The Big Book of Classic Fantasy

by The Big Book of Classic Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  Meanwhile there was no doubt left that the distance between me and the unknown intruder was shrinking with every beat of my pulse. He was walking now not farther away than five or six walls, gliding from door to door with a smooth alacrity of featherweight body. I tensed, entrapped by the footfalls, bound to the speeding, like an automobile, collision of meeting glances—eye to eye, and I prayed to God that his would not have a mad smudge of the white above the darkly shining pupils. I was no longer waiting but knowing that I would see him; my instinct took over reason and was telling me the truth, nudging its blind snout into the sharp edge of fear. Ghosts entered the darkness. I saw a furry creature from the dark corner of the nursery, a gloomy phantom, and—most terrifying, scarier than a fall from a great height—I feared that behind my door the footsteps would fall silent, there would be no one there, and this absence would touch my face with a gust of air. There was no time to imagine a man such as myself. The meeting careened closer; there was nowhere to conceal myself. Then the footfalls went silent, stopped so close to the door, and for the longest time I heard nothing but the skittering of mice in the paper heaps, and I could barely hold back a scream. I imagined that someone, hunched over, was creeping through the door, intent to grab. The stupor of meaningless exclamation, resounding on the dark, threw me forward, my arms outstretched in front of me—and I recoiled, covering my face. The light shone, throwing the entire visible expanse from door to door. It became as light as day. I felt a sort of nervous shock but, after a moment’s hesitation, went forth. Behind the nearest wall, a woman’s voice said, “Come here.” Then a soft, pert laugh.

  With all my shock, I did not expect such an end to the torture I had just endured for likely an hour. “Who is calling?” I asked softly, cautiously moving toward the door behind which the unknown woman revealed her presence with such a beautiful and gentle voice. When I heard her, I imagined her appearance matching the aural delight of her voice and trustingly stepped forth, listening to her repeated words, “Come, come over here!”

  But there was no one behind the door. Matte orbs and chandeliers shone under the ceilings, sowing the nighttime brilliance among the black windows. And so, asking and always getting the reply from behind the next wall, “Come, come quickly!”—I examined five or six rooms, catching once my own reflection in the mirror, attentively looking from one void to the next. Then I imagined that the shadows in the mirrors are filled with crouching, creeping one after another women in mantillas and shawls they held against their faces, obscuring the features, and only their black eyes under the slyly arched brows smiled, shone, and flickered mysteriously. But I was wrong—I turned around too quickly for even the most agile creatures to escape. Tired and excited but still wary of something truly threatening among the starkly lit emptiness, I finally said sharply, “Show yourself or I will not go any further. Who are you and why are you calling me?”

  Before she answered, the echo crumpled my voice into a hazy and dull hum.

  Solicitous concern was audible in the words of the mysterious woman when she called me again from an unseen corner. “Hurry, do not stop, come, come along, no arguing.” It seemed that these words were spoken near me—resonant like splashing water and resounding as if half-whispered into my ear but I hurried in vain, in my impatient fugue throwing the doors open, rounding the bends, hoping to catch somewhere the movement of the slipping-away woman—and everywhere I only met emptiness, doors, light. It went on like the game of hide-and-seek, and several times I heaved a frustrated sigh, not knowing whether to keep on going or to stop, stop decisively until I saw who I was speaking to from this distance. If I fell silent, the voice sought me; it sounded more and more soulful and urgent, always pointing the direction and softly exclaiming ahead, behind a new wall, “Here, hurry to me!”

  As sensitive as I was to the nuances of voices in general but especially in these circumstances of extreme tension, I caught in those calls, in those insistent invitations of the inaudibly fleeing woman neither cruelty nor deceit; even though her behavior was more than strange, I did not suspect any danger or anything truly foul, since I did not know the circumstances that caused it. It seemed more reasonable to suspect the urgent need to show me something in a great hurry, when time was very short. If I made a mistake and entered a wrong room, following the rustling, rapid breathing and another musical beckoning, I was directed and corrected with a soft, “Here!” I was too far along to turn back. I was dangerously engrossed in the unknown, almost running across the vast parquet expanses, my eyes always following the direction of the voice.

  “I am here,” the voice finally said in the tone indicating the end of the story. It was in the intersection of a corridor and a staircase of just a few steps leading into another corridor just a bit higher.

  “All right, but this is the last time,” I warned. She waited for me at the beginning of the corridor to my right, where the light was dimmer; I heard her breathing and, after I ascended the stairs, stared into the darkness, irate. Of course she tricked me again. Both walls of the corridor were piled high with books, leaving only a narrow passage. In the light of a single lamp weakly illuminating just the stairs and the beginning of the way, I could potentially miss a person at a distance.

  “Then where are you?” I said, peering into the darkness. “Stop, you’re in such a hurry. Come closer.”

  “I can’t,” the voice said softly. “But can’t you see? I am here. I got tired and had to sit down. Come to me.”

