by Jerry
She interrupted him defiantly.
“There are things that matter more than money.”
“Certainly there are,” he agreed warmly. “That is just what I am saying. Consider—this woman is a mother, a mother who has lost her only child. If you are not really ill, if it is only a whim on your part—you can deny a rich woman a caprice, can you deny a mother one last sight of her child?”
The medium flung her hands out despairingly in front of her.
“Oh, you torture me,” she murmured. “All the same you are right. I will do as you wish, but I know now what I am afraid of—it is the word mother.”
“Simone!”
“There are certain primitive elementary forces, Raoul. Most of them have been destroyed by civilization, but motherhood stands where it stood at the beginning. Animals—human beings, they are all the same. A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”
She stopped, panting a little, then turned to him with a quick, disarming smile.
“I am foolish today, Raoul. I know it.”
“Lie down for a minute or two,” he urged. “Rest till she comes.”
“Very well.” She smiled at him and left the room.
Raoul remained for a minute or two lost in thought, then he strode to the door, opened it, and crossed the little hall. He went into a room the other side of it, a sitting room very much like the one he had left, but at one end was an alcove with a big armchair set in it. Heavy black velvet curtains were arranged so as to pull across the alcove. Elise was busy arranging the room. Close to the alcove she had set two chairs and a small round table. On the table was a tambourine, a horn and some paper and pencils.
“The last time,” murmured Elise with grim satisfaction. “Ah, Monsieur, I wish it were over and done with.”
The sharp ting of an electric bell sounded.
“There she is, that great gendarme of a woman,” continued the old servant. “Why can’t she go and pray decently for her little one’s soul in a church, and burn a candle to Our Blessed Lady? Does not the good God know what is best for us?”
“Answer the bell, Elise,” said Raoul peremptorily.
She threw him a look, but obeyed. In a minute or two she returned ushering in the visitor.
“I will tell my mistress you are here, Madame.”
Raoul came forward to shake hands with Madame Exe. Simone’s words floated back to his memory.
“So big and so black.”
She was a big woman, and the heavy black of French mourning seemed almost exaggerated in her case. Her voice when she spoke was very deep.
“I fear I am a little late, Monsieur.”
“A few minutes only,” said Raoul, smiling. “Madame Simone is lying down. I am sorry to say she is far from well, very nervous and overwrought.”
Her hand, which she was just withdrawing, closed on his suddenly like a vice.
“But she will sit?” she demanded sharply.
“Oh, yes, Madame.”
Madame Exe gave a sigh of relief, and sank into a chair, loosening one of the heavy black veils that floated round her.
“Ah, Monsieur!” she murmured, “you cannot imagine, you cannot conceive the wonder and the joy of these séances to me! My little one! My Amelie! To see her, to hear her, even—perhaps—yes, perhaps to be even able to—stretch out my hand and touch her.”
Raoul spoke quickly and peremptorily.
“Madame Exe—how can I explain?—on no account must you do anything except under my express directions. Otherwise there is the gravest danger.”
“Danger to me?”
“No, Madame,” said Raoul, “to the medium. You must understand that the phenomena that occur are explained by science in a certain way. I will put the matter very simply, using no technical terms. A spirit, to manifest itself, has to use the actual physical substance of the medium. You have seen the vapor of fluid issuing from the lips of the medium. This finally condenses and is built up into the physical semblance of the spirits dead body. But this ectoplasm we believe to be the actual substance of the medium. We hope to prove this some day by careful weighing and testing—but the great difficulty is the danger and pain which attends the medium on any handling of the phenomena.”
Madame Exe had listened to him with close attention.
“That is very interesting, Monsieur. Tell me, shall not a time come when the materialization shall advance so far that it shall be capable of detachment from its parent, the medium?”
“That is a fantastic speculation, Madame.”
She persisted.
“But, on the facts, not impossible?”
“Quite impossible today.”
“But perhaps in the future?”
He was saved from answering, for at that moment Simone entered. She looked languid and pale, but had evidently regained entire control of herself. She came forward and shook hands with Madame Exe, though Raoul noticed the faint shiver that passed through her as she did so. “I regret, Madame, to hear that you are indisposed,” said Madame Exe. “It is nothing,” said Simone rather brusquely. “Shall we begin?”
She went to the alcove and sat down in the armchair. Suddenly Raoul in his turn felt a wave of fear pass over him.
“You are not strong enough,” he exclaimed. “We had better cancel the séance. Madame Exe will understand.”
“Monsieur!”
Madame Exe rose indignantly.
“Yes, yes, it is better not, I am sure of it.”
“Madame Simone promised me one last sitting.”
“That is so,” agreed Simone quietly, “and I am prepared to carry out my promise.”
“I hold you to it, Madame,” said the other woman.
“I do not break my word,” said Simone coldly. “Do not fear, Raoul,” she added gently, “after all, it is for the last time—the last time, thank God.”
At a sign from her Raoul drew the heavy black curtains across the alcove. He also pulled the curtains of the windows so that the room was in semi-obscurity. He indicated one of the chairs to Madame Exe and prepared himself to take the other. Madame Exe, however, hesitated.
“You will pardon me, Monsieur, but—you understand I believe absolutely in your integrity and in that of Madame Simone. All the same, so that my testimony may be the more valuable, I took the liberty of bringing this with me.”
From her handbag she drew a length of fine cord.
“Madame!” cried Raoul. “This is an insult!”
“A precaution.”
“I repeat it is an insult.”
“I don’t understand your objection, Monsieur,” said Madame Exe coldly. “If there is no trickery you have nothing to fear.”
Raoul laughed scornfully.
“I can assure you that I have nothing lo fear, Madame. Bind me hand and foot if you will.”
His speech did not produce the effect he hoped, for Madame Exe merely murmured unemotionally, “Thank you, Monsieur,” and advanced upon him with her roll of cord.
Suddenly Simone from behind the curtain gave a cry.
“No, no, Raoul, don’t let her do it.”
Madame Exe laughed derisively.
“Madame is afraid,” she observed sarcastically.
“Yes, I am afraid.”
“Remember what you are saying, Simone,” cried Raoul. “Madame Exe is apparently under the impression that we are charlatans.”
“I must make sure,” said Madame Exe grimly.
She went methodically about her task, binding Raoul securely to his chair.
“I must congratulate you on your knots, Madame,” he observed ironically when she had finished. “Are you satisfied now?”
Madame Exe did not reply. She walked around the room examining the panelling of the walls closely. Then she locked the door leading into the hall, and, removing the key, returned to her chair.
“Now,” she said in
an indescribable voice, “I am ready.”
The minutes passed. From behind the curtain the sound of Simone s breathing became heavier and more stertorous. Then it died away altogether, to be succeeded by a series of moans. Then again there was silence for a little while, broken by the sudden clattering of the tambourine. The horn was caught up from the table and dashed to the ground. Ironic laughter was heard. The curtains of the alcove seemed to have been pulled back a little, the medium’s figure was just visible through the opening, her head fallen forward on her breast. Suddenly Madame Exe drew in her breath sharply. A ribbonlike stream of mist was issuing from the medium’s mouth. It condensed and began gradually to assume a shape, the shape of a little child.
“Amelie! My little Amelie.”
The hoarse whisper came from Madame Exe. The hazy figure condensed still further. Raoul stared almost incredulously. Never had there been a more successful materialization. Now, surely it was a real child, a real flesh and blood child standing there.
“Ataman!”
The soft childish voice spoke.
“My child!” cried Madame Exe. “My child!”
She half-rose from her scat.
“Be careful, Madame,” cried Raoul warningly.
The materialization came hesitatingly through the curtains. It was a child. She stood there, her arms held out.
“Maman!”
“Ah!” cried Madame Exe.
Again she half-rose from her seat.
“Madame,” cried Raoul, alarmed, “the medium—”
“I must touch her,” cried Madame Exe hoarsely.
She moved a step forward.
“For God’s sake, Madame, control yourself,” cried Raoul.
He was really alarmed now.
“Sit down at once.”
“My little one, I must touch her.”
“Madame, I command you, sit down!”
He was writhing desperately with his bonds, but Madame Exe had done her work well; he was helpless. A terrible sense of impending disaster swept over him.
“In the name of God, Madame, sit down!” he shouted. “Remember the medium.”
Madame Exe paid no attention to him. She was like a woman transformed. Ecstasy and delight showed plainly in her face. Her outstretched hand touched the little figure that stood in the opening of the curtains. A terrible moan came from the medium.
“My God!” cried Raoul. “My God! This is terrible. The medium—” Madame Exe turned on him with a harsh laugh.
“What do I care for your medium?” she cried. “I want my child.”
“You are mad!”
“My child, I tell you. Mine! My own! My own flesh and blood! My little one come back to me from the dead, alive and breathing.”
Raoul opened his lips, but no words would come. She was terrible, this woman! Remorseless, savage, absorbed by her own passion. The baby lips parted, and for the third time the same word echoed: “Maman!”
“Come then, my little one,” cried Madame Exe.
With a sharp gesture she caught up the child in her arms. From behind the curtains came a long-drawn scream of utter anguish.
“Simone!” cried Raoul. “Simone!”
He was aware vaguely of Madame Exe rushing past him, of the unlocking of the door, of retreating footsteps down the stairs.
From behind the curtains there still sounded the terrible high long-drawn scream—such a scream as Raoul had never heard. It died away in a horrible kind of gurgle. Then there came the thud of a body falling . . .
Raoul was working like a maniac to free himself from his bonds. In his frenzy he accomplished the impossible, snapping the rope by sheer strength. As he struggled to his feet, Elise rushed in, crying, “Madame!”
“Simone!” cried Raoul.
Together they rushed forward and pulled the curtain.
Raoul staggered back.
“My God!” he murmured. “Red—all red . . .”
Elise’s voice came beside him, harsh and shaking.
“So Madame is dead. It is ended. But tell me, Monsieur, what has happened. Why is Madame all shrunken away—why is she half her usual size? What has been happening here?”
“I do not know,” said Raoul.
His voice rose to a scream.
“I do not know. I do not know. But I think—I am going mad . . . Simone! Simone!”
1927
THE COLOUR OUT OF SPACE
H.P. Lovecraft
HERE is a totally different story that we can highly recommend to you. We could wax rhapsodical in our praise, as the story is one of the finest pieces of literature it has been our good fortune to read. The theme is original, and yet fantastic enough to make it rise head and shoulders above many contemporary scientifiction stories. You will not regret having read this marvellous tale.
WEST of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentler slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.
The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night. It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange days. Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only one who still remains, or who ever talks of the strange days; and he dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the travelled roads around Arkham.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a re-corning wilderness, and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new reservoir. Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple in the sun. And the secrets of the strange days will be one with the deep’s secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.
When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir they told me the place was evil. They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends I thought the evil must be something which grandmas had whispered to children through centuries. The name “blasted heath” seemed to me very odd and theatrical, and I wondered how it had come into the folklore of a Puritan people. Then I saw that dark westward tangle of glens and slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own elder mystery. It was morning when I saw it, but shadow lurked always there. The trees grew too thickly, and their trunks were too big for any healthy New England wood. There was too much silence in the dim alleys between them, and the floor was too soft with the dank moss and mattings of infinite years of decay.
In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms; sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar. Weeds and briers reigned, and furtive wild things rustled in the undergrowth. Upon everything was a haze of restlessness and oppression; a touch of the unreal and the grotesque, as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro were awry. I did not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region to sleep in. It was too much like a landscape of Salvator Rosa; too much like some forbidden woodcut in a tale of terror.
&n
bsp; But even all this was not so bad as the blasted heath. I knew it the moment I came upon it at the bottom of a spacious valley; for no other name could fit such thing, or any other thing fit such a name. It was as if the poet had coined the phrase from having seen this one particular region. It must, I thought as I viewed it, be the outcome of a fire; but why had nothing new ever grown over those five acres of grey desolation that sprawled open to the sky like a great spot eaten by acid in the woods and fields? It lay largely to the north of the ancient road line, but encroached a little on the other side. I felt an odd reluctance about approaching, and did so at last only because my business took me through and past it. There was no vegetation of any kind on that broad expanse, but only a fine grey dust or ash which no wind seemed ever to blow about. The trees near it were sickly and stunted, and many dead trunks stood or lay rotting at the rim. As I walked hurriedly by I saw the tumbled bricks and stones of an old chimney and cellar, on my right, and the yawning black maw of an abandoned well whose stagnant vapours played strange tricks with the hues of the sunlight. Even the long, dark woodland climb beyond seemed welcome in contrast, and I marvelled no more at the frightened whispers of Arkham people. There had been no house or ruin near; even in the old days the place must have been lonely and remote. And at twilight, dreading to repass that ominous spot, I walked circuitously back to the town by the curving road on the south. I vaguely wished some clouds would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept into my soul.
In the evening I asked old people in Arkham about the blasted heath, and what was meant by that phrase “strange days” which so many evasively muttered. I could not, however, get any good answers, except that all the mystery was much more recent than I had dreamed. It was not a matter of old legendry at all, but something within the lifetime of those who spoke. It had happened in the ’eighties, and a family had disappeared or was killed. Speakers would not be exact; and because they all told me to pay no attention to old Ammi Pierce’s crazy tales, I sought him out the next morning, having heard that he lived alone in the ancient tottering cottage where the trees first begin to get very thick. It was a fearsomely ancient place, and had begun to exude the faint miasmal odour which clings about houses that have stood too long. Only with persistent knocking could I rouse the aged man, and when he shuffled timidly to the door I could tell he was not glad to see me. He was not so feeble as I had expected; but his eyes drooped in a curious way, and his unkempt clothing and white beard made him seem very worn and dismal.