In spite of his thoughts the previous night, he ate a hearty meal and then went off with the others to the excavation site. Work was progressing a little more slowly now that they were digging deeper into the ground. Here the earth was far harder than before and on many occasions, the picks struck sparks from hidden rocks under the soil and large boulders had to be heaved manually out of their age-old resting place.
A few of the natives had gathered to watch once more and he walked over to them, motioning to Walton to accompany him.
“Are you going to question them, Ralph?” asked the other, and there seemed to be a touch of uneasiness in his deep voice.
“That’s the general idea. Apart from what we manage to find down there, I think there’s a lot more we can learn by questioning the natives. They must have some legend, some myths.”
“It’s quite likely, but whether or not they’ll talk about them is a different matter,” warned the other. “We can only try to worm something out of them, but something tells me they’ll be very reticent.”
They approached the small knot of natives. Mitchell eyed them curiously. Olive-skinned, they seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the images which dotted the plain. It was quite obvious that the human, or subhuman likenesses which had been the models for those stone faces, had long since left the island, had vanished in mystery somewhere in the far mists of time.
One of the men, a tall, stern-faced man in his fifties as near as Mitchell could judge, spoke reasonably good English.
“Those statues over there,” began Mitchell, waving an arm which embraced the plateau where the rest of the crew were toiling in the glaring sunlight. “Do any of you know when they were made, and who carved them?”
The man regarded him closely for a long moment, so long that Mitchell had half despaired of an answer. Then he said slowly: “They have been here since the beginning of time. They came from the inside of Rano Raraku. If you go there you can see many more which have not been taken to their final resting place. They are waiting there now.”
Almost foolishly, Mitchell went on: “And do you believe that they will ever go to their final resting place? Or will they remain there forever?”
“That we do not know. If they wish to go, then they will go.”
“And yet you have no stories about them—no legends as to why they were carved?”
“There are stories, but they cannot be told, not to strangers.”
“Why not?” pressed Mitchell sharply. “Are you afraid to tell us?”
He had noticed the brief expression which had flickered over the man’s face, and there seemed to have been a fragmentary glance in Walton’s direction. Mitchell felt puzzled. He could understand a reticence on the other’s part if he was trying to hide something until the price had been made right for any information, but this was something he did not understand. That the other seemed afraid was obvious. But afraid of what? Of some reaction on the part of the other natives if he should talk of sacred things, or reveal any of the carefully guarded secrets of the island?
It seemed feasible, but the other must have known that none of his companions spoke a word of English and therefore could not understand anything he said.
“These are things so old that no one can talk about them. They have been guarded from the beginning of time.”
So that was that, thought Mitchell angrily. Once again, he had come up against this stone wall of impenetrable silence. It was almost as if this was killing knowledge, as if possession of it could be dangerous. But now, more than ever before, he felt certain that it had been handed down by word of mouth from one generation to another on the island, that the old knowledge was still there, but whispered around the fires in the night, or perhaps incorporated in the weird chants he had heard the previous night, the eerie sound wailing over the silent plateau.
He brushed aside the other’s sudden silence and said harshly: “If you won’t talk to me about these things, then at least tell me someone who will, someone who isn’t afraid like a child.”
If he had expected the insult to sting the other into some unguarded retort, he was sadly disappointed. The other merely pursed his lips, then shook his head, turned on his heels and stalked off with his head held stiffly in the air. After a moment’s pause, the other natives followed him.
Mitchell turned impulsively, exasperated, to Walton. “How in God’s name do you get stubborn people like that to talk?”
“I warned you that it wouldn’t be easy,” said the other evenly. He took out his pipe, filled it slowly, methodically, and lit it carefully, blowing the smoke into the air through pursed lips. “But there may be a way. I think we may have our friend Professor Nordhurst to thank for it, too.”
“How do you mean?” countered Mitchell.
“He’s been spreading it around that he doesn’t believe in the old legends, whatever they are. Sooner or later, I have the idea that someone is going to show him how wrong he is. We only have to wait until then to find out some of the answers.”
Mitchell gazed at him without smiling. “You seem to know a lot more about these people than I ever gave you credit for,” he said eventually. “Just where do you fit into this deal? First I discover that you can speak their language, speak it fluently, too. Secondly, you seem to know how their minds work.”
“Let’s say I’ve made quite a study of them, especially on the voyage here. I’ve had plenty of time to read up on most of what there is to know about them.”
Mitchell would have liked to have questioned the other further, but at that moment there was a sudden shout from the valley a little below them and he turned to see. Nordhurst was waving his arms excitedly. They hurried down the grassy slope.
“What is it?” he asked breathlessly.
The Professor pointed. Mitchell stared down at the body of the great stone statue where it had been uncovered by the sweating men. He leaned forward, realising as he did so, that Walton was peering intently over his shoulder. He heard the other’s sharp intake of breath.
The designs etched into the solid stone sent little shivers running up and down his spine. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before, carvings of unmistakable significance, of brooding terror, of creatures which were neither man nor bird, but something inexplicably between the two, all speaking mutely of a way of life, strange and terrible, led by inhabitants which were perhaps half-beast, half-man, possibly gigantic, although there was nothing there to give any indication of their true size.
“You’re thinking of those strange images carved on the walls of the caves in New Guinea,” said Walton quietly.
“Yes—and in a few other places of the world,” Mitchell nodded. “Those in Peru are extremely similar to these, although there are some differences which may be significant.”
“Hasn’t it already been established that the people of Easter Island must have originally come from South America?” suggested Nordhurst.
“That’s true,” agreed Mitchell, straightening his back. “But those carvings weren’t quite like these. There’s something—well, terrible—about these, something you can almost feel.”
“Nonsense! It’s merely because these have just been exposed after centuries. I’ve seen those ancient Aztec and Mayan inscriptions for myself first-hand.” The other spoke with a certain amount of pomposity. “At least give me some credit for knowing what I’m talking about.”
“My apologies,” said Mitchell thinly. He kept his temper with a supreme effort of will. “I didn’t mean to question your authority to speak on that point. I gather that we differ only on one point, Professor. I firmly believe these drawings had once a living model, you don’t.”
“Certainly not,” Nordhurst stared at him as though doubting his sanity. “Surely you aren’t going to suggest that at some time, on this island, there was a race of creatures like that. But it’s utterly preposterous, completely ridiculous.”