In Which Tom Saves The Day

(continued from here)

It only took about a quarter of an hour for them to start drifting in to bed. There was some petty bickering about pillows and boots, but nothing too heated – it sounded more as though they were going through the motions. The guard dog came in with them and settled down in the mouth of the cave, but not before looking around it curiously for a moment or two, and I wondered if Katti had told him I was there.

They scuffled about for a few minutes, coughing and shifting position, and then there was silence. I gave them about five more minutes, and then started my performance.

I started with an unearthly groan, not too loud, and heard a couple of scuffles. “Did you hear something?” one man asked in a sleepy voice, and got a grunt in response. The guard dog got up from his position at the mouth of the cave and came over to the opening to the storage room.

“What is it, Cully?” asked the man closest to the opening. “Look, fellows, there’s something wrong.”

I gave another faint groan and the guard dog started to whine. By now the men were clearly awake, shifting about uneasily, and a couple of them were getting up. “Dakers, take him in there and see what’s wrong” said a man, presumably their captain. “I don’t want anyone taking us by surprise.”

“It’s probably just a rat, cap,” said someone else. “We were all out in front since sunset.”

A voice behind him said “Engley’s story,” in a reminding sort of voice, and got several shushes in response.

“Shut up,” said someone else. “That’s not real.”

This was excellent; if I had already tapped into the ghost-story mood, this would be easier than I thought.

One of them, presumably Dakers, came up to the opening; I saw him put his hand on Cully’s collar preparatory to coming into the room. Just then, however, Cully stopped his faint interested whine and dropped to the floor on his belly.

“Good lord,” said Dakers, “what ails the dog?” His voice was self-consciously brave, but Cully began to whimper and tremble, which gave rise to a great deal more discussion in the other room.

Dakers tried coaxing; he tried scolding; he tried threats; but Cully would not budge any farther and crouched in apparent distress on the floor of the cave, his hunched back and laid-back ears a pathetic travesty of the flat-faced brindle intimidator he had been.

Finally Dakers turned back to the roomful of men. “It’s no use, sir,” he said. “He won’t go.” I knew what would come next and so did Dakers apparently, because I saw him stand up straight with the air of a man who nerves himself.

“Well, go in yourself then,” said the voice of the captain. “We’ve got to get this sorted out.”

Dakers turned back in my direction, took a deep breath, and then, with military precision, he put one foot behind him, faced around sharply and said “No.”

There was a murmur of interest among his fellows and a guffaw or two.

“What did you say?” the captain demanded ominously.

Dakers gulped. “I said no, sir. I won’t go in there. Cully isn’t afraid of anything in this world, and if it’s anything otherworldly then I don’t want any part of it.”

The room grew quiet as the men, even through their apprehension, watched gleefully to see what would happen next.

“Fine,” said the captain at length. “I’ll do it myself. And when I come back, you will be peeling the potatoes and washing the socks of this whole room full of men, for as long as this mission lasts.”

There was a brief cacophony as the men jabbered in the manic relief of those whom the hammer missed this time, and a rustle as the captain heaved himself out of his bedroll. Dakers moved away from the cave opening, to make way for his superior, whose bulk shadowed my view as he came into the storage chamber.

As he set foot in my snare, I yanked hard on the two ends of the rope, and when I heard him fall heavily I let one end go and yanked again, so that the rope collected back into my hiding place. The captain let out a guttural cry compounded of fear, anger and pain, and his men all let out startled cries of varying shrillness.

“Let me at ‘im!” said the captain as he struggled to his feet, all precision past. “I’ll get ‘im – let me at ‘im!”

“Get him out of there!” hollered one of the men, and Dakers reached through the cave opening for his superior’s arm. That was when I started pulling the strings for the cloths, sending them fluttering around the room at random while I continued to groan abysmally. The round walls and low ceiling of the cave caused so much reverberation and echo that it would be impossible to tell where the noise was coming from, and in any case the cloths had done the trick on Dakers and were beginning to work on the captain.

Dakers dropped the captain’s arm and spun around to go, calling out “Come on, fellows! Spirits – let’s go!”

The captain wavered, torn between duty and fear, and I thought it was time for a more personal message. “Stay!” I intoned beseechingly. “Starving! Stay!”

That took care of the captain, who turned to run and tripped over Cully, who raised his nose to the heavens and howled with the traditional menace of legend. The men were bustling out of the cave with their eyes bugging out and their clothes clutched around their waists – to be met outside by the horses, plunging dangerously against their picket ropes and whinnying with rolling eyes.

“Come on!” the men shouted. “Come on!” They all got more or less on their horses, except the captain, who had gotten entangled in his trousers and was fatally behind. “Come on!”

And they loosed the horses and let them go, not stopping to see where they were being taken, with their captain hopping insanely behind them. Of course the horses were being guided by Timothy, and they took their masters on the ride of their lives, straight into the arms of Dumcruckle’s brawniest men. The three of us had no trouble with the captain, especially with Cully on our side, and we staggered into the courtyard with them at least an hour after the rest, our shoes in rags and our manners so cocky we should have been put in a cage for our own good.

So here we are with twenty strong men of Marshweather, who have philosophically settled down to help us with the herding and the repairs while they await treaties for their release. I don’t gather that they are in any hurry to get back home. They give us no trouble, especially given the story we have to tell about the ignominious episode of the caves.

In any case, I seem to be the hero of the day. It warms the cockles of my heart to swagger about in my new shoes, and damn my old modesty. Every farmer and stable hand and potboy stops to shake my hand and tell me I’m wonderful – I can’t believe I’m writing this in earnest, but I believe I needed that sort of thing. The people round here don’t care very much about books and teaching, so they tend to take it for granted in their poor tired schoolmaster.

Darling Lynde, when will you be home? Having to carry out something of that importance without you makes me realize afresh how crippled I am by your absence. I long for normality and healthy country living, and you.

Your own,
Tom

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