by Andre Norton
“You—your shoulder—”
“With three good hands we can manage. It is not far. Keep moving!”
Persis obeyed, heading for that lighter strip in the dark.
15
Crewe had said it was not far; to Persis the distance stretched through time and space like a full-day’s journey. Her whole body ached with the effort she put out. At each advance, drawing herself along that inner wall of the pen, she paused to reach back and tighten her hold on her companion. She could hear the whistle of his breath, as if he were straining his own powers to the uppermost. Yet they did not speak, saving all their energy for what must be done.
Once she nearly screamed, feeling the touch of something else swimming free—certainly one of the captive turtles. But her heart quieted its frantic beat, for the creature must have sheared off again instead of pressing the attack she had feared from the first. Somehow they did continue, though at times her hands slipped vainly down a slimed wall and she had to search for the smallest hold.
Then–
There were more stakes here and beyond them grayish light. She pressed her face against the stakes and caught a glimpse of moon-touched water.
“There is a gate here.” Crewe’s voice was as measured as ever, but weaker, she was sure of that. “The latch is on the outside. To your left—can you reach it?”
Persis pulled herself from one stake to the next until she could thrust her bruised and scraped arm nearly to the shoulder between two of the stakes. She felt up and down the outside frame of this door until she did indeed find the fastening Crewe mentioned. A pin was wedged in to hold it shut—and the water must have swollen that for her tugging did not move it in the least. Finally she felt once more for the dagger, drew that and chopped at the wedge which might well have been of steel so fixed was it.
Just as she had gouged away at the stake which had let them into the pen, so now did she hack awkwardly at the wedge, prying at it with a spurt of energy which was largely rooted in despair. She needed no warning from Crewe—his strength must have been so tried by the ill usage he had suffered that he could not possibly hold on one-handed for much longer, though his shoulder now rubbed against hers and she knew he gripped one of the door stakes determinedly.
Finally the dagger struck deep into the upper part of the wedge and Persis pulled, with much of her remaining strength. It came free so suddenly that the door of their cage swung open spilling them out into the small lake which washed the mound on three sides. And she clung to the door as her only hope of support.
“Crewe!” Water swirled up into her face, half-smothering her call.
When he did not answer she felt out along the open door. Her hand caught at sodden clothes. He was down! His head was underwater! Why had she never learned to swim? Her shoulders were racked with pain as she tried to lift him. He was giving her no help at all and his dead weight in the water was too much!
In the moonlight she could see the side of the mound not too far away. She had to reach that, drag him with her—she must!
She heard a gasp—and then felt him move a little.
“Crewe—the mound!”
He did not answer but out of the water his head raised, he reached his good hand and she caught at it. There were the rest of the stakes of the pen—they reached to the foot of the mound—if she could work along them—
“Float—” the word was hardly distinguishable. “Turn on back—float—”
He was moving with weak purpose against her hold. And it took her a minute or two to realize what he meant. Then she did not release her grip on his body but, even as she had striven to overturn the dugout, so she fought to get him on his back.
Once that was done she slipped her free arm about his throat, trying to make sure that his head was above water enough for him to breathe, and turned back to the grim task of dragging them both from stave to stave toward land.
Again that seemed an endless task. Her breath came in short gusts which never quite filled her laboring lungs. And she hoped for only one thing, the feel of the thick earth and shells beneath her hands again.
So worn was she with the battle that when her knees struck the shelving of the mound under the water she could not believe at once she had made it. But her hand came down hard against what could only be one of the shells worked into the earth there, and the pain aroused her better than a shout might have done.
Persis turned her head. To the left was the short landing where long ago she had seen Askra moor her dugout (it seemed years ago now), and she knew that she did not have strength enough to climb out of the water onto that refuge. On the other hand, rough as the surface of the mound seemed to be, she had no hope of clambering up that—not with Crewe. But she pushed her head and shoulders up against the earth in spite of the bite of broken shells and pulled Crewe around so his head was well out of water.
What now?
There was that faint path she had seen Askra use on her first coming to Lost Lady. But the steps of that were hardly more than niches gouged out of the earth. Perhaps, after she rested she could attempt to climb those. But she was sure Crewe could not make it. And, were she to leave him here, with the tide rising, it would be the easiest thing in the world for the water to lift him from the mound—give him the death that Ralph Grillon had planned.
“So you are still alive, white skin—”
The wharf was shadowed by the bulk of the mound and the house. Persis could not see anyone crouching there and the sibilance of the voice could almost make one believe that one of the captive turtles had spoken.
“Still—alive—Caller of the Dead—” Crewe’s voice, hardly above a whisper, answered while Persis was still bemused with shock.
“The dead do not answer, unless there is reason. Ask your woman what reason they would have.”
Persis found her voice, but it was a ragged one. “We don’t need riddles. Askra—get us help!”
She heard a low chuckle. “Help? The only help you’ll find abroad this night, white skin, is that which will spill the life out of you.”
