Golden Cloud - Chapters IV - V

Chapter I - The Lone Rock

Australia! Hast thou no enchanted castles within thy vast domain? Is there not one gallant youth, ready armed to do battle for the fair ones, sleeping ’neath the spell of wicked genii?
Come, youngsters, draw up your chairs. Come, mothers, ye who live your romantic girlhood o’er again in that of your children. Form up, gentlemen, fathers, hard men of the world, whose brows are wrinkled with care and worry, take rank in rear of your fair helpmates. Merchant, lock thy safe, close thy ledgers; horny-handed sons of toil, throw aside your implements of trade; gather near. I am going to draw aside the magic curtain which hides the great continent, marked on our map UNKNOWN. Turn down the lights—our magic lantern is quite ready. Hey presto! Look!
Why, what is this? The heart of a deep mine! A gold mine, with all its dim and rugged corridors, its tunnels and windings, lighted only by a dull taper here and there. There is no one at work, for it is Christmas Eve. Yet the underground region is not altogether untenanted. One man whose duty it is to watch the place, until relieved on the morrow, lies coiled up asleep in one of the long drives. He is a young man, not tall, but strongly made, and with limbs like another Hercules. On account of his great strength and a certain good temper combined, his mates call him, Samson the Nugget.
For what length of time the Nugget slumbered on this good Christmas Eve will never be known. Certain it is that he suddenly opened his eyes and beheld one of the biggest, and withal one of the ugliest, hulking fellows he had ever seen standing over him. The Nugget was a brave youth, but fear began to take possession of him as he looked at the intruder—a giant in stature, with a huge, flat head upon his shoulder, and a mouth as large, and about the shape of the newspaper receiver at the General Post Office. He carried a lamp in his hand, but there was a queer sheen from his eyes, which illumined the cavern with a fiery glow. His dress was a brown russet, his hat, sugar-loaf in shape, and he carried a sapling for a cudgel.
“Get up, Samson the Nugget, and follow me,” said he in a brief, gruff tone.
“Who are you?” cried our hero, rising to his feet, and seizing a heavy iron drill.
“I am the strongest man in Golden Cloud, and my name is Grapple,” rejoined the other grimly. “Will you come?”
“Where?” said the Nugget. “There is no way out of this mine except by the cage up the shaft.”
“That’s all you know about it,” returned Grapple, with a grim laugh. “If I find a way, have you courage to follow?”
The Nugget felt inclined to refuse point blank, but curiosity being strong within him, he bowed an assent.
Grapple, without a word, turned on his heel and led the way further down the dark recesses of the tunnel. Our hero followed. Of one thing the miner felt certain—that the end of the drive would effectually bar the progress of his unwelcome visitor. Strange to relate, such was not the case.
The narrow passage appeared to extend and widen out before their advance, until it took the shape of a long railway tunnel, from which the pair emerged at length into the bright beams of day. The transit from what seemed to be the bowels of a high mountain range to a landscape fairer and more beautiful than our hero had ever seen, filled his mind with wonder. His companion, now that daylight was upon him, did not seem such an ugly customer after all. He was certainly a huge, grotesque-looking personage, but there wasn’t a bit of malice in anything he said or did.
Our hero’s amazement was so great, that it was some considerable time before he found words wherewith to address his companion.
“What country is this?” he asked, turning to Grapple.
“This is Golden Cloud.”
“Golden Cloud! I never heard of such a place. Why did you bring me here?”
“Because I wanted a companion on my travels,” rejoined the other. “I heard you were a very strong man, and I determined to fetch you out of that dismal mine, so that you might enjoy your Christmas holidays with me.”
“Oh, indeed! very considerate on your part, my friend, but what if I return to the mine?” said the Nugget.
“You can’t—not without my aid,” responded Grapple. “Now don’t be a fool. I’m going on a sort of excursion into the interior, and I want a companion. We shall not be long away, and I promise to lead you safely back to the place from whence you came as soon as we return.”
The Nugget reflected. He felt a strong desire to see something of this most charming country. Besides, he saw that this strange creature had uttered the truth. He could not possibly find his way back to the mine alone.
