Her voice subsided to a sighing murmur. She was kissing Reed’s throat. The maddening touch of her lips suddenly became an excruciating pain. He gasped and thrust her aside.
Blood trickled down his chest. Her thirsty lips were redder now.
Bint el Hareth was more than a play on words. She was a night-wandering female demon!
His color receded, but before he could break from her embrace, she caught his hand.
“That is the law. And if you are ever to meet me in my house in Kurdistan—if you are ever to unlock the silver girdle—”
Her finger tips indicated the soft curve just below her collar bone.
Reed knew what she meant, but he hesitated.
“It won’t hurt