“And you—” Crewe’s words were more steady this time, with some of his old authority behind them. “I have dealt with you fairly, Askra—”
“I do not bargain,” the unseen witch or priestess replied. “I am Askra, and the gods I serve are far away and long ago.”
“Perhaps. But your powers are here and now,” Crewe continued. “And even in this place and time you are not one without weapons or resources—”
Again came that chuckle. “Because you have opened your house to me, Captain, that does not mean that I am to be commanded by you. There are powers even I cannot summon. But ask your woman—she knows! White skin powers are different—”
“I ask nothing of your powers then. But only aid in getting to such footing where I can use my own.”
For a long moment (so long a moment that Persis wondered if Askra had slipped away in the gloom), there came no answer to that.
“I do not bargain!” There was a haughty arrogance in that. “The moon calls across the waters and I should be one with my gods. Standing here is an insult to them—But—this much I will do. And make the most of it. Only do I do this because you have not spoken ill of my gods nor forbidden my seeking. And before this night closes you may well wish that I had not helped at all!”
Something flew through the air, fell across both Persis and Crewe as they rested at the foot of the mound. Persis put out her hand to close about a rope.
“For your aid—” Crewe began, but the woman in the dark interrupted him swiftly.
“I do not aid. See me,” and her speech changed into a guttural rhythm Persis did not understand. But Crewe had already pulled taut the rope.
“Hold tight, pull up out of the water,” he gave orders now, and Persis obeyed, not knowing just how she found that last small thrust of strength. With the rope she could move along the edge of the mound, three quarters of her body now out of the water. Then she came to the small
wharf and climbed up on that.
There was no sign of Askra, though she had hoped that the Indian woman would still be there, ready to lend her strength to getting Crewe up also. Persis took a turn around one of the posts with the slack of the rope and began to pull with all the energy she could summon.
When Crewe’s head appeared above the edge of the landing she could hardly believe they had done it. But with him at last on the waterwashed boards she collapsed. His outline against the moonlit canal and pond was misshapen because of his tightly bandaged shoulder. And she saw his bare legs protruding beneath the calf-length of his sodden nightshirt. Which made her aware of her own lack of clothing.
“You are all right?” As it had been when he talked with Askra, the Captain’s voice had taken on a new authority and assurance. “We’re not out of trouble yet, you must understand. Grillon, if he has the sense of a half-wit—and he is a good lot more than that—may have left a guard here. He certainly was not stupid enough to come ashore alone to carry out this raid, even with Lydia’s help—”
Persis tried to listen. But all she could hear now was the swell and ebb of the water about them, punctuated by her own labored breathing.
“Your men—the hotel—” she hazarded a whisper since they were so close together.
“Be sure we’d have trouble reaching either.” He did not try to soften anything for her. “Both the big wharf and the hotel must be well watched. When Grillon broke into my strongbox, he had taken the final step that put him outside the law. With me dead he can make a play to take over Lost Lady.”
“They took Uncle Augustin’s portfolio, too.” Persis rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees.
“Its loss would cause a legal tangle, yes, but with the papers your claim would, or should, have a better than even chance.” Crewe rose to his knees slowly, as if he must save every fraction of strength.
“But if I don’t have them, then what?” Persis asked. She was so tired that she hardly cared one way or another anymore.
She was not even aware at the moment of her partial nudity—her drawers were plastered so tightly to her legs they could well form a second skin, and her chemise was both wet and torn so that only her stays held it in place. But such things did not seem to matter. That the two of them had won alive out of that underground nightmare of waters still had the power to vaguely astound her.
The girl simply huddled where she was, too worn out to try to think even one second ahead. But through that stupor Crewe’s voice came again.
“They will be expecting us on the big wharf—”
Persis turned her head a little. The lantern which had always marked that at night was out. In the moon lines were sharply black and white and nothing moved among the barrels and cases piled there.
“Also the warehouse will be guarded—” He could be thinking aloud. “We’ve got to reach Johnny Mason’s—”
The name meant nothing to her. To be out of the water was all that mattered and she was exhausted by the struggle just past. But his hand fell now on her shoulder, warm on her bare skin where one of the rents in the chemise had given freedom to her flesh.
“Can you walk?” The decisiveness had come back to his voice.
Persis swallowed. Certainly Crewe Leverett must be in far worse case than she, yet, now that he was ashore, all his seemingly impatient decisiveness was back in his voice.
“We cannot stay here,” he continued. “We must make it up to the servants’ quarters.”
“How can we?” Her great weariness kept her voice to a whisper.
“There is a path up the mound side—then we skirt the back of the house. I need only rouse Mason—”
Persis made no move. “Go—if you can—”
“No.” The grip which had been but a light touch on her shoulder tightened. “Ralph was never so foolhardy as to venture in with only Lydia as his aid. I know he spoke of signaling his ship, but that he does not have others here already, that I do not believe. We must both get under cover—in safety.”
“I can’t,” she returned flatly. Sure of that.
