, it consisted of a duel of argument between The First, who was
evidently male, and whom we supposed to be the head of the Council of
Five,--and the Elected One, who was a woman.
It was evident from the moods of both that the matter with which they
dealt was of a tragic and overwhelming importance, though there could
hardly have been a greater contrast than was shown in the styles of
their controversy.
The thoughts of The First were slow, deliberate, weighty, solemn, yet
with an extremity of urging which almost amounted to supplication. Those
of the Elected One were swift, insistent, passionate, crowding thought
on thought, in protest, defiance, and vindication. They were impatient
with the intolerance of youth, and bold with the assurance of
immortality.
It appeared that the First One put forward a new method of life for the
women of their kind, or for their descendants, pleading that its
adoption was essential to the continuance of the race of the Dwellers.
But with a fierce scorn she repelled it--“Do you think that women will
consent to be as uncoloured and alike as men? Or that they will conceal
themselves in dead hangings, as in some savage infancy of the world?”
He answered slowly, “It is only this, that you will be alone if you will
not. If you will not that your daughters do these things to save our
race from extinction, then you will be alone in your own places. No man
will come to you. It is already resolved that all shall take this vow,
if you refuse to aid us.”
The reply came with a swift derision. “And would they keep it for a
score of sunsets? Is there a man in the Lower Places that would not come
if I should call him? But it is the thing which we have resolved also.
It is no threat to us. Till we have the girl, there is no man shall come
near us. There is no man shall cross the Blue Darkness, nor enter into
the Place of Twilight. We will not appear at the Feasts of the Inner
Moon, nor at the Mimes of the Recollections. Should we rejoice in our
seats on the Upper Slopes, knowing that we had doomed our daughters to
be less than we?”
The First One answered with the same deliberation as before, but with a
cold finality, as one delivering a judgment from which no appeal could
be made. “For six months’ time, unless you sooner yield, there is no man
will come near you. If you are rebellious longer, we shall use such
force as may be needed that our wills may conquer, and thereafter there
will be nothing of the Place of Twilight, nor of the Blue Darkness, nor
of the Place of Preparation.
“If your seats be in the Upper Slopes at the time of the Great Assembly,
are not these seats made by the hands of men? Are they not known as the
Given Places?
“That which we give we can take.
“If there be any wisdom among you, all these things may continue; but
for your daughters is a different way.”
His thought smote the mind decisively, as a doom relentless and
unescapable, but it did not daunt the courage nor abase the mockery of
the thought that met it. “You threaten that which is beyond your power,
nor do we fear, nor believe you. In six months’ time you will not waste
the Blue Darkness nor the Place of Twilight, for if we do not have the
girl by the next new moon, we will ourselves destroy them. _Tell your
young men that._ Tell them that we shall uproot the Wilderness and the
Five Approaches. You may counsel; but will they refrain? You may
threaten; but will they act?
“You are old and weary of life, but we are not old, and we shall never
weary. Life is ours, and we have learnt by your failure. But we will not