ceiling was vaulted high, and on the stone were yet more animals—giant bulls with bristling crests of hair, and great horns, powerfully painted in a rich terra-cotta so you could practically feel the sheer bulk of their flanks, the bundled muscle of their haunches.
“Look!” said Elizabeth, pointing. “That one has a spear in its side.”
“Well spotted,” said my father. “And this one’s been felled.”
In the wash of his lantern light, I saw one of the mammoth creatures on its side, head drooped lifelessly.
“It’s like some kind of primitive art gallery,” Henry said.
“Museum, too,” Father said. “Look at these markings here, beneath the fallen bull.”
I saw the series of simple black marks with strokes through them. “It’s like a tally,” I remarked. “They wanted to keep track of their kills.”
Father nodded. “Whoever made these pictures was recording their history.”
The passageway turned to the right and opened up into another cavern. Elizabeth called out excitedly, “An ibex, look! When did ibexes last live in Geneva?”
“Is that a bear?” Henry said.
“Must be,” I remarked, “though I’ve never seen one so big. Look at it there, compared to the bull! What a monster!”
A short tunnel led out from this cavern into a series of narrow vaulted galleries. We walked through them, sometimes awed into silence, other times excitedly calling out the new animals we saw in this underground bestiary. One gallery was filled with brown stags. In another knelt a strange horse with a horn growing from its forehead. Crouching beneath it was some kind of tiger, ready to pounce and kill, with two great teeth curving from its upper jaw. And beside the tiger was something I’d not seen before now.
“A handprint,” I said. It was red, made with paint—or perhaps blood.
“Is it like a signature, do you think?” Elizabeth said. “An artist taking credit for his work?”
Instinctively I went and placed my spread fingers against it. The print dwarfed my own hand.
“They were bigger than us,” I said.
Klaus was looking ill at ease, his eyes straying into the darkness, as though half expecting someone or something to emerge.
“There are more here,” said Henry, swinging his lantern to a stretch of wall where there were numerous handprints, of all different sizes.
“‘This is us,’” Elizabeth murmured.
I looked at her strangely. “What do you mean?”
“The handprints—it’s like a way of saying, ‘Here we are. This is us.’ Maybe it showed how many people lived in their family, or clan, or whatever it was. A family portrait.”
“Why didn’t they just draw pictures of themselves?” Henry asked. “They were obviously excellent artists. Doesn’t it seem strange they wouldn’t have done any people?”
“It does indeed,” said Father, “especially when they had language, too.”
“Language?” I looked at him, startled. “How do you know that?”
Eagerly he waved me closer with his hand and showed me, in the flicker of his lantern, a long string of curious geometric markings.
“Surely these are words of some kind,” he said, “though in an alphabet I’ve never seen.”
I had seen some strange scribblings in alchemical tomes, but these were altogether more primitive.
“They’re nothing like Egyptian hieroglyphs,” I murmured.
“No,” said Father, “and yet the longer I look at them, the more variety I see.”
“You’re right,” I said. “There seems an infinite number of ways they’ve arranged the lines and dots.”
He placed a hand upon my shoulder, gave me a squeeze and asmile. It felt good to be together like this, talking and sleuthing. I hadn’t felt this close to him for a long time, and in the coldness of the cave, I felt the warmth of his large hand all the more.
“Passage branches up ahead,” Klaus said.
“Then we must stop here,” Father said. “We’re not equipped for a proper exploration, and I won’t risk getting
“Look!” said Elizabeth, pointing. “That one has a spear in its side.”
“Well spotted,” said my father. “And this one’s been felled.”
In the wash of his lantern light, I saw one of the mammoth creatures on its side, head drooped lifelessly.
“It’s like some kind of primitive art gallery,” Henry said.
“Museum, too,” Father said. “Look at these markings here, beneath the fallen bull.”
I saw the series of simple black marks with strokes through them. “It’s like a tally,” I remarked. “They wanted to keep track of their kills.”
Father nodded. “Whoever made these pictures was recording their history.”
The passageway turned to the right and opened up into another cavern. Elizabeth called out excitedly, “An ibex, look! When did ibexes last live in Geneva?”
“Is that a bear?” Henry said.
“Must be,” I remarked, “though I’ve never seen one so big. Look at it there, compared to the bull! What a monster!”
A short tunnel led out from this cavern into a series of narrow vaulted galleries. We walked through them, sometimes awed into silence, other times excitedly calling out the new animals we saw in this underground bestiary. One gallery was filled with brown stags. In another knelt a strange horse with a horn growing from its forehead. Crouching beneath it was some kind of tiger, ready to pounce and kill, with two great teeth curving from its upper jaw. And beside the tiger was something I’d not seen before now.
“A handprint,” I said. It was red, made with paint—or perhaps blood.
“Is it like a signature, do you think?” Elizabeth said. “An artist taking credit for his work?”
Instinctively I went and placed my spread fingers against it. The print dwarfed my own hand.
“They were bigger than us,” I said.
Klaus was looking ill at ease, his eyes straying into the darkness, as though half expecting someone or something to emerge.
“There are more here,” said Henry, swinging his lantern to a stretch of wall where there were numerous handprints, of all different sizes.
“‘This is us,’” Elizabeth murmured.
I looked at her strangely. “What do you mean?”
“The handprints—it’s like a way of saying, ‘Here we are. This is us.’ Maybe it showed how many people lived in their family, or clan, or whatever it was. A family portrait.”
“Why didn’t they just draw pictures of themselves?” Henry asked. “They were obviously excellent artists. Doesn’t it seem strange they wouldn’t have done any people?”
“It does indeed,” said Father, “especially when they had language, too.”
“Language?” I looked at him, startled. “How do you know that?”
Eagerly he waved me closer with his hand and showed me, in the flicker of his lantern, a long string of curious geometric markings.
“Surely these are words of some kind,” he said, “though in an alphabet I’ve never seen.”
I had seen some strange scribblings in alchemical tomes, but these were altogether more primitive.
“They’re nothing like Egyptian hieroglyphs,” I murmured.
“No,” said Father, “and yet the longer I look at them, the more variety I see.”
“You’re right,” I said. “There seems an infinite number of ways they’ve arranged the lines and dots.”
He placed a hand upon my shoulder, gave me a squeeze and asmile. It felt good to be together like this, talking and sleuthing. I hadn’t felt this close to him for a long time, and in the coldness of the cave, I felt the warmth of his large hand all the more.
“Passage branches up ahead,” Klaus said.
“Then we must stop here,” Father said. “We’re not equipped for a proper exploration, and I won’t risk getting
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