Here it must be remarked that, although our hero was only a miner, he possessed both intelligence and culture, not usually found in men of his class. He had read much, and had a longing for the romantic, and in short, in less time than it takes to write this sentence, Samson the Nugget had resolved to go on a holiday tour with his quaint companion.
It is needless to describe their journey for the first two days; suffice it that the route lay through the tangled maze of a pathless forest of noble trees, where branches intertwining overhead formed a leafy canopy for many miles. On the third day Grapple and his companion emerged upon a wide, extensive plain. Towering in the distance, like a pyramid, they observed a gigantic rock standing out above the level expanse around. The sun, gleaming upon its peaks and spires, gave it a weird, fantastic look, as if some great magician of the olden time had bade it rise with the lifting of his wand. As far as the vision reached along the line of the horizon, the plain seemed ringed in by the magnificent bushland through which they had come. Nearer, however, there was a broad river flowing its slow way round the lone cliff; the sheen of its waves forming a massive girdle, which flashed back the sun’s rays a thousandfold.
The evening was drawing nigh as the Nugget and Grapple approached the lofty crag, and they determined to pass the night beneath its sheltering base. For this purpose they crossed a ford on the river, and ascended a wide slope of rich, green sward, softer than velvet, and entered an enclosed space, which had evidently been a most lovely garden at one time. To the gaze of our hero it appeared nothing but a mass of weeds and ragged, bare shrubs, under which a whole multitude of kangaroos, emus, wallabies, wild goats, and native bears were gathered in wild confusion.
The Nugget was filled with amazement as he beheld these animals. Their number was countless, and the tameness with which they submitted to be fondled was more extraordinary still. Indeed, they never moved as the two men strode through their ranks, no more than if they had been so many posts wanting life and movement. The astonishment of our hero was in no way diminished as they reached the western face of the supposed rock. Here they saw a broad flight of steps leading towards a ponderous gateway. The gate stood wide open, and on either side, mounted on pillars of granite, were the carved figures of two gigantic black fellows, each leaning on a spear. Grapple and his companion entered the portal, and found themselves in a lofty corridor, supported by massive columns of polished masonry. To the right and left of them, as they advanced, splendid apartments, vast in their dimensions, and upholstered with costly furniture, met their gaze. It was not the magnitude of the place, nor the fine things therein, which filled them with such speechless amazement, but the wonderful statuary they saw. These figures were in every room, and were so life-like in their dimensions and appearance, that the Nugget was fain to believe that they were flesh and blood. Ladies and gentlemen were represented quite naturally, and in various places and functions. Yonder a group were seated round the banquet in the act of eating. There another group, mostly ladies, gossipping and laughing. Some had been chiselled walking, some kneeling, others hissing, many reading. The same view met the travellers from one end of this strange mansion to the other. Nothing could seem more substantial, more real, than these beautiful models, attired as they were in robes of gorgeous hue and texture, but foreign and altogether unfamiliar to our hero, who often touched them with his hand. Twenty times he addressed them, but not one answered. They were only images, nothing more. Body, limbs, robes—all were cold and hard as stone to the touch.
Their curiosity appeased, our hero and his companion selected a small but comfortable apartment wherein to pass the night. They had killed a kangaroo the previous day, from the remains of which they dined; then they retired, and both were soon fast asleep.
The Nugget had scarcely closed his eyes, however, ere he was roused by the application of a hard whack on the drum of his left ear.
Now it chanced that Grapple lay on that side of the Nugget and judging hastily, as people are apt to do under similar conditions, our hero sprang up, and began to pound his bedfellow soundly.
“Hold! stop! What is this all about?” cried poor Grapple.
“Did you not give me a blow?” demanded the Nugget fiercely.
“I? Certainly not.”
“Oh, indeed! I suppose the man in the moon did it. There are only two of us here, sir,” cried the Nugget.
“I’ll swear I did not do it. Your blows awakened me.”
“Humph! It is very strange,” cried they, and they grumbled at each other until they fell asleep again.
Not long did the pair enjoy repose. This time Grapple started up with a yell of agony.
