The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Orchids…” Harmon began, gropingly.

  “Yes, orchids! I got a peep. Whoever she is, she must be quite a girl. My coming to join you must have been quite an upset. Is she pre-war or someone new?”

  “This is not what you think.”

  “Purely platonic!” Lorella mocked. “Merely interested in her beautiful soul! Is she almost white?”

  “Go back to bed!” he answered. “She’s neither white nor brown nor any other color. Go back where you belong.”

  She recoiled as though he had struck her. In his mind he had done just that. Then she renewed the attack. “I’m going to see this lady of yours.”

  “You’re going back,” he said, with a coldness which surprised him. “Back to the States. You can have your sightseeing tour on the way. I’m not going to meet a woman. Though I probably will soon enough at the rate you’re cutting up.”

  “Wade, what is this? Don’t quarrel with me. What is this?”

  “Come and see,” he challenged and turned toward the lava beds. “But if you’re wrong, you’re through, as far as I’m concerned. This is Tanah Merah. You’re not in the States, where your tiniest whim was law!”

  “I’ll risk that,” she decided and went with him.

  But when they came to the edge of the lava beds and the swirling girdle of low-hanging vapor she caught his arm. “You can’t lead me on any wild-goose chase!”

  He tried to brush her aside. She got in front of him. She struck the basket from his hand, spilling the flowers and cakes.

  “No chewing gum? No beads or mirrors?”

  Harmon picked up the offering and put it back in the basket. Lorella’s belittlement and contempt prodded him to recklessness and revolt.

  “I’m taking this to Merah. Not a woman but a volcano. To stop this eruption. I’ve tried for days to get rid of you long enough to come out here but since you have to know you’ve found out. We have to make friends with Merah or get out. Is that clear?”

  It was not. Her eyes became saucer wide. He had not moved, though he may have swayed a little on his feet. Perhaps the mist-filtered moonlight played an eerie trick with his expression. Lorella’s mouth moved soundlessly and then she screamed. Then she ran.

  Harmon drew a breath of pure relief and picked his way among the traps of the lava field until he came to the now well-defined path he had cut in the cinder slopes.

  In the morning, hours after his return from the silence and peace of the crater, Harmon sat in the breakfast alcove. Brilliant sunlight made the slopes of the cone gleam and shimmer. He thrust aside the papaya and limes. And as though there had been no clash the previous night, he called.

  Lorella stepped lightly from then on. She was not in the least interested when, the following day, he went to make his next offering. This time he had a few words with Agni Deva in the crater, and while he did not mention that strange woman, her words gave force to what he said to Lorella on his return.

  “Whether or not it makes any sense I’m keeping her happy. And you should see that rice! It’s more than made up for the setback.”

  Nevertheless he had the feeling that Lorella was laying it on heavily in her effort to convince him that she was convinced.

  CHAPTER IV

  Not until Ahmat handed him a blotter some days later did Harmon realize his troubles were only beginning.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Tuan, it lay in the compound. Doubtless the wind blew it from a window. It is in writing, which I do not read.”

  This was delivered just a shade too suavely. Natives, most of them wholly illiterate, did have a respect for anything written. Yet Harmon was certain Ahmat knew more than he would admit—that the man had in fact taken it from the writing desk in the bungalow or had got it from a servant he had set spying on Lorella.

  Harmon held the blotter to a mirror. Lorella had penned a note to the American consul in Batavia, asking his advice—

  …cracking under strain… Cannot persuade him to take time out… Hallucinations… not believe… him violent, but…aside from… What authorities can I consult… send him… States… guardian appoint…

  First thing he knew, he’d be hustled home under guard. They’d blame it all on his wartime hardships and he’d wind up as a guest of the Veterans Administration, at least for awhile. By the time he got himself into the clear his work would have been so long neglected he’d have to start all over.

  The tension between him and Lorella became so unbearable that he spent more and more time in the crater—it became a refuge from the artificial amiability of the bungalow.