  In fact, I did hear her quite close. I just had to round the bend. Behind it there was darkness, marked at the end with a pale spot of the door. I stumbled over some books, my foot slipped, I teetered, and as I fell I knocked over a stack of ledgers. It plummeted somewhere, down from a great height. I fell on my hands, and felt only empty air under them, almost going over the precipice myself; my involuntary cry was answered by the roar of the book avalanche. I survived only by falling just a bit before approaching the edge. If the surprise and fear held back the realization of that moment, then the laughter—a mirthful, cold titter on the other side of the trap—immediately explained my role. The laughter grew distant, falling quieter with the last cruel note, and I no longer heard it.

  I did not jump to my feet, did not crawl away noisily, as it would be extraneous in my presumed fall; once I understood the trick, I did not even move, letting the other party’s impression settle in the direction desirable for them. But I had to take a look at the bed prepared for me. There were no signs of surveillance, and I, with great caution, lit a match and saw the rectangular chute of the broken-through floor. The light did not reach the bottom, but judging by the pause between the push and the din of the books that fell through, I determined the height of the fall at about twelve meters. It meant the floor of the story below was destroyed symmetrically with the top hole, forming a double chute. I was in someone’s way. I realized that I had weighty evidence to that effect, but I could not understand how the most birdlike woman could fly over this massive opening, which had no edge that could be used for crossing; the width of it was well over two meters.

  I waited until the incident had lost its dangerous immediacy and crawled back, to where the light reached enough to be able to discern the walls, and stood up then. I was reluctant to go back into the illuminated spaces. But now I was also unable to leave the scene where I almost performed the finale of the fifth act. I touched things too serious to be able to continue going forth. Unsure of where to begin, I carefully walked back, sometimes hiding behind the buttresses of the walls, to verify that there was no one there. By one such buttress there was a sink, and the faucet dripped water. There was a towel, with wet traces of just-dried hands; the towel still moved. Someone left here maybe a mere ten paces ahead of me, unnoticed by me (as I was by him) by sheer chance. It would not be wise to tempt these places any longer. Stunned by tension brought about by the sight of the towel, touched almost in front of me, I retre
ated, bating my breath, and with relief spotted a narrow side door in the shade of a buttress, almost completely blocked by papers. With some effort, I pulled it open just enough to squeeze through. I disappeared into that passage as if into the wall, and entered a well-lit, silent and empty passageway, very narrow, with a bend very near me, but I did not dare look around it. I stood leaning against the wall in the alcove of a door nailed shut.

  No sound, no occurrence that could be perceived by senses would have evaded me in those moments, so internally sharpened and attuned I was, gathered into hearing and breathing. But it seemed as if life on earth had died—such silence stared into my eyes with a still light of this white dead-end passageway. It seemed that everything living had left it—or lay low. I started to grow overwhelmed, to reach with the impatience of desperation for any kind of noise, but away from the torpid light, binding my heart with its silence. And then suddenly more than enough sounds needed for reassurance erupted—you could call it “stillness in the storm”—many footsteps sounded behind the wall, far below me. I distinguished voices and exclamations. These sounds of the beginning of an unknown excitement were joined by the sounds of tuning instruments: an acutely shrieking violin; a cello, a flute, and a contrabass stretched a few disjointed notes, muffled by the sounds of moving furniture.

  In the middle of the night—I did not know what time it was—these signs of life three stories deep, after my experience with the chute, sounded like a new threat to me. If I were to walk tirelessly, I could’ve perhaps found a way out of this endless house, but not now when I could not be sure what waited for me behind the nearest door. But I could only know my situation once I determined what was happening downstairs. Listening intently, I calculated the distance between myself and the sounds; it was rather sizable, and located across the wall opposite from me, and down.

  I stood in my doorway niche for a long while, until I grew bold enough to come out and investigate my options. I moved quietly ahead, and noticed a small opening in the wall, no bigger than a tiny spy window with glass. It was above my head, just high enough to touch. Nearby was a folding ladder, of a kind that the painters use when they whitewash ceilings. I dragged the ladder over carefully, never touching the walls or making any noise, and leaned it against the opening. The glass was caked with dust from the inside as well as out, but once I cleaned it with my palm, as much and as well as I could, I was able to see but as if through smoke. My guess based on my earlier hearing was confirmed: I was looking into that very central hall of the bank I visited the evening before, but I could not see down, the window was facing the top tiers. The extravagant sculpted ceiling hung very near; the balustrade on this side was eye-level and concealed the depths, and only the distant columns on the opposite side were visible barely halfway up. The entire tier was deserted, but meanwhile downstairs, tormenting with its invisibility, some lively merriment took place. I heard laughter, exclamations, moving chairs, garbled snippets of conversations, a soothing hum of the doors. Confident clinking of china, coughing and blowing of noses, strings of heavy and light footsteps and musical and sly intonations—yes, it was a banquet, a ball, a fete, a party, a jubilee—anything but the former cold and enormous emptiness, with echo muffled by the dust. The chandeliers carried the glint of the fiery pattern downward, and even though my hiding spot was lit, the even brighter light of the hall rested on my hand.

