The Magic Curtain
Page 4
CHAPTER IV A LIVING STATUE
In the meantime Florence, too, had gone for a walk in the rain. Thediscovery she made that day was destined to play a very large part in herimmediate future.
Florence by nature belonged to the country, not to the city. Fate had, bysome strange trick, cast her lot in the city. But on every possibleoccasion she escaped to quiet places where the rattle and bang of citylife were gone and she might rest her weary feet by tramping over thegood, soft, yielding earth.
Since their rooms were very near the heart of the city, at first thoughtit might seem impossible for her to reach such a spot of tranquilitywithout enduring an hour-long car ride.
This was not true. The city which had for so long been Florence's home isunique. No other in the world is like it. Located upon a swamp, it turnedthe swamp first into a garden, then into a city where millions live incomfort. Finding a stagnant river running into the lake, it turned theriver about and made it a swift one going from the lake. Lacking islandsupon its shore-line, this enterprising metropolis proceeded to buildislands. A brisk twenty-minute walk brought Florence to one of theseislands.
This island at that time, though of a considerable size, was quiteincomplete. In time it was to be a place where millions would tread. Atthat moment, save for one dark, dome-shaped building at its north end, itwas a place of desolation, or so it seemed to Florence.
At either end the land rose several feet above the surface of the lake.In the center it was so low that in time of storm waves dashed completelyover it.
Since the island had been some years in building a voluntary forest whichmight better, perhaps, be called a jungle, had sprung up on its southernextremity. Beyond this jungle lay the breakwater where in time of stormgreat waves mounted high and came crashing down upon heaps of limestonerocks as large as small houses.
To the left of this jungle, on the side facing the lake, was a narrow,sandy beach. It was toward this beach that Florence made her way. Thereshe hoped to spend an hour of quiet meditation as she promenaded thehard-packed sand of the beach. Vain hope. Some one was there before her.
* * * * * * * *
Petite Jeanne had entered many strange places. None was more strange normore fantastically beautiful than the one she found within the four wallsof that dragon-guarded building in the heart of a great city.
Playing the role of an American born Chinese lady, she passed theattendant and climbed two flights of stairs unmolested.
As she reached the top of the second flight she found her feet sinkingdeep in the thick pile of an Oriental rug. One glance about her and shegripped at her heart to still it.
"It is a dream!" she told herself. "There is no place like this."
Yet she dared not distrust her senses. Surely the lovely Chinese ladies,dressed in curious Chinese garments of matchless silk, gliding silentlyabout the place, were real; so, too, was the faint, fragrant odor ofincense, and the lamps that, burning dimly, cast a shadow of purple andold rose over all.
"Dragons," she murmured, "copper dragons looking as old as time itself.Smoke creeps from their nostrils as if within them burned eternal fire.Lamps made of three thousand bits of glass set in copper. Banners ofsilk. Pictures of strange birds. Who could have planned all this andbrought it into being?
"And there," she whispered, as she dared a few steps across the firstsoft-carpeted space, "there is an altar, an altar to a god wholly unknownto me. The ladies are kneeling there. Suppose they invite me to jointhem!" At once she felt terribly frightened. She sank deep in theshadows. She was playing the part of a Chinese lady, yet she knew nothingof their religion. And this appeared to be a temple.
She was contemplating flight when a sound, breaking in upon herattention, caused her to pause. From somewhere, seemingly deep down andfar away, came the dong-dong of a gong. Deep, serene, melodious, itseemed to call to her. A simple, impulsive child of nature, she murmured:
"It calls. I shall go."
Turning her back to the broad stairs that led down and away to the cool,damp, outer air, she took three steps downward on a narrow circularstaircase which led, who could tell where?
Smoke rose from the spaces below, the smoke of many incense burners.
Pausing there, she seemed about to turn back. But again came the deep,melodious, all but human call of the gong. Moving like one in a trance,she took three more steps downward and was lost from sight.
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The person who had disturbed Florence's hoped-for hour of solitude on theisland beach was a girl. Yet, as Florence first saw her, she seemed lessa living person than a statue. Tanned by the sun to a shade that matchedthe giant rock on which she stood, clad only in a scant bathing suit thatin color matched her skin, standing rigid, motionless, she seemed a thinghewn of stone to stand there forever.
Yet, even as Florence looked on entranced, she flung her arms high, gavevent to a scream that sent gulls scurrying from rocky roosts, and then,leaping high, disappeared beneath the dull surface of the water.
That scream, together with the deft arching of her superb body as shedove, marked her as one after Florence's own kind. Gone was her wish forsolitude. One desire possessed her now: to know this animated statue ofthe island.
"Where does she live?" she asked herself. "How can she dare to visit thisdesolate spot alone?"
Even as she asked this question, the girl emerged from the water, shookback her tangled hair, drew a rough blue overall over her drippingbathing suit, and then, leaping away like a wild deer, cleared thebreakwater at a bound and in a twinkling lost herself on a narrow paththat wound through the jungle of low willows and cottonwoods.
"She is gone!" Florence exclaimed. "I have lost her!" Nevertheless, shewent racing along the beach to enter the jungle over the path the girlhad taken. She had taken up a strange trail. That trail was short. Itended abruptly. This she was soon enough to know.