T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (17) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XVII. The Place of Death

When Martin came to himself he was lying on a couch in a strange room, a small, bare, cell-like place, the walls of which were built of cyclopean blocks of stone. The place was faintly lit by a lantern high overhead. His chest still felt sore and his mouth dry, otherwise he was none the worse.

“So they’ve got me!” he muttered half aloud. He sat up and instinctively felt for his pistol.

It was gone.

Of course he had expected this, but all the same it was a nasty shock. Suddenly he felt something round and smooth under his tunic. His heart beat hard as he remembered that these were his two little bombs. His searchers, not knowing what they were, or perhaps not noticing them at all, had passed them over.

“If the worse comes to the worst I’ll get that old scoundrel Odan before they finish me,” he said grimly.

He looked round and found food beside him—maize cakes and water. That was all.

“They don’t mean to starve me, anyhow,” he continued with a light smile. He was recovering his spirits and beginning to wonder what was going to happen.

He drank some water, ate a piece of the bread, and lay back, thinking hard. The place was quiet as death, and Martin had had a pretty stiff time of it for the last twenty-four hours. Before he knew it he was asleep, and when he woke again daylight was leaking through a barred window.

As Martin sat up and stretched himself he heard a slight grating sound; a bronze door slid back and two men entered his cell.

They were Norsemen, ugly-looking, hard-faced fellows. Martin stared hard at them. The expression on their faces rather amused him. It was a queer mixture between triumph and fright.

Evidently they were delighted at having the wizard in their power, but rather afraid lest he might vanish in a puff of smoke. For a moment Martin thought of chucking one of his bombs at them and making a bolt; but he decided to wait for a better chance. Still the thought made him smile, and his smile made his two gaolers more uncomfortable still.

One stood guard with his sword ready, while the other beckoned Martin to follow. Martin decided he might as well do so; and his guide marched ahead, while the fellow with the drawn sword followed close behind.

They went down a long, stone-paved passage, descended some steps, and presently came into a sort of guard-room. In the middle of the place stood Odan, grim and gigantic. His thin lips were drawn back in an ugly grin, showing his walrus like tusks under his yellow mustache.

“So here is the sorcerer!” he sneered, and now he spoke in Norse which Martin understood.

“Yes, I’m here,” replied Martin calmly. “And I should he glad if you would let me have a wash and some breakfast.”

Martin’s coolness seemed to upset the giant. He glared angrily. Then suddenly he laughed harshly.

“The little cock crows loud,” he said. “Of our kindness we will grant the favors you ask—the more so since the food will be the last you will enjoy in this life.”

“Hur, bring food!” he roared.

One of the men hurried out, and came back quickly with bread, cold meat, and a jug full of some sweetish, pungent drink with a flavor of honey in it.

Martin, knowing that he would need all his pluck and strength before the day was out, ate heartily. He was no longer frightened; he felt extraordinarily cool. He had made up his mind that he would keep quiet until actual violence was offered and then—then he would use his bombs.

He caught Odan looking at him with a certain curiosity in his cold eyes. The only virtue this primeval brute respected was bravery. It seemed that he was secretly astonished at Martin’s coolness in the face of danger.

Breakfast over, Martin was placed in a litter, the curtains were drawn, and the bearers trotted off at a sharp pace.

The journey lasted for about an hour; then the litter stopped. The curtains which covered it were pulled sharply aside, and Martin blinked in the hot blaze of the tropical sun.

Glancing round, he recognized at once the part of the island to which he had been brought by Odan’s men.

It was the valley of the salt pan, that desolate spot which he and Hymer had visited in their vain search for saltpetre. There was the salt pan glistening like snow under the torrid sun, and there were the low bare cliffs surrounding it. Not a green thing was in sight. The place was an abomination of desolation, and the blaze of light only made it look the worse.

All this Martin saw in a flash. The next thing he saw was that not only Odan was present, but also a large number of his followers, both white and brown. Among them all Martin did not find a single friendly face. The Norsemen were frankly hostile, the Lemurians sullenly so.

Martin sprang lightly to the ground and stood facing Odan. The giant glared at him.

“Sorcerer,” he said, “once you and that juggler the priest Hymer have tricked us. In the ordeal that is before you to-day you will not have the help of Hymer.”

He laughed as he spoke, and his laugh was like the sound of dry stones rattling down a barren beach. There was something horribly ominous about his threat, and in spite of all his pluck Martin felt a shiver crawl down his spine. But he shook off the feeling, and stared back at Odan with open contempt.

