gns.throwback- 第18部分

　　
　　Jackie　busied　herself　during　the　daytime　making　clothes　for　Kuz　and　herself；　sheepskin　garments　which　would　keep　out　the　bitter　winter　cold。　The　other　women　fashioned　crude　pottery　out　of　the　surplus　building　clay；　rolling　it　into　long　cylindrical　shapes　and　then　moulding　it　and　smoothing　it；　baking　it　hard。　Pots　to　cook　in；　beakers　to　drink　from；　even　plates　on　which　to　eat　their　food。　Gradually　civilisation　was　taking　shape。　Jackie　even　took　to　decorating　some　of　these　earthenware　vessels；　making　patterns　on　them　with　a　slim　shard　of　stone。
　　
　　It　was　Racel　she　feared　most　during　those　hours　whilst　Kuz　was　away。　A　slim　young　girl　with　no　man　of　her　own　although　sometimes　the　other　men　took　her　to　satisfy　their　lust；　a　nymph　who　spent　most　of　her　time　alone　down　by　the　stream。　Jackie　feared　lest　one　night　Kuz　might　go　to　her；　her　own　status　would　then　be　in　jeopardy。　Her　own　hatred　towards　Racel　simmered；　she　even　considered　killing　the　girl；　holding　her　down　in　the　water　where　she　would　not　even　be　able　to　scream；　leaving　her　there　for　the　others　to　find。　An　accident；　a　drowning；　none　would　be　able　to　prove　otherwise。　But　she　hesitated；　hoped　that　it　would　not　e　to　that。　As　yet　Kuz　had　shown　no　more　than　a　passing　interest　in　the　younger　girl。　Jackie　would　keep　a　close　watch　on　the　situation。　She　would　lose　her　life　before　she　relinquished　her　mate。
　　
　　Then　one　evening　the　hunters　returned　with　a　prisoner。　An　excited　chattering　from　the　other　women　brought　Jackie　to　the　door　of　the　new　dwelling…place；　had　her　shading　her　eyes　from　the　blinding　last　rays　of　the　setting　sun　as　she　gazed　in　a　westerly　direction　across　the　rolling　heather　and　bracken　slopes。　She　made　out　a　file　of　some　twenty　or　thirty　men；　the　'bearers'　laden　with　the　carcass　of　some　huge　animal；　probably　a　bull　or　a　cow；　which　they　had　slaughtered　and　jointed。　She　recognised　Kuz's　powerful　shape　in　the　lead　and　in　front　of　him　shambled　a　stooped　and　cowed　form；　one　whose　hands　and　arms　were　bound　with　ropes；　being　prodded　along　by　a　vicious　pitchfork　in　the　hands　of　the　chief。　Her　mouth　went　dry　and　she　trembled　slightly。
　　
　　The　women　flocked　to　the　edge　of　the　camp；　clustered　together；　jabbering　and　pointing。　What　was　this　that　the　hunters　had　caught？　It　looked　like　a　man；　yet　the　features　were　hairless；　the　approaching　column　was　now　near　enough　for　them　to　discern　details。　Strange　clothing　that　virtually　enclosed　the　entire　body　as　though　the　tender　while　flesh　had　to　be　protected　from　the　elements。　Their　cries　of　wonderment　turning　to　fear；　they　huddled　together　in　case　this　strange　creature　suddenly　broke　free　and　attacked　them。
　　
　　But　there　was　no　way　the　captive　was　going　to　escape　from　Kuz　and　his　followers。　The　rope　which　bound　him　was　pulled　so　tightly　that　his　hands　were　numb　from　loss　of　circulation　and　there　was　a　discoloration　on　the　side　of　his　head　that　was　still　swelling；　a　blow　from　a　club　having　knocked　him　unconscious。
　　
