CHAPTER V

UP AND STILL UP, AND THROUGH THE QUARRIES OF THE DEMONS.—HOW THE

CATTLE KEPT THE TRAIL, AND HOW WE CAME AT LAST UPON THE BRINK OF

THE GIANTS’ WELL.—THE TERRACES ARE SAFELY PASSED.—BEGINNING OF THE

DESCENT INTO THE WELL ITSELF.—ALL DIFFICULTIES OVERCOME.—WE REACH

THE EDGE OF POLYPHEMUS’ FUNNEL.

Generally speaking, people with very large heads are fitted out by

nature with a pair of rather pipe-stemmy legs, but such was not my case.

I was blest with legs of the sturdiest sort, and found no difficulty in

keeping pace with my new four-footed friends who, to my delight, were

not long in convincing me that they had been there before. Not for an

instant did they halt at any fork in the path, but kept continually on

the move, often passing over stretches of ground where there was no

trail visible, but coming upon it again with unfailing accuracy. Once

only they halted, and that was to slake their thirst at a mountain rill,

Bulger and I following their example.

It was only too evident to me that they had in mind a certain

grazing-ground, and were resolved to be satisfied with no other; so I

let them have their own way, for, as it was still up, up, up, I felt

that it was perfectly safe to follow their lead.

At last the mountain side began to take on quite another character. The

gorges grew narrower, and at times overhanging rocks shut out the

sunlight almost entirely. We were entering a region of peculiar

wildness, of fantastic grandeur.

I had often read of what travellers termed the “Quarries of the Demons”

in the Northern Urals, but never till now had I the faintest notion of

what the expression meant.

Imagine to yourself the usual look of ruin and devastation around and

about a quarry worked by human hands, then in your thoughts conceive

every chip to be a block, and every block a mass; add four times its

size to every slab and post and pediment, and then turn a mighty torrent

through the place and roll and twist and lift them up in wild confusion,

end on end and on each other piled, till these wild waters have builded

fantastic portals to temples more fantastic, and arched wild gorges with

roofs of rock which seem to hang so lightly that a breath or footfall

might bring them down with terrible crash, and then, dear friends, you

may succeed in getting a faint idea of the wild and awful grandeur of

the scene which now lay spread out before me.

Would the cattle that had now led Bulger and me so safely up the

mountain side know where to find an entrance to this wilderness of

broken rock, and what was more important still, would they, when once

engaged within its winding courts and corridors, its darkened maze of

wall and parapet, its streets and plazas roughly paved as if by demon

hands impatient of the task, know how to find their way out again?

Dear friends, man has always been too distrustful of his four-footed

companions. They have much that they might tell us had they but speech

to tell it with. I have often trusted them when it would have seemed

foolhardy to you, and never once have I had cause to repent of doing so.

So Bulger and I, with stout hearts, followed straight after these silent

guides, although I must confess my legs were beginning to feel the

terrible strain I had put them to; but I resolved to push on ahead, at

least until we had cleared the Demons’ Quarry, and then to bring my

little herd to a halt and pass the rest of the day and the night season

in well-earned repose.

Once within the quarry, however, all sense of fatigue vanished, and my

thankful mind, entranced and fascinated by the deep silence, the awful

grandeur, the mysterious lights and shadows of the place, lent me new

strength. At length we had traversed this city of silence and gloom, and

once again we emerged into the full glory of the afternoon sun.

Suddenly my little drove of cattle, with playful tossing of their heads,

broke into a run, Bulger and I at their heels, however. It was a mad

race; but, dear friends, when it ended I took off my fur cap and tossed

it high into the air with a wild cry of joy, and Bulger broke out in a

string of yelps and barks, for, look ye, the cattle were grazing away

for dear life there in front of me, and as their breath reached me my

keen nostrils recognized the odor of Yuliana’s herbs which she had bound

on my hurt head.

