And as they watched, Moundshroud, landing light on his feet in a swift quiet motion, bent. He reached for an iron rung in the earth. He pulled. With a shriek of hinges, a trapdoor in the earth gaped wide.
The boys came to stand at the edge of the big hole.
"Cat--" stuttered Tom. "Catacombs?"
"Catacombs." Moundshroud pointed.
Stairs led down into a dry dust earth.
The boys swallowed hard.
"Is Pip down there?"
"Go bring him up, boys."
"Is he alone down there?"
"No. Things are with him. Things."
"Who goes first?"
"Not me!"
Silence.
"Me," said Tom, at last.
He put his foot on the first step down. He sank into the earth. He took another step. Then, suddenly, he was gone.
The others followed.
They went down the steps in single file and with each step down the dark got darker and with each step down the silence grew more silent and with each step down the night became deep as a well and very black indeed and with each step down the shadows waited and seemed to lean from walls and with each step down strange things seemed to smile at them from the long cave which waited below. Bats seemed to be hanging clustered just over their heads, squeaking so high you could not hear them. Only dogs might hear, have hysterics, jump out of their skins, and run off. With each step down the town got farther away and the earth and all the nice people of the earth. Even the graveyard above seemed far away. They felt lonely. They felt so alone they wanted to cry.
For each step down was a billion miles lost from life and warm beds and good candlelight and mothers' voices and fathers
' pipe-smoke and clearing his voice in the night which made you feel good knowing he was there somewhere in the dark, alive and turning in his sleep and able to hit anything with his fists if it had to be hit.
Each step down, and at last, at the bottom of the stairs, they peered into the long cave, the long hall.
And all the people were there and very quiet.
They had been quiet for a long time.
Some of them had been quiet for thirty years.
Some had been silent for forty years.
Some had been completely mum for seventy years.
"There they are," said Tom.
"The mummies?" someone whispered.
"The mummies."
A long line of them, standing against the walls. Fifty mummies standing against the right wall. Fifty mummies standing against the left wall. And four mummies waiting at the far end in the dark. One hundred and four dry-as-dust mummies more alone than they, more lonely than they might ever feel in life, abandoned here, left below, far from dog barks and fireflies and the sweet singing of men and guitars in the night.
"Oh, boy," said Tom. "All those poor people. I heard of them."