Complete Works of Bram Stoker (21 page)

CHAPTER V

 
When Sutherland and I had finished dinner that evening we took up the subject of bogs where we had left it in the morning. This was rather a movement of my own making, for I felt an awkwardness about touching on the special subject of the domestic relations of the inhabitants of Knockcalltecrore. After several interesting remarks, Dick said:

“There is one thing that I wish to investigate thoroughly: the correlation of bog and special geological formations.” “For instance?” said I. “Well, specially with regard to limestone. Just at this part of the country I find it almost impossible to pursue the investigation any more than Van Trail could have pursued snake studies in Iceland.” “Is there no limestone at all in this part of the country?” I queried.

“Oh yes, in lots of places; but as yet I have not been able to find any about here. I say ‘as yet’ on purpose, because it seems to me that there must be some on Knockcalltecrore.” Needless to say the conversation here became to me much more interesting. Dick went on: “The main feature of the geological formation of all this part of the country is the vast amount of slate and granite, either in isolated patches or lying side by side. And as there are instances of limestone found in quaint ways, I am not without hopes that we mayyetfind the same phenomenon.” “Where do you find the instances of these limestone formations?” I queried, for I felt that as he was bound to come back to, or towards Shleenanaher, I could ease my own mind by pretending to divert his from it. “Well, as one instance, I can give you the Corrib River  —  the stream that drains Lough Corrib into Galway Bay; in fact, the river on which the town of Galway is built. At one place one side of the stream all is granite, and the other is all limestone; I believe the river runs overthe union of the two formations. Now, if there should happen to be a similar formation, even in the least degree, at Knockcalltecrore, it will be a great thing.”

“Why will it be a great thing?” I asked. “Because there is no lime near the place at all; because, with limestone on the spot, a hundred things could be done that, as thing are at present, would not repay the effort. With limestone we could reclaim the bogs cheaply all over the neighborhood  —  in fact a lime-kiln there would be worth a small fortune. We could build walls in the right places; I can see how a lovely little harbor could be made there at a small expense. And then, beyond all else, would be the certainty  —  which is at present in my mind only a hope or a dream  —  that we could fathom the secret of the Shifting Bog, and perhaps abolish or reclaim it.”

“This is exceedingly interesting,” said I, as I drew my chair closer. And I only spoke the exact truth, for at that moment I had no other thought in my mind. “Do you mind telling me more, Dick? I suppose you are not like Lamb’s Scotchman that will not broach a half-formed idea!” “Not the least in the world. It will be a real pleasure to have such a good listener. To begin at the beginning, I was much struck with that old cavity on the top of the Hill. It is one of the oddest things I have ever seen or heard of. If it were in any other place or among any other geological formation, I would think its origin must have been volcanic. But here such a thing is quite impossible. It was evidently once a lake.” “So goes the legend. I suppose you have heard it?” “Yes; and it rather confirms my theory. Legends have always a base in fact; and whatever cause gave rise to the myth of St. Patrick and the King of the Snakes, the fact remains that the legend is correct in at least one particular  —  that at some distant time there was a lake or pond on the spot.” “Are you certain?” “A very cursory glance satisfied me of that. I could not go i nto the matter thoroughly, for that old wolf of mi ne was so manifestly impatient that I should get to his wild-goose chase for the lost treasure-chest, that the time and opportunity were wanting. However, I saw quite enough to convince me.” “Well, how do you account for the change? What is your theory regarding the existence of limestone?”

“Simply this, that a lake or reservoir on the top of a mountain means the existence of a spring or springs. Now, springs in granite or hard slate do not wear away the substance of the rock in the same way as they do when they come through limestone. And, moreover, the natures of the two rocks are quite different. There are fissures and cavities in the limestone which are wanting, or which are, at any rate, not so common or perpetually recurrent in the other rock. Now, if it should be, as I surmise, that the reservoir was ever fed by a spring passing through a streak or bed of limestone, we shall probably find that in the progress of time the rock became worn, and that the spring found a way in some other direction  —  either some natural passage through a gap or fissure already formed, or by a channel made for itself.”

“And then?”