  At times he saw Agni Deva leaving the shrine just as he was approaching. He tried vainly to overtake her but she knew the labyrinth far more intimately than he did.

  Once he looked up and saw her on the crater lip, dwarfed by distance and foreshortening, yet splendid of color and shape against the stark blue of the sky. She waved before she stepped out of his sight to go her way.

  When he described her to Ahmat the old man declared he had never seen any such person. Nevertheless, Ahmat’s address thereafter became respectful in a new way.

  Then, one afternoon as he approached the bungalow, he spotted visitors on the veranda—Kirby and Voerhaven, the copra planters he had not seen since Lorella’s arrival. She had set out a stone jug of Bols, tumblers, and tonic on the table.

  Kirby was broad and deep-chested, a thick-necked muscular man, ruddy and square-faced. Voerhaven, though large, was lean and rangy with a long, angular face and a long inquisitive nose. Both were hearty fellows and gave Harmon no chance to apologize for his apparent unsociability in not having joined them from time to time for rijstafel or a few rounds of gin. After several Holland-sized drinks they insisted on having a look at the crop.

  “It’s true,” Voerhaven rumbled. “It’s better than they said.”

  Kirby wagged his head, saying, “Takes an American, every time, Dirk!”

  Harmon protested, “That kind of talk never made Americans popular anywhere else in the world except in the States.”

  “Oh, all right! Dirk and I have a chap down at his kampong who’s interested. Traveling for a foundation. They seem to have foundations for everything but copra. This one’s for the better understanding of someone by someone else and rice seems to enter.”

  “Hmmm… Wants to buy in? I have all the backing I need—trust fund from an uncle’s estate. And when the strain’s really established half the seed goes to the Indonesian government. The other half is mine to exploit.”

  Voerhaven shrugged and made a gesture to acknowledge defeat. “Oh, very well, Wade! We’ve tried to fix up a little surprise for you. The man’s name is Forest Millington. You’ve been favorably considered for an award by the Foundation for Fostering Far Eastern Amity.”

  “A surprise but you’re such a damn skeptic—” said Kirby.

  “Way you keep yourself buried,” Voerhaven carried on, “we might have known—”

  When they got back to the house, Lorella, all aglow, added her enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so thrilled! Do hurry and take your shower.”

  “Let’s have another noggin,” said Kirby.

  Lorella splashed the oily gin into a tumbler with one hand, the tonic with the other. Harmon snatched the glass, raised it, and said, “How!” He waggled his free hand and with fingers wrapped about the tumbler hustled for the bedroom with its adjoining shower.

  Intentionally he knocked a chair over, made a point of cursing luridly. He took another wary taste of the drink. The glass contained too much gin, not enough tonic.

  Harmon remained dressed while dipping into the big earthenware jar and splashing water on the floor of the stall. Next he turned on the shower, which was fed from a small tank on the roof. Under cover of the sound he tiptoed to the rear and skirted the building.

  There were no voices to o
verhear. That was the payoff.

  He retraced his course. He reentered from the rear in time to see Voerhaven, Kirby and Lorella huddled at the bedroom door, heads cocked close to the panel.

  Kirby had some luggage straps. Voerhaven had a length of clothesline. They were waiting for him to pass out.

  Then they became aware of him. On both sides there was an unmasking.

  “You go with us,” Kirby said commandingly.

  Lorella’s face was hard and tense. The Dutchman needed a moment to nerve himself to tackle a man who was sober and alert. Harmon recoiled, not so much from the physical threat as from the actual sight of what he had for some moments suspected.

  Lorella had taken her problem to the only other white men on the island—evidently these two former good friends had been convinced by her story. The yarn about the “foundation” must have been to get Harmon as far as the waterfront. There, plied with gin, he was to have been dumped into a prahu and taken to Batavia.