Yes, we stood almost upon the brink of the Giants’ Well, but I was too

tired to take another step farther, too tired, in fact, to eat, although

I had a stock of dried fruit in my pockets, and noticed that the nests

of the wild fowl were well supplied with eggs. Having unloosened the

tackle from the back of the good beast that had carried it up the

mountain for me, I threw myself on the ground and was soon fast asleep,

with my faithful Bulger coiled up close against my breast.

In the morning the cattle were nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t trouble

myself about them, for I knew that old Yuliana would be sent up after

them the moment they were missed. After a hearty breakfast on half a

dozen roasted eggs of the wild fowl, with some dried fruit and

wintergreen berries, Bulger and I advanced to the edge of the Giants’

Well, or, rather, to the edge of the vast terraces of rock leading down

to it, each of which was from thirty to fifty feet in sheer height.

Before I go any farther, dear friends, I must beg you to remember that I

am an expert in the use of tackle, there being no knot, noose, or splice

known to a sailor which I didn’t have at my fingers’ ends, a fact not to

be wondered at when you take into consideration the thousands of miles

which I have travelled on water.

Nor would I have you shake your heads and look only half persuaded when

I go on describing our descent into the Giants’ Well, for of course

you’ll be asking yourselves how I succeeded in getting the tackle down

when there was no one left at the other end to untie it!

Know, then, that that was the smallest of my troubles; for, as any

sailor will tell you, you only need to tie your line in what is known as

a “fool’s knot,” to one end of which you make fast a mere cord. The

moment you have reached the bottom, a sharp tug at the cord unties the

fool’s knot, and your tackle falls down after you. My method was to

lower Bulger down first, and then let myself down after him. In this way

we proceeded from parapet to parapet, until at last we stood upon the

very edge of the vast well, the existence of which had been so

mysteriously hinted at in Don Fum’s manuscript. Its mouth was probably

fifty feet in width, and by straining my eyes I satisfied myself of the

existence of a shelf of rock on one side, as nearly as I could judge

about seventy-five feet down. It was a goodly stretch, and would require

every foot of my rope. You will not smile, I’m sure, when I tell you

that I pressed Bulger to my breast, and kissed him fondly before

lowering away. He returned my caresses, and by his joyous yelp gave me

to understand that he had perfect faith in his little master.

In a few moments I had joined him on this narrow shelf of rock. Below us

now was darkness, but think you I hesitated? I knew that my eyes would

soon become accustomed to the gloom, and I also knew that when my eyes

failed Bulger’s keener ones were there to help me out.

I rigged my tackle now with extra care, for I was really lowering my

little brother on a sort of trip of discovery.

He was soon out of sight, and then, in spite of my calmness, I drew a

quick breath, and my heart started upward a barleycorn or so. But hark!

his quick, sharp bark comes plainly up to me. It means that he has

landed upon a safe shelf or ledge, and the next moment my legs encircled

the rope, and I began to glide noiselessly down into the stilly depths,

his glad voice ringing in my ears.

Again and again did I send my wise and watchful little brother down

ahead of me, until at last, standing there and looking up, naught

remained to me of the mighty outside world but a bright silver speck,

like a tiny ray of light streaming through a pin-hole in the curtains of

your chamber.

But stop, have we reached the bottom of the Giants’ Well? for with a

trial plummet I find that the walls are no longer sheer; they slope

inward, and gently too, almost so much so that I hardly need a line to

continue my descent. Lighting one of my little tapers, I make my way

cautiously around the edge. In half an hour I find myself back at the

starting-place. The curve to the path has been always the same, while my

trial plummet at all times has indicated the same slope to the rocky

basin. And then for the first time, two certain words made use of by

that learned Master of Masters, Don Fum, till then a mystery to me,

stood out before my eyes as if written with a pen of fire upon those

black walls thousands of feet below the great world of light which I had

quitted a few hours before. Those words were Polyphemus’ Funnel! Yes,

there could be no doubt of it: I had reached the bottom of the Giants’

Well. I stood upon the edge of Polyphemus’ Funnel!