　　Phil　Winder's　head　throbbed　and　his　vision　was　distorted；　blurred　moving　shapes　around　him；　threatening　creatures　that　might　have　e　straight　out　of　some　weird　fantasy　movie；　celluloid　images　taking　on　3…D　perspective。　A　swift　jab　to　his　buttocks　from　those　needle　prongs　had　him　crying　out　his　pain　and　fear　aloud；　guttural　laughs　mocking　him。　He　almost　blacked　out；　maybe　it　would　be　better　if　he　had　done　so　because　when　he　came　to　these　creatures　would　have　disappeared；　and　if　he　didn't　regain　consciousness　then　at　least　he　would　be　spared　all　this。　But　he　didn't　faint；　just　stumbled；　the　rope　jerked　taut　preventing　him　from　falling。　And　he　knew　then　that　it　was　all　really　happening。
　　
　　At　twenty　his　figure　was　still　boyish；　possibly　ungainly　but　not　when　pared　with　this　lot！　His　mother　used　to　say　repeatedly　to　her　friends；　'Our　Phil's　got　his　dad's　bum　and　my　short　legs。'　Which　was　true　but　it　didn't　matter　any　more。　He　had　e　home　on　vacation　from　college；　a　week's　courtesy　stay　really　at　his　folks'　farm　out　in　the　sticks　because　if　he　didn't　show　his　face　occasionally　there　was　always　the　possibility　that　they　might　cut　his　allowance；　and　then　he'd　be　left　to　manage　on　his　grant　which　would　be　a　well…nigh　impossibility。　Staying　around　the　farm　was　just　asking　for　trouble；　Dad　would　rope　him　in　for　the　hay　harvest　or　else　his　mother　would　make　the　most　of　having　a　driver　available　and　think　up　all　kinds　of　shopping　trips　that　her　husband　was　always　too　busy　to　take　her　on。　'Now　you　go　and　park　in　the　multi…storey　and　wait　for　me　there…I　shan't　be　long。　And　on　the　way　back　we'd　better　call　and　see　the　Mitchells。　I　haven't　been　there　since　last　Christmas　and　they'll　be　thinking　that　I　don't　want　to　see　them　any　more。'　Mother　would　fill　his　days　all　right　if　Dad　didn't；　so　he'd　gone　pot…holing。　Well；　not　real　pot…holing　because　the　old　mine　shafts　were　artificial。　Dangerous；　too；　but　if　you　were　careful　you　were　safe　enough。　The　locals　called　them　the　'treacle　mines'；　lead　mines　which　were　played　out　now；　but　there　were　a　few　shafts　still　open　if　you　could　find　them；　hidden　in　the　moorland　heather。
　　
　　That　was　when　Phil　Winder's　first　nightmare　had　begun。　He　had　found　a　deep　shaft；　had　winched　himself　down。　There　was　water　in　the　bottom　but　only　an　inch　or　so；　it　drained　away　somewhere　down　one　of　the　passages　that　led　off　from　the　main　one。　Using　his　torch　he　had　followed　that　first　passage；　e　to　a　fork　and　taken　the　left…hand　one。　Fascinating；　exciting；　the　roof　was　sound　enough　even　if　it　did　sag　in　places　and　he　had　to　crawl　sometimes　for　ten　yards　at　a　stretch。　Possibly　nobody　had　e　down　here　since　the　mine　had　closed　at　the　turn　of　the　century。　There　was　no　knowing　what　he　might　find。　His　spirit　of　adventure　spurred　him　on　oblivious　of　the　obvious　danger　until　it　was　too　late。　He　was　lost！
　　
　　Panic　at　first；　wanting　to　scream；　to　run　blindly　down　every　opening　he　came　to。　Help　me；　for　God's　sake　somebody！　But　nobody　would　hear　him。　To　give　up；　to　slump　down　on　the　wet　floor　and　sob。　There's　no　way　out；　you'll　die　down　here；　they　won't　even　find　your　body　to　give　you　a　funeral。　This　is　your　grave；　your　own　private　tomb。　You're　here　forever。　You'll　go　mad　before　you　die。