“You at least have plenty of help at hand, Odan,” he answered scornfully. “One who did not know you might well suppose you feared me.”

Odan ground his great teeth. Dull sparks seemed to flash in his cold blue eyes. He took a stride forward, and Martin thought he meant to attack. He hoped he would. His hand was under his tunic on a bomb. If Odan laid hands upon him, he meant to blow him to ribbons and trust to the moral effect on the others to make good his escape.

But Odan checked himself. He laughed again.

“Wizards,” he said, with a heavy attempt at sarcasm, “are not as other men. They must be guarded more carefully. But these”—he waved his great hand—“these are only witnesses. It is they who will spread the news throughout the island that even the sorcerer from the West was not able to save himself from the Creature of the Cavern.”

Again Martin felt that unpleasant chill upon him. But he shook it off. Whatever this new ordeal might be, he must face it fairly and squarely. It was not only his own life that was at stake, but the lives of Akon, of Hymer, of the King—and in the long run, no doubt, of Professor Distin himself, for once Odan was undisputed ruler of Lemuria the first thing he would do would be to lead his Armada against the other island.

Odan spoke again.

“This way, sorcerer,” he said. “Walk, if you will. If you will not, you will go nevertheless.”

Martin laughed.

The cool certainty with which he spoke impressed even Odan. Odan, remember, was steeped almost as deeply in superstition as the brown men themselves, and although he had managed to catch Hymer tripping over the fire fountain business, yet he had a secret belief that Martin really could work magic. The flying machine, to say nothing of the mysterious fog that night upon the island lake, had shaken him badly, and he was ready to believe that almost anything was possible to Martin.

Grunting angrily under his breath, he signed to Martin to follow, and led the way towards the cliff face. The rest, forming into double line, followed. No one spoke a word. The silence was broken only by the tramp of feet across the hard, dry ground.

The rude path that ran through the valley and which they followed led straight to the cliff face, ending in the arched mouth of a cave. It was the same cave which Martin had noticed on the occasion of his previous visit, and which he had wished to search for saltpetre. Hymer’s words came back to him: “Beasts not wholesome for man to meet” inhabited the cave.

Once more he had to use all his will power to shake off the creeping horror that came over him. Next minute he had passed under the black arch.

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here,” were the words that flashed through his brain, and truly the black, echoing gloom of the place was enough to try the strongest nerves. The procession halted a minute while torches were lit. Their red, smoky glare showed the passage sloping endlessly down into the bowels of the earth. Walls and roof were of a dark, heavy-colored rock; the roof was high and vaulted, while the floor was worn as though by the passage of many feet.

The procession moved steadily on. No one uttered a word, but the sound of their footsteps sent queer echoes whispering up and down the lofty tunnel.

On they went until Martin reckoned they must be nearly a quarter of a mile from the entrance and several hundred feet below the level of the floor of the valley. Then the passage opened out into a vast cavern, so lofty that the torch-light failed to reach the roof. But in front the ruddy glare was reflected from something which presently Martin made out to be a sheet of water.

A few steps farther, and Odan stopped on the edge of this underground lake which stretched out in an unbroken sheet as far as the light reached. This lake had the appearance of a sheet of black glass, and appeared to be of fathomless depth. Not a ripple broke its surface.

“Come hither, wizard,” said Odan.

Martin, holding his head high, stepped forward. He was watching Odan warily; he did not intend to be caught napping.

To his astonishment he saw a small boat under the ledge of rock that rimmed the lake.

“Now,” said Odan grimly, “we are about to test your powers. You see before you a rock which rises from the water of the Lake of Death. This is the testing place. Row out, seat yourself upon the rock, remain there for half an hour, and if you are alive at the end of it, then—then we will acknowledge that you are indeed a wizard, and that your powers are greater than those of man.”

Martin looked Odan full in the face.

“And supposing that, even without the help of Hymer the priest, I come safely through this ordeal, what then Odan? Have I your word to go free?”

Odan smiled dreadfully.

“You have, O sorcerer! You have my promise.”

Martin nodded.

“That is well,” he said calmly.

At once he stepped into the boat, and, picking up the paddle, drove the small craft swiftly across towards the blunt rock which rose out of the depths at a distance of perhaps thirty yards from the shore.

As he did so, a curious sound, a sort of thick sigh, rose from the watchers around the edge.