  Almost certain that no one would come here, to this corner more likely related to the attic than the thoroughfare of the lower passage, I dared to remove the glass. Its frame, kept in place by two bent nails, wobbled. I turned the nails out and took out the barrier. The din was now distinct, like wind in my face; while I was getting accustomed to its character, the music started playing some café chantant number but strangely soft, unable or unwilling to let loose. The orchestra played with muted strings, as if ordered to do so. However, the voices it was muffling grew louder, making a natural effort and reaching all the way to my sanctuary still wrapped in their meaning. As far as I could discern, the interests of various groups in the hall gravitated toward suspicious deals, although without a clear indication of their connections. Some phrases sounded like neighing, others—cruel shrieks; weighty, business-like laughter mixed with hisses. Women’s voices had a dark and tense timbre, occasionally sliding toward tempting playfulness with debauched intonations of loose women. Occasionally someone’s solemn remark moved the conversation to discussing prices of gold and of precious stones; other words made one flinch, hinting murder or some other crime of no less decisive outlines. Argot of the jail, shamelessness of nighttime streets, the outward sheen of a daring intrigue and lively wordiness of a soul looking around nervously were mixed with the sound of the other orchestra, to which the first one fed high-pitched playful phrases.

  There was a pause; several doors opened in the depths of the remote lower stories, and it seemed as if some new players appeared. It was immediately confirmed with solemn shouts. After a few muffled exchanges the warnings and invitations to pay attention thundered. Meanwhile, someone’s speech was already flowing there, quietly, crawling along like a beetle in pine needles, dripping in streaks.

  “Cheers to the Redeemer!” the chorus pronounced in a roar. “Death to the Ratcatcher!”

  “Death!” darkly rang the women’s voices. The echoes resonated in a loud howl and fell silent. Even though I was enormously engrossed in what I heard, I don’t know why but I turned around, as if I felt someone’s stare on my back; and only drew a deep breath—there was no one behind me. I still had time to figure out how to disappear: behind the bend two walked by, never suspecting my presence. They stopped. Their light shadow lay across the floor, but glancing at it, I could only see a blob. They spoke with the certainty of interlocutors confident that they were alone. It was a continuation, and apparently the trajectory of the conversation had stopped on their way here on some unknown question, that now received a response. I remembered every word of this vague and sharp answer.

  “He will die,” the unknown said, “but not at once. Here’s the address: Fifth Line, ninety-seven, apartment eleven. His daughter is with him. This will be the great deed of the Redeemer. The Redeemer arrived from afar. His journey is arduous, and they await him in many cities. Tonight, everything must be ended. Go and examine the passage. If there is nothing to threaten the Redeemer, the Ratcatcher will be dead, and we will see his empty eyes!”

  VIII

  I listened to the end of the vengeful tirade with one foot already on the floor, since the moment I heard the exact address of my unknown girl, whose name I did not have a chance to find out, my instinct led me blindly down—to flee, hide, and fly to be her herald to the 5th Line. With any sensible doubt, the numbers and the name of the street could not tell me whether there was another family living in that apartment—it was enough for me to think of her and to know that she was there. In this frightful state of torturous rush, as if from a fire, I miscalculated my last step down; the ladder slid from the wall with a crack, my presence was revealed, and at first I stayed still, like a fallen sack. The lights immediately went out; the music fell silent, and a furious scream led my way in my blind dash along the narrow corridor, until I hit my chest against the door which I used to infiltrate here. With unexplainable strength, I pushed it open against the heaps of trash covering it, and ran into the memorable hallway with the trap. Salvation! The dawn with its first haze had begun, showing the outlines of the doors, and I could run until I was out of breath. Instinctively I looked for ways up rather than down, scaling short stairwells and abandoned passageways in a single leap. Sometimes I tossed about, circling in one spot, or ran into a dead end. It was terrible, like a bad dream—especially since I was being followed; I heard hurried steps behind me and in front, that psychologically oppressive noise I could never escape. It followed with the irregularity of city traffic, sometimes so close that I jumped, or else followed evenly along at some distance, as if promi
sing at any moment to cut across and intercept me. I grew weak, dumb with fear and the constant thundering of resonant floors. But then I was flying along the garrets. The last staircase I had noticed led to the ceiling, to the square attic opening, and I climbed it with the sense of an immediate blow rising behind my back—everyone seemed to be rushing toward me so. I found myself in the suffocating darkness of the attic, and immediately pushed everything that shone whitely in the dusk over the closed trapdoor—a stack of window frames, and only the force of desperation was able to move them with a single effort. They fell across and along, forming with their overlapping an impenetrable forest. Once that was done, I ran for the attic window, the gray spot of which was obscured by wooden boards and stacked barrels. The way was littered—I jumped over beams, crates, bricks, among the holes and chimneys, dense like the woods. Finally I reached the window. The freshness of open space breathed in its deep sleep. Behind a distant roof there was a pink, smudged shadow; no smoke rose from the chimneys, there was not a sound of passersby. I climbed out and crawled to the rain gutter. It was wobbly and its brackets whined when I started my descent. About halfway down, the cold iron of it was covered in dew and I slid down and had to catch myself at the joint. Finally my feet touched the sidewalk; I hurried toward the river, fearful to find the bridges drawn open, and as soon as I caught my breath, I took off running.