　　
　　After　the　initial　shock　he　had　managed　to　pull　himself　together。　He　wouldn't　get　anywhere　either　by　panicking　or　giving　up；　either　way　he　would　die。　First；　he　had　to　rest；　get　his　strength　back；　conserve　his　torch　batteries　as　well。　Then　later　he　would　embark　upon　a　systematic　exploration　of　the　mine　tunnels　until　he　found　the　shaft　that　led　up　to　the　world　above。　It　had　to　be　here　somewhere；　it　was　just　a　question　of　stumbling　on　it。　He　could　only　hope。　He　didn't　pray　because　he　did　not　believe。　Even　in　this　sort　of　desperate　situation　he　wasn't　going　to　yield　to　that　religious　indoctrination　that　it　had　taken　him　all　his　college　years　to　get　rid　of；　like　a　child　convincing　himself　that　there　isn't　a　bogey　in　the　stair　cupboard。
　　
　　Fatigue　forced　him　to　sleep　and　when　he　awoke　he　embarked　upon　the　search　again；　got　the　distinct　feeling　that　some　of　the　tunnels　doubled　back　on　themselves。　It　might　have　been　his　imagination；　he　was　so　disorientated　that　he　couldn't　be　sure。　He　had　lost　all　track　of　time；　regretted　not　having　brought　a　watch　with　him；　didn't　even　know　how　long　he　had　been　below　ground。　It　was　impossible　to　hazard　a　guess。　Hours；　days？　Eternal　blackness　whenever　he　switched　the　torch　off；　using　it　sparingly　now　because　the　battery　was　running　out。　Soon　he　would　have　to　face　up　to　life　without　even　that　dim　yellow　glow。
　　
　　He　was　hungry；　too。　Nausea　that　had　him　retching；　tasting　his　own　bile　and　smelling　his　own　sweat。　Once　he　almost　got　round　to　praying；　that　was　how　bad　it　was。
　　
　　He　was　glad　he　had　not　yielded　to　the　temptation　because　shortly　after　that　he　spied　a　sliver　of　weak　daylight　up　ahead　of　him　and　knew　he'd　found　the　shaft。　If　he　had　prayed　his　mind　would　never　have　accepted　that　those　prayers　had　not　been　answered；　he　might　even　have　started　going　to　chapel　again　on　Sundays。　Sorry　Mum；　Dad；　you　were　right　after　all。　Sorry　God。　One　coincidence　could　have　changed　his　future　life。
　　
　　It　took　him　some　time　to　get　back　up　to　the　surface。　At　one　stage　he　thought　he　wasn't　going　to　make　it　because　he　was　so　weak；　like　that　time　he　had　had　the　measles　when　he　was　sixteen。　But　he　got　there　in　the'end；　lay　prone　in　the　scorching　sun　a　few　yards　from　the　shaft　entrance　and　promised　himself　he　would　never　go　pot…holing　again。　Not　ever。　Let's　go　on　that　shopping　trip　to　Shrewsbury　tomorrow；　Mum。　I'll　wait　for　you　in　the　multi…storey。　Take　your　time；　I　don't　mind　how　long　you　are。　And　maybe　the　day　after　I'll　give　Dad　a　hand　with　the　hay　harvest。　But　I　won't　ever　go　underground　again。
　　
　　Eventually　he　got　to　his　feet；　swayed　unsteadily　as　a　fit　of　dizziness　engulfed　him。　An　awful　thought；　suppose　he　fell　and　toppled　back　down　there。　Walking　wasn't　easy；　he　could　have　flopped　down　into　the　soft　springy　heather　and　just　gone　to　sleep。　But　he　had　to　get　home；　they　would　be　searching　for　him；　maybe　even　the　police　were　out　with　tracker　dogs；　lines　of　civilians　scouring　the　hills。　He　was　not　even　sure　if　he　had　been　below　ground　overn