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!” he muttered.
The locals had never dared go near the Warlord’s grave. Even after twenty-five centuries, his grim reputation had survived. It was a place of evil spirits, we were assured. The workman made the sign of the cross and edged away. Al was peeved by his remark.
I was a little annoyed too. We had never thought of ourselves as robbers. The Hungarians had been glad to give us permits to excavate the mound at Kul Satu. We were financially independent, we were reputable archaeologists, and they knew we wouldn’t steal the gold and silver from the tomb. How could we be robbers?
I looked at the mummified corpse. The Warlord had been a big man by Scythian standards. He was heavy-boned, and he had been well-fleshed. I could distinguish his features even after the passing of over two thousand years.
“He was some guy!” Al exulted. I thought he looked cruel and I said so.
“You know the Scythians, honey! They ate babies for breakfast!”
Sometimes I wish Al would not make macabre jokes. But he was right about the Scythians. Not that they ate babies, of course. War was their way of life, war and all its grisly rituals. They took their young women into battle with them. The Warlord’s chief woman had gone to her grave with a beautifully-made sword in her hands. Al’s remark troubled me. So did the Warlord’s menacing features. I think it was then that I first sensed the brooding spirit of that barbaric splendidly-costumed and bejeweled warrior-king.
That night I dreamt of the gold-hilted sword, the electrum amulets, the bracelets and the magnificent silver bowls. I awoke shivering, with the pale moonlight dusting the nylon of the tent. I did not want to dream of the Scythians, but sleep took me once more and I saw the horses sweeping over the huge Hungarian steppes as they had done those long centuries ago. The ghosts of the mound at Kul Satu were stirring. I began to understand that the past is still with us.
It was the first time I had felt fear—actual and acute fear—on a dig. I awoke once more, this time hot and sweaty. Some impulse made me put on a gown and walk, through the silent camp towards the mound we had opened up. The plastic sheets covering the tomb flapped in the slight wind. Even though I was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread, I was impelled to look at that cruel long-dead face.
The Warlord’s presence seemed to hover about the night like some unseen but powerful miasma. In the cold moonlight, I felt the anguish of the strangled and the griping terrors of the poisoned. Blood and dread filled the night. I ran, whimpering.
Why I did not go to Al for comfort and reassurance I shall never understand. Perhaps I thought he would consider me foolish. I was. All I can say is that a scientist isn’t supposed to be afraid of his field of research. I was a fool. I told Al nothing.