“You can!” he answered with equal determination. “Luckily the moon does not reach here and few use Askra’s path. “We’ll get up if we have to crawl by inches.”
And his pull on her was such that she gave a small, weak moan but somehow tottered to her feet. It seemed that the master of Lost Lady needed no guide whether it was night or not. For he drew her down the wharf toward the rise of the mound. She staggered and wavered, but somehow kept moving, thought she wanted to cry out bitterly as her bare feet now and then pressed the edges of broken shells.
“About here—” Crewe had loosed his hold on her and was feeling the mound where the small wharf ended. “Yes!” There was a quickening in his voice, “There it is. Climb on hands and knees if you will—but keep going. If Grillon’s men find you now,” he continued with what might have been calculated brutality, “a knock on the head and a toss in the canal will neatly solve all their problems.”
Persis could believe him, but even fear was dulled as she felt for those half-lost niches in the wall of the mound. And she went very slowly, marveling a little that he was able to not only locate them in the dark, but drag upon some reserve of strength to pull himself up, one handed as he was.
The house stood, a black blot against the sky, shutting out the moon, offering not the least gleam of a candle or lamp. But they did not climb to the veranda. Instead Crewe lurched to the right, setting a course around the mound. They passed a second corner of the building and found themselves in that wider space at the back where Mrs. Pryor had overseen the stretching of the lines to dry Persis’ clothing.
“Just along the causeway now,” Crewe murmured. “Mason’s cabin is the first in the line of the quarters.
He’s canny enough to play scout for us and find out just what is happening.”
“Crewe—” Persis fell rather than leaned against a bush. “Crewe—listen!”
In the water-filled ways below she had been always aware of the wavelets, listening in true terror for the splashing of the turtles. Here she could hear the sounds of insects, once or twice a call which might have been that of a night hunting bird.
But suddenly all was still—far too still. As if all the small life natural to this island now crouched hidden, also listening. Her companion must be conscious of the same sudden change in the dark world about them.
Then—cold—a chill which had nothing to do with the ordeal she had just been through but one she had experienced before, one which formed inside her to reach outward, gripped her.
There was a sound now. One Persis would swear was born of no wind, no rustle of grass, for it continued evenly through the dark. Now she looked for what she knew she would see—those glittering points of light which fluttered back and forth in regular pattern. There was a presence here. Was it as aware of them as they were of it?
Persis stuffed the end of one bruised and torn fist in her mouth to keep from crying out. Between her breasts the sheathed dagger seemed to gather an extra degree of icy power.
Swish—unseen skirts—stiff, wide—proudly worn, moved before them. The flutter of the sparks did not alter rhythm, as if stern pride kept that to the same back and forth movement. Yet—there was no one there—no one Persis could see with her eyes.
She closed them as she had before, and now her other hand tugged frantically to jerk the fan dagger from its hiding place. Was this what that other sought—had been seeking for a long, long time?
In her mind, a thought which had never been her own intruded swiftly, easily, claiming kinship in spite of her repulsion. There walked in a half world which was not theirs a dark woman, but one whose skin was white. About her, pride was wrapped like a great cloak or an armor which no ill could force.
She had been a force herself, had that woman. In her way she was as great as Askra. Though she depended upon her natural powers, not upon gods long fled. And she had seen in the end that death was the onl
y price to be paid for some indignities of soul and body. But death not only for herself.
Persis opened her eyes. In her hand the sheathed dagger fan was like a piece of ice, cold, cruel, no longer of her world.
There was no longer any swish of skirts to be heard. But the flutter of the lights continued, back and forth, slowly, languidly, as if to ensorcel those who watched.
Persis took one step forward, her whole being crying out against what she must do but the action forced upon her. She was no longer even aware of Crewe’s presence. This was between her and that other—that other who had been tied here so long.
Murder—red death had come from what she held. And afterward perhaps, self-murder. A high price, but the one she believed now led them had been willing to pay.
“What’s the matter with you?” Crewe’s demand came impatiently.
Could not he see—did not he feel—anything? The girl tensed. What was happening to her? Some illusion born from all she had been through? But that answer could not satisfy her. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, tasted the salt the water had encrusted there.
“Can’t you see her?” Persis wanted so much his reassurance that she had not totally taken leave of her senses.
“See who?”
Again she wet her lips and forced out the words she felt would only make him sure she had lost command of herself.
“The Spanish lady–”
For she was still there. Even though she could not be seen except perhaps by the eyes of an overexcited mind. All that hung in the air were the slow, now-languid flutterings of those sparks of light. Of course—the jewels on the fan! That fan which should be safely in Lydia’s chest, brought out only as a queer and eerie treasure to show visitors.
She expected Crewe to flare out at her, even to tell her that she was caught by delusion. But, to her bewilderment, his voice was quite even and controlled as he asked:
“Where?”
Somehow Persis was able to raise her arm, only a shadowy movement in this dark, but the whiteness of her flesh made it more visible. She pointed to the sparks of ever changing light.