  Straps and cords to tie a madman—that was what prodded Harmon to wildness exceeding their expectations. His momentary recoil had thrown them off guard. As they gathered themselves to close in, Harmon charged. He upset Kirby, knocking him into Lorella. Flung against the door she tumbled over the threshold. Voerhaven tried to tackle him and missed.

  Harmon yelled, “You’re crazier’n you think I am!”

  He smashed the tall man with a driving wallop, knocking him a-thwart Kirby.

  “Get him!” Lorella screamed. “He’ll go for the car!”

  Harmon, clear of the three, raced for the front, not to take the jeep but to get his shotgun from the rack in the living room. It was not there. Lorella must have seen to that.

  He had missed his chance to kick and slug the two men helpless. They were on their feet and Lorella was at their heels.

  “Don’t let him get away!” she screamed. “He’ll kill us all!”

  CHAPTER V

  There was nowhere to go with a car except to the waterfront village. From there the only refuge was an open boat to Java. By then Harmon would be established as a madman who had beaten up his guests and his wife. Having taken a stand the three could not afford to retreat.

  All Harmon wanted was to get away. He wanted escape from white faces and English speech. He wanted neither sight nor sound of his own kind. He had but one refuge—Merah, the Red One.

  He had wrenched his ankle in the scuffle. His old wound betrayed him. Yet for a moment desperation made him gain on his pursuers.

  “Wade, do come hack!” Lorella cried.

  Wearing slacks and flat heels she kept up with the men. She knew the ground as they did not.

  Once in the lava beds Harmon hoped to trick them into a pocket. But they stayed too close on his heels. Desperate, winded, his leg threatening to let him down, Harmon gambled on his final resource. He bolted for the foot of the cone. His pursuers’ advantage was set off to a degree by Harmon’s experience as they zigzagged up the slope. Drawn by the contest Lorella kept up.

  They shouted. Though they were too winded to shape their words Harmon guessed their meaning. They were trying to dissuade him from what they considered the futility of his going ever upward to the apex, the end of flight. Or perhaps they feared he would plunge headlong into the depths of the crater.

  Mists gathered about the rim. He had only a little way to go. Behind him he heard the rustle and rattle of cinders dislodged by the three on his heels.

  “Come back!” Kirby shouted.

  Voerhaven burst out with a gasping, “We won’t hurt you!”

  Fatigue had turned Harmon’s legs to wood. He stumbled, he rolled, he clawed the slope. He checked himself. During his tumble, he saw that the three had halted. Their faces were distorted from breathlessness and from strain. And there was fear. This last puzzled Harmon. But he surprised them and himself by regaining his feet.

  “I’m staying up here! I won’t be locked up. Get out or you’ll wish you had!” His wrath checked them.

  Refreshed he fairly bounded up the grade. There, on the lava rim, stood Agni Deva, her arms extended in welcome. Her flame-colored sari wavered, rippled and seemed to transmit light. And her body was more than half translucent.

  Looking back he saw through many veils of mist that his pursuers stood open mouthed, their faces still shaped by the cries which they could not repeat. Kirby took Lorella by one arm, Voerhaven by the other. They half-dragged, half-carried her.

  Agni Deva nudged Harmon. “When they’ve taken care of her they’ll stay away.” She smiled cryptically. “The elevation is bad for people who aren’t accustomed to it,” she said as he went with her into the crater’s bowl.

  “They looked scared,” Harmon observed thoughtfully. “As though they’d seen a ghost.”

  Agni Deva’s soft little laugh had an indulgent, almost maternal note. “That would be hard to explain. But once you have seen enough of my home, you will realize that nothing worth knowing can be put into words anyway.”

  “Your home, here?”

  “Oh, I didn’t ever tell you, did I?”

  Presently, he realized she did live in the crater. He followed Agni Deva into a tunnel which had walls glass-smooth and perfectly circular except for the flattening of the bottom. There were cross-passages and crypts, most of them softly lighted by rays which reached down through rifts and the tubular opening. In one passageway she picked up a brazen pot which she filled from a natural basin in which water accumulated.

