The Science-Fantasy Megapack. E. C. Tubb
spoke to their dead menfolk, little everyday Welsh phrases that the dead would know well. They comforted the dead and relieved their own grief. We came too, the children of the village, but we were driven away. My mother was bitterly angry with me when I persisted.
“Your father is dead, and your brothers too! Dead! The minister spoke the words. Don’t disturb them now. Don’t trouble the dead!”
She had never looked so angry.
I learned the reason for that anger from the other children. She did not believe in the old ways. But, child-like, I was fascinated by the idea that you could call on the dead. I suppose I thought of it as a form of macabre telephoning. How I wanted to communicate with my dead father and brothers!
So strong was my morbid wish that I disobeyed my mother. It was of no use hanging about the pithead. My mother would soon hear of it if I began calling down the blocked-up shaft. Instead, I went to one of the many ventilation outlets that dotted the upper reaches of the valley. On the day of the disaster, they had spumed black smoke and red flame for hours.
No one saw me. I would slip away after school before my younger brothers realized I was gone. I talked, often for an hour, of the day’s trivial happenings:
‘Dad!’ I would whisper. ‘Can you hear? I’ve done well at arithmetic today! We had dripping toast for breakfast again, and Gareth has a black eye!’
How simple and innocent it was! I kept up my one-sided conversations for nearly two weeks. I tried to pretend that Dad or David or Rhys answered, but there was nothing but a thin whistling sound from the deep, black hole. I was careful not to get my dress soiled on the smoke-encrusted brick when I peered down. Nothing! Only the iron ladder and a distant, cold whistling.
One afternoon I arrived later than usual, for I was losing interest in my macabre game. It was to be given fresh interest, for a most unusual thing occurred.
Mr. Jackson, the English under-manager of the colliery, was there. I almost called out to him, but I remembered that he spoke little Welsh. In his bowler hat and dark suit, he was an imposing figure to a young girl. I said nothing.
He peered into the depths. And then he began to speak in his guttural English. Of course, I did not understand him, as I have said, but I was fascinated. Here was another who conversed with the dead! I almost called out, but my shyness stopped me. I was sure he did not wish for company.
To my delight kind Mr. Jackson came the next day. And the next. He would call down lengthy, impassioned messages for up to half-an-hour. I listened, but for several days I could make no sense of his words. I caught one word, then two, with much difficulty. And I knew them! ‘Morgan’ and ‘Lewis’!
Morgan Lewis! Mr. Jackson was trying to call on the soul of one of the young colliers who had died three weeks before! I knew Morgan well.
Poor Mr. Jackson, I thought, poor Mr. Jackson to be so sad now that his friend was dead! I almost called to him that Morgan would hear and come. I had no need.
Mr. Jackson had just finished his conversation when it happened. He turned and I hid. He was grinning. I am sure that he did not see the long thin arms that rested on the brickwork behind him, nor the long emaciated and blackened fingers. I saw them. To this day I swear that I saw them. A child’s vision is more than twice as acute as an adult’s. I did see the arms.
They drew him back. Mr. Jackson’s hat fell off. He made an effort to reach the skeletal arms and hands, but he was already off-balance.
I got up, not afraid since I had been expecting some response. At eight you can forget to fear, so interested are you in your own thoughts. But I saw that Mr. Jackson experienced fear.
He went to join his hundred men. I rushed to pick up his bowler hat. There was no Mr. Jackson to give it to. I looked down. I listened. Nothing.
I almost returned Mr. Jackson’s hat to him, thinking he might need it in the empty darkness, but I was pleased that I carried it with me as I ran back to the village. The sight of the hat convinced my Uncle Thomas that I had not invented the whole episode. My mother said nothing, nor did the neighbors. They all stared at me as if I were some strange new animal. They sent the younger children away, and I began to cry. I thought I would be punished.
“He was calling you say?” my Uncle asked.
“Yes, calling!”
“Calling who?”
“Why, calling the dead soul!”
They began to understand. Uncle Thomas frowned.
“This calling, girl! Mr. Jackson had no relatives in the pit—he had no one to call on!”
I had not mentioned Morgan Lewis. Proudly I said:
“He had! His friend!”
“How do you know, girl? You don’t speak English!”
“I know, Uncle, but I did hear him say the name.”
“What name?”
“Why, Morgan Lewis’s! Very loud! Always Morgan Lewis!”
I was afraid then. I saw the horror in my mother’s eyes. They had not believed my story of the terrible arms and the blackened, emaciated fingers. Not until that moment.
“I knew Morgan Lewis would come.” I babbled on. “Mr. Jackson called him so strongly!”
Uncle Thomas grasped me by the shoulders. Very fiercely he said:
“You saw nothing, girl, nothing!”
Girls obeyed their elders in Wales then.
“Nothing, Uncle,” I repeated.
I learned the rest of the story years later. Mr. Jackson had come to Bryn Cynon with a pretty young wife, and Morgan Lewis of the black eyes and white teeth had a way with the women. Cunning and vindictive, that was Mr. Jackson’s reputation. He had ready access to explosives. How better to conceal a murder than in a massacre?
My Uncle Thomas threw the hat down the ventilation shaft. That was something else I did not learn for many years. I have often thought of that deep hole and the empty whistling sound.
Could Morgan Lewis have survived for three weeks in some safe pocket of the mine, perhaps blinded and terribly wounded, until he heard someone calling his name? Could a dying man have climbed the shaft to listen to the under-manager? Certainly Morgan knew some English. He had learned it from Mrs. Jackson. Had he heard Jackson’s cruel voice?
I thought about Celtic legend too.
Had some awful specter heard the taunts and come to answer on behalf of all those dead Celts?
I don’t know.
I have never called on the dead since. I never will.
THE WARLORD OF KUL SATU, by Brian Ball
Archaeologists can forget that the past is still with us. Its ghosts still linger. We forgot at Kul Satu.
The Warlord had been buried after the manner of the Scythian kings who were also battle-leaders. His horses had been pole-axed and placed around the central circular tomb. Fourteen men and eight women, one of them his queen or chief concubine, had contributed their deaths to his monument. Most had been strangled, a few poisoned. Food and weapons, cauldrons and armor, had been supplied on a lavish scale. The Warlord could ride with a full retinue through the eternal plains.
Al, my fiancé, saw him first.
“This is one big-time operator!” he called.
We were delighted. Finding a Scythian Warlord so far West meant that we knew the extent of the warrior-herdsmen’s penetration of Europe. Did I feel a chill of apprehension when I looked into the juniper coffin? Or was it that a chill wind had sprung up across the Hungarian plain? I remember feeling proud of Al.
It was one of the workmen the Hungarian government had supplied who made me feel a little uneasy.
“Grave-robbers!”