“And then the process is easily understandable. The spring naturally sent its waters where there was the least resistance, and they found their way out on some level lower than the top of the Hill. You perhaps noticed the peculiar formation of the Hill, specially on its west side  —  great sloping tables of rock suddenly ended by a wall of a different stratum  —  a sort of serrated edge all the way down the inclined plane; you could not miss seeing it, for it cuts the view like the teeth of a saw! Now, if the water, instead of rising to the top and then trickling down the old channel, which is still noticeable, had once found a vent on one of those shelving planes it would gradually fill up the whole cavity formed by the two planes, unless, in the mean time, it found some natural escape. As we know, the mountain is covered in a number of places with a growth or formation of bog, and this water, once accumulating under the bog, would not only saturate it, but would raise it  —  being of less specific gravity than itself  —  till it actually floated. Given such a state of things as this, it would only require sufficient time for the bog to become soft and less cohesive than when it was more dry and compact, and you have a dangerous bog, something like the carpet of death that we spoke of this morning.”

“So far I can quite understand,” said I. “But if this be so, how can the bog shift as this one undoubtedly has? It seems, so far, to be hedged with walls of rock. Surely these cannot move.”

Sutherland smiled. “I see you do apprehend. Now we are at the second stage. Did you notice, as we went across the hill-side, that there were distinct beds or banks of clay?”

“Certainly; do they come in?”

“Of course. If my theory is correct, the shifting is due to them.” “Explain!”

“So far as I can. But here I am only on surmise, or theory pure and simple. I may be all wrong, or I may be right  —  I shall know more before I am done with Shleenanaher. My theory is that the shifting is due to the change in the beds of clay, as, for instance, by rains washing them by degrees to lower levels; this is notably the case in that high clay bank just opposite the Snake’s Pass. The rocks are fixed, and so the clay becomes massed in banks between them, perhaps aided in the first instance by trees falling across the chasm or opening. But then the perpetually accumulating water from the spring has to find a way of escape; and as it cannot cut through the rock, it rises to the earth bed, till it either tops the bed of clay which confines it or finds a gap or fissure through which it can escape. In either case it make a perpetually deepening channel for itself, for the soft clay yields little by little to the stream passing over it, and so the surface of the outer level falls, and the water escapes, to perhaps find new reservoirs ready-made to receive it, and a similar process as before takes place.”

“Then the bog extends, and the extended part takes the place of the old bog, which gradually drains.” “Just so; but such would, of course, depend on the level; there might be two or more reservoirs, each with a deep bottom of its own and united only near the surface; or if the bank or bed of clay lay in the surface of one shelving rock, the water would naturally drain to the lowest point, and the upper land would be shallow in proportion.” “But,” I ventured to remark, “if this be so, one of two things must happen: either the water would wear away the clay so quickly that the accumulation would not be dangerous, or else the process would be a very gradual one, and would not be attended with such results as we are told of. There would be a change in the position of the bog, but there would not be the upheaval and complete displacement and chaos that I have heard of, for instance, with regard to this very bog of Knockcalltecrore.”

“Your ‘if is a great peacemaker. If what I have supposed were all, then the result would be as you have said; but there are lots of other supposes; as yet we have only considered one method of change. Suppose, for instance, that the waterfound a natural means of escape  —  as, for instance, where this very bog sends a stream over the rocks into the Cliff Fields  —  it would not attack the clay bed at all, unless under some unusual pressure. Then suppose that when such pressure had come the water did not rise and top the clay bed, but that it found a small fissure part of the way down. Suppose there were several such reservoirs as I have mentioned  —  and from the formation of the ground I think it very likely, for in several places jutting rocks from either side come close together, and suggest a sort of gap or canon in the rock formation, easily forming it into a reservoir. Then, if the barrier between the two upper ones were to be weakened and a sudden weight of water were to be thrown on the lower wall, suppose such wall were to partially collapse, and bring down, say, a clay bank, which would make a temporary barrier loftier than any yet existing, but only temporary; suppose that the quick accumulation of waters behind this barrier lifted the whole mass of water and slime and bog to its utmost height. Then, when such obstruction had been reached, the whole lower barrier, weakened by infiltration and attacked with sudden and new force, would give way at once, and the stream, kept down from above by the floating bog, would force its way along the bed-rock and lift the whole spongy mass resting on it. Then, with this new extent of bog suddenly saturated and weakened  —  demoralised as it were  —  and devoid of resisting power, the whole floating mass of the upper bog might descend on it, mingle with it, become incorporated with its semi-fluid substance, and form a new and dangerous quagmire incapable of sustaining solid weight, but leaving behind on the higher level only the refuse and sediment of its former existence  —  all the rubble and grit too heavy to float, and which would gradually settle down on the upper bed-rock.” “Really, Dick, you put it most graphically. What a terrible thing it would be to live on the line of such a change.”

“Terrible, indeed! At such a moment a house in the track of the movement  —  unless it were built on the rock  —  would go down like a ship in a storm  —  go down solid and in a moment, without warning and without hope!” “Then, with such a neighbor as a shifting bog, the only safe place for a house would be on a rock?”  —  Before my eyes, as I spoke, rose the vision of Murdock’s house, resting on its knoll of rock, and I was glad, for one reason, that there, at least, would be safety for Joyce  —  and his daughter.

“Exactly. Now Murdock’s house is as safe as a church. I must look at his new house when I go up to-morrow.” As I really did not care about Murdock’s future, I asked no further questions; so we sat in silence and smoked in the gathering twilight. There was a knock at the door. I called, “Come in.” The door opened slowly, and through a narrow opening Andy’s shock head presented itself.

“Come in, Andy,” said Dick. “Come here and try if you can manage a glass of punch.” “Begor!” was Andy’s sole expression of acquiescence.

The punch was brewed and handed to him. “Is that as good as Widow Kelligan’s?” I asked him.

Andy grinned: “All punch is good, yer ‘an’rs. Here’s both yer good healths, an’ here’s The Girls’ an’”  —  turning to me, ‘“the Bog.’” He winked, threw up his hand  —  and put down the empty glass. “Glory be to God!” was his grace after drink. “Well, Andy! what is it?” said Dick. “I’ve heerd,” said he, “that yer ‘an’rs isn’t goin’ in the mornin’ to Shleenanaher, and I thought that yez couldn’t do betther nordhrive over to Knocknacarto-morra an’ spind the day there.”

“And why Knocknacar?” said I. Andy twirled his cap between his hands in a sheepish way. I felt that he was acting a part, but could not see any want of reality. With a little hesitation he said: “I’ve gotherfrom what yer ‘an’rs wor sayin’ on the car this mornin’, that yez is both intherested in bogs, an’ there’s the beautifulest bit iv bog in all the counthry there beyant. An’, moreover, it’s a lovely shpot intirely. If you gintlemin have nothin’ betther to do, ye’d dhrive over there  —  if ye’d take me advice.” “What kind of bog is it, Andy?” said Dick. “Is there anythin’ peculiar about it. Does it shift?”

Andy grinned a most unaccountable grin. “Begor, it does, surr!” he answered, quickly. “Sure, all bogs does shift!” And he grinned again. “Andy,” said Dick, laughing, “you have some joke in your mind. What is it?” “Oh, sorra wan, surr  —  ask the masther there.” As it did not need a surgical operation to get the joke intended into the head of a man  —  of whatever nationality  —  who understood Andy’s allusion, and as I did not want to explain it, I replied: “Oh, don’t ask me, Andy; I’m no authority on the subject,” and I looked rather angrily at him, when Dick was not looking.

Andy hastened to put matters right; he evidently did not want to lose his day’s hire on the morrow: “Yer ‘an’rs, ye may take me wurrd for it. There’s a bog beyant at Knocknacar which’II intherestyez intirely; I remimber it meself a lot higher up the mountain whin Iwas a spalpeen, an’ it’s been crawlin’ down iver since. It’s a mightyquare shpot, intirely!” This settled the matter, and we arranged forthwith to start early on the following morning for Knocknacar, Andy, before he left, having a nightcap  —  out of a tumbler. We we re asti r fa i rly ea rly i n the mo rni ng, a nd ha vi ng finished a breakfast sufficiently substantial to tide us over till dinner-time, we started on our journey. The mare was in good condition for work, the road was level and the prospect fine, and altogether we enjoyed our drive immensely. As we looked back we could see Knockcalltecrore rising on the edge of the coast away to our right, and seemingly surrounded by a network of foam- girt islands, for a breeze was blowing freshly from the southwest.