  This she balanced on her head and went on until she showed him the blue flames issuing from crevices in a hearth. Very much in the way of a housewife rightly proud of her home she said, “Always fire. It comes from below, so I never have to gather wood. The four elements are always right at hand. Fire, water, earth and air. Oh yes, earth, of course—I’ll show you my garden later.

  “You’ve done so well with earth. All your life you’ve loved earth, so the rice followed your coaxing. Earth was your way to wisdom. But you can learn the way of fire also. It’s so much faster for those who can take that way.”

  Harmon didn’t even try to keep up with her cozy patter as he looked about at the carved teak chest, the mats, the scarves and sarongs. There were wall niches where silver betelnut boxes and ear-pendants and cosmetic jars mingled in comfortable confusion. A low archway opened into an adjoining crypt.

  Seeing his glance wander, Agni Deva ceased speaking of the way of fire and said, “My friends often bring me presents. But they’ll not disturb you. Do sit down—you’re awfully tired.”

  Harmon sat on the teak chest. Agni Deva spread a mat at his feet and seated herself cross-legged in the “lotus posture” so that the henna-stained soles of her tiny feet were upturned. The hierophantic posture reminded him of the figures sculptured at Borobudor and Ankor Wat.

  But when she flung aside the head covering, exposing her sleek black hair, and leaned back to pillow her head against his knee, he could hardly associate her with sculptured images. He got off the chest and seated himself beside her.

  “This seems more a pagoda than a home. What are you, the priestess of Merah?”

  “You mean the temple slave?” She reflected for a moment. “Words can’t express anything that’s really important. The only things you can know are those you experience directly. The Gods don’t talk. If you really want to know what I am the knowledge is here and waiting.

  “After all, the way of earth is familiar to you, so why can’t the way of fire be your next step? You needn’t pass through air and water. The truth is, you probably couldn’t.”

  Harmon smiled at her baffling whimsies, smiled to conceal his perplexity and relish the touch of her body against him. This strange woman was warm and solid and definite without any suggestion of vagueness.

  “Agni Deva,” he said, speaking the words with the slowness of entire relish. “Deva… Deva…”

/>   “My parents named me to honor the fire spirits,” she explained. “We name children after gods and devas the way your people name them after saints. If you knew the old, old language that was brought over from Hindustan, you’d understand. But you needn’t bother with language. There are better ways—”

  “By becoming one with that which is to be known,” Harmon said and took her in his arms and bent down to her upturned mouth.

  To make the most of the embrace she uncoiled herself from the lotus posture. And Harmon knew that she had been well named for agni meant fire…

  Since dense mist obscured the crater and blotted out the sun Harmon wondered at the permanent twilight of Agni Deva’s home. His watch had stopped for he knew not how long—though time did not concern him any too much.

  He was engrossed with a thought which he finally put into words. “Ahmat and some of the others spoke of a deva of the volcano but never as though they’d seen her,” he said. “Well now I have and you’re she. To every one of the senses, you’re a flesh-and-blood woman—still, all that must be illusion and you’re not only the way of fire but you are fire. Not in the form we know it on the outside, something which is set or built or made or lighted, but fire-that-always-was.”

  She nodded, smiled contentedly. “And always will be, Wade,” she said. “Elemental fire—all of me you’ve seen and heard and touched and smelled and tasted is maya, the unreal. The only reality of me is what you have not yet known and cannot know through any of your senses.”

  “But I just said I knew and you agreed,” he objected.

  “Oh, that was only a necessary handy way of speaking. What you meant was that you had begun to have a knowledge that there was actually something to be known. Don’t you see the difference?”

  With a chuckle he answered, “Sure I do! It’s the sort of jargon my philosophy professor used to spout by the hour—except that you give sense to it and he didn’t.”

  “Of course he didn’t—he couldn’t. He was talking about something far too far from him. You, who listened, knew he didn’t know and so you were smarter.”