“Coward!” he cried, and without further warning he fell upon the Nugget and tried to choke him. We have said that Samson was a powerful fellow. Exerting the full force of his muscles, he overpowered his adversary, and briefly demanded an explanation.
“Wretched, false friend! what have I done that you should stab me with your knife?” cried Grapple, with a groan.
The young miner burst out in a hearty guffaw.
“Look here, my friend,” he replied quickly, “I think both of us have been the dupes of some rascally enemies hereabout. I receive a thump on the ear, you a wound in the leg, when both of us are sound asleep. Mum! Let us to slumber again. Daylight will be here anon; in the meantime, I will keep watch to discover our lurking foe.”
Grapple assented. Having bound up his leg the travellers lay down again as if nothing had happened.
The Nugget, however, slept like a cat, otherwise he would not have seen the most withered, and, at the same time, most repulsive-looking individual in the world stealing noiselessly out on tip-toe from behind one of the statues in the corridor. The day was breaking, and every object could be clearly distinguished. Watching the intruder, our hero saw he was a dwarf, and a very ugly one. The body of the wee monster was like an ale keg, from which protruded short, sturdy limbs. His hands were dreadfully large, the skin knobbed and gnarled like the bark of a tree. A head, the counterpart of a Christmas pudding with a slice cut out for a mouth, a parsnip for a nose, and a pair of agates for eyes, and you have a rough photograph of the wretch that now advanced as stealthily as a shadow toward our hero and his companion.
As he drew near the prostrate pair he stooped over the Nugget to inflict a blow on his head. Our hero bounded up and tried to catch his foe. Vain effort. With the agility and quickness of a professional wrestler, the dwarf upset the astonished digger as if he had been no more than a schoolboy; then, fleeing along the corridor, he cleared the steps of the gate at one bound and ran swiftly across the garden towards the river.

Chapter II - Mother Dot

Samson the Nugget was taken “all aback,” as the sailors say, at the unexpected attack of his wee but nimble opponent. Yet, before the dwarf had time to reach the garden wall, our hero was up and pursued his foe. Like a kangaroo when the hunters are in full cry, the little man bounded down the slope leading to the river, over the stream, and away across the open space, with prodigious leaps rather than with the stride of a runner. Tally-ho! A stern chase is a long chase, but in this case the adage could not be applied, inasmuch as our hero was sound in wind and limb, and, moreover, he was a sturdy pedestrian.
He soon gained upon his antagonist, when the latter, ready and fertile in devices, adopted tactics which gave him an advantage, and enabled him to over-reach his pursuer. They were on the edge of the bushland which bordered the plain, and the dwarf, slacking speed, suffered Samson to approach within arm’s length, when, turning suddenly, he cast himself flat down, whereupon our hero went sprawling headlong over him. Laughing triumphantly, the dwarf sprang to his feet, and jumped off again in the cover of the bush.
As the miner recovered himself and resumed the pursuit, he observed the chase unexpectedly disappear from view behind a tuft of coarse grass and weeds growing at the base of a gigantic blood-tree. Thinking the antic sprite was forming another trap, the young miner approached the spot cautiously. It was lucky he did so, for in parting the rubbish aside he discovered a wide, deep hole, about the dimensions of an ordinary well. There were neither steps nor ladder down this gaping pit, whose bottom lay far beneath the ken of Samson the Nugget, who stood gazing down the dim void, wondering if the little monster had vanished down it by some potent agency only known to himself. Watching and waiting, Samson satisfied himself that the dwarf had certainly gone down the hole, and he determined to follow him.
With this object in view, our hero marked the spot and retraced his way to the rock. Grapple still slept soundly. Not wishing to disturb him, the Nugget proceeded to the rear of the premises, where he found a long stout rope. With it he returned to the well. Having securely fastened one end of the rope to the tree, he threw the remainder down the chasm, and then began to descend hand over hand. It cannot be denied that this was a dangerous undertaking, but the Nugget, being a digger, and not lacking in pluck, the cost was not considered. From the first moment our hero had set eyes on the little monster it had somehow come to him that the sprite was in some mysterious manner connected with all the ruin and wreck he had seen at the rock.
Clinging firmly to the rope, the Nugget descended until he reached the end of it. Looking far down he beheld the same dark void, apparently bottomless. While he swayed to and fro like a toy at the end of a string, his pendant body thumped against something that sounded dull and hollow, and he saw he had burst open a secret door in the wall. Planting his foot firmly on the threshold of the aperture, the adventurer let go the rope and found himself in a low, arched cavern. The extremity brought him face to face with a bright landscape, varying both in hue and shade from the region he had just quitted. Right before him a tiny cascade of pure spring water spurted from the breast of the cliff on which he stood, and meandered its course through a belt of trees so quiet and silent that our hero felt appalled at its stillness. There was a broad, well-worn pathway down into the dell, and the Nugget made his way thither. As he walked smartly along, looking right and left of him, he espied a very ancient dame seated upon a bundle of firewood she had evidently gathered. By her side were two large baskets of wild fruit.
“Good-morrow, ma’am,” cried the miner, courteously lifting his hat. “Pray have you seen a very ugly little man pass this way?”
“My son, all men are lovely in my eyes,” replied the crone, and she looked at him with eyes that gleamed like the orbs of a cat in the darkness. “Do you know, I’m right glad you came this way. You look strong. Will you carry my parcels for me?”
“Certainly I will,” replied the Nugget cheerfully. “Where do you live?”
“My hut stands on the range yonder, on the other side of this bush. Dear me, how tired I am to be sure!”
How her cat’s eyes glowed as she looked at him! The Nugget did not see nor heed anything about the old woman; his whole thoughts were centred on the capture of his foe.
“Come, madam,” said he, “one good turn deserves another. Tell me where I may find the fellow I seek, and I’ll carry your goods and yourself on top of them.”
“Oh, good youth, haste is a bad master. If you seek for Dusk in haste, you’ll never find him.”
“Dusk! Who’s Dusk, mother?”
“The dwarf you came to find,” she answered quickly. “Beware, he’s a cunning sprite.”
The Nugget laughed. “I should only like the opportunity to measure weapons with the cowardly little imp,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes; he passed this way not an hour ago,” she answered.
“Thank you, dame. I’m off!” exclaimed our hero, hastily preparing to follow.
“Nay, good sir, you promised to carry my things,” responded the dame.
“Bother your things! I’ll return and carry them when I’ve caught Mr. Dusk.”
“You will have trouble for nothing if you try it,” she replied, her eyes glowing like coals of fire. “Fulfil your promise to me and I will help you.”
“Agreed,” cried our hero. “Make haste, good dame. Place the sticks upon my back and the baskets on my arms. That’s it. Now come along.”
Samson the Nugget, strong and powerful as he undoubtedly was, pulled a wry face as the load was put upon his person. The bundle of firewood seemed as heavy to him as so many bars of solid gold, while the baskets appeared to have been suddenly freighted with ingots of lead, the weight of which almost took away his breath. Nevertheless, our hero, nothing daunted, made an effort, and proceeded onward with his burden. Now, so long as the Nugget trod on level ground he managed pretty well, but when he came to the range and began its ascent, with the loose stones rolling from under his feet at every step, the man’s immense muscular strength began to fail. Drops of perspiration stood upon his face and ran down his back, now hot, now cold.
“My good woman!” he cried, “I can go no farther till I have rested.”
“Rested!” repeated the hag in scornful accents. “Hear the boaster. This is the man in search of Dusk, the strong. Hear him! He would attack the all-powerful genii; and yet, forsooth, he cannot carry what an old woman like me has so often borne up hill and down dale. Faugh!”
The Nugget put up his back like a vicious mule, and attempted to get rid of his load; but the sticks and the baskets clung to him as if these articles had grown there.
“Will you go on, sir?” cried the crone, with a mocking laugh.
The Nugget answered not; but with a vigorous effort tried to rid himself of the encumbrance. Vain task; his efforts only wearied him. Moreover, the hag made matters worse by jumping up upon the bundle of sticks; and though lean and withered as she certainly appeared, our hero felt her additional weight to be more than that of the stoutest wench of his acquaintance. To kick against the pricks was useless. So Samson, like a wise fellow, staggered on as he best could to the end of his journey. Arrived at the hut, the dame became kindness itself. She placed food and drink of the choicest kind before him, and when he had refreshed himself, said,—
“Young man, your task has been a severe one, but the reward I shall bestow will be all the greater on that account. For over twenty years no one has ever been found who could carry my parcels for me until to-day.”
“I don’t care to go shopping with you again in a hurry,” muttered the Nugget, stretching out his tired limbs.
“I have neither money nor property to give you,” she continued; “but my gift shall be more valuable to you than both combined. Behold! This is the horn of an enchanted ram. The animal was bred by my great grandsire, the King of Moonshine, and the relic has been handed down to me. Take it, my son, and let me caution you to use its wonderful power wisely. With that in your possession, Dusk, the griffin, cannot escape you. For whatever you may wish for this relic shall supply.”
With these words Mother Dot placed in the young man’s hand a small, curled horn, highly polished, and on which were engraven three figures, and some words, in a language he did not understand, written beneath them. The Nugget thanked the old lady for her gift, and having sufficiently refreshed and rested himself, he set forward in search of Dusk, the dwarf.

Chapter III - Dusk’s Stronghold

To say that our hero felt satisfied with the treatment he had received at the hands of Mother Dot would be to state an untruth. He was not satisfied. He had a latent suspicion that the hag was in some way or other leagued with his enemy. Under these circumstances he therefore thrust her gift into his pocket, and went in search of the ugly dwarf. For hours he wandered about without seeing a vestige of any living thing. He began to feel tired and hungry, and darkness was approaching fast. What should he do? Try and find his way back again to where he had left Grapple? No, the giant would only laugh at him.
He suddenly bethought him to try the old woman’s gift. She had said that whatever he might wish for should be gratified. His first and dearest wish was to find the whereabouts of the dwarf. So he put the relic to the test. Swift and potent indeed was the effect. Scarcely had the desire taken shape in his mind ere his eyes beheld a massive structure about the distance of a mile right ahead of him. The building was surrounded by a high wall, and looked more like a gaol than anything else.
As he drew near, the young miner observed a strong iron door in the wall, at which he began to knock.
“Who’s there? What want you here?” resounded from a hoarse voice belonging to an enormous head and face, which at that moment protruded itself over the battlement.
“Does the dwarf they call Dusk reside here?” demanded our hero.
“He does, but he’s not at home. Go away, you mite, before I come and crush your bones together.”
“Try,” responded the Nugget. “As for the dwarf, I believe the rascal is here, and I mean to enter and satisfy myself on that point.”
“Begone, you wretched ant—you insect!” roared the monster passionately.
“A fig for your bluster, you bundle of ugliness,” responded our hero.
The face disappeared as suddenly as the policeman in the puppet show, and immediately the iron door opened wide, disclosing a horrible-looking fellow, several feet taller than Grapple, and armed with a well-seasoned sapling about the dimensions of a verandah post.
“Now, you flea, you miserable son-in-law of a blow-fly, what have you to say before I smash you up?” cried the giant, purple with rage.
Without answer, Samson sprang through the open doorway. As he did so, the monster aimed a crushing blow at his head. Ducking like an otter, Nugget avoided the ponderous bludgeon, which fell upon the door and tore it from its hinges. Quick as the swoop of a hawk, he seized a fragment of iron and dealt his gigantic antagonist an awkward whack full upon his stomach, which tumbled him down, as if he had been shot, and there he lay quite helpless.
The Nugget, without troubling about his adversary, entered the building; but he had not advanced beyond the porch before another and more formidable foe confronted him. Strongly built, and as sturdy as the trunk of an old oak, monster number two appeared neither man nor fish, but a strange combination of both. It had eyes and mouth like a fish, and as many legs and arms as an octopus, each member being armed at the extremities with spikes as sharp as steel.
“What seekest thou?” it bellowed forth, with the lungs of a bull.
“I seek the antic sprite, Dusk,” replied the undaunted Samson.
“Poor, mean earthworm, knowest thou not that the mighty Dusk is lord and master here in Twilight?”
“Pray conduct me to his lordship.”
“Hence! at once, or I’ll roast you like a crab,” said the man-fish.
“Stuff! You’ll find me tough eating,” replied the Nugget, at the same time drawing forth the ram’s horn, and changing it into a light, handy sword.
The monster grinned in disdain. Stretching forth his long arms, he tried to clutch our hero, but the Nugget cleverly avoided him. Then began a fierce combat between them. Here and there, up and down, with ringing blows, the duel became very exciting and sanguinary, till the man-fish, losing his temper and his breath together, received the coup de grâce, and was hurled headlong down the terrace steps.
All further opposition seemed at an end with the death of the second monster, and our hero wended his way into the interior of the mansion. As he proceeded, he found the place was not at all so gloomy as might be expected from an outside view of it. Indeed, he discovered it was a large building, and furnished in excellent taste. The walls of the various apartments were hung with silk and velvet of chaste pattern and hue. Couches and chairs richly carved, with marble tables decked with choicest flowers and fruits, were reflected in mirrors on the walls, which were more elaborate than those of old Venice. Parrots of the gayest plumage, rare birds in golden cages, soft, sparkling fountains, and a delicious perfume of flowers, all made up a magnificent whole that was worthy the dwelling-place of a king.
With hasty steps our hero wandered through many rooms, hoping to discover the dwarf. His wandering brought him to a grand staircase, the steps of which were covered with Cashmere velvet, bordered with satin flowers. A bronze stand, curiously ornamented, supported a large globe of white crystal at the head of the stairway. The Nugget could not help pausing to admire this beautiful piece of workmanship. The crystal ball was so dazzling bright that it made his eyes ache to look upon it.
“What a strange ball!” he said, shading his sight with his hand, and approaching close to it. “How large it is! It seems large enough to hold that rascal Dusk. What if he should be hiding here? Perhaps it is solid. Humph! I’ll try it. Ball, crystal ball, if thou art hollow, by my ram’s horn, I command thee! Open!”
Before the words had left his lips the globe slowly split in twain; while from within there rose before his wondering sight—not the ugly sprite—but the graceful form of a lovely young maiden.
Never in the life of this poor digger, either in his waking sense or in dreams, had he seen any woman so enchantingly lovely. In olden times men were blessed with visions of the angels, and they essayed to picture what they had seen. Yet how crude the forms of Cherubim and Seraphim both on canvas and on page to the glorious reality!
If Samson the Nugget had been gifted with the descriptive powers of the world-renowned war correspondent, I’m afraid the twenty-six letters in our alphabet would not have been sufficient to convey any idea of the beauty of this damsel upon whom he gazed. Her complexion was like that delicate tint we see upon the pearl shell, and her hair shone like burnished gold.
“Who art thou, fair lady?” cried the Australian youth, gallantly advancing with outstretched hands to assist her from the pedestal whereon she had been imprisoned.
“Alas!” she answered, weeping, “I am the daughter of King Golden Cloud, and my name is Silverhaze. Because I would not consent to become the wife of a wicked dwarf, named Dusk, he stole me from my home, and conveying me here, enclosed me in yon crystal globe.”
No ring-dove cooing for its mate had softer, sweeter voice than Princess Silverhaze. Our hero led her down the stairway and placed her on a couch by the window. Seating himself at her feet he briefly explained to her the part he had taken in search of their common foe.
“Where is Golden Cloud, your home?” he said. “I swear I will not rest until I have placed you safe again in the arms of your kith and kin.”
“Thou art a brave youth,” answered the Princess, looking down at him with eyes that sparkled gratitude. “If thou canst indeed take me from this horrid place, my father will load thee with honours, and poor Silverhaze will love thee always.”
Ah me! Who shall write the Nugget’s answer? Who shall detail his confusion, his stammerings, his schoolboy blushes? Not I, my young friends. Wise old Atha knows full well how near the Love God dangles to yourselves—how near ye are to the reality without the ideal being stamped on this page to point the way.
In considerably less time than it takes to pen these lines, the Princess had decided to trust her fortunes to the pluck and gallantry of her young champion. But in the midst of their plans they were unexpectedly confronted by their deadly enemy—Dusk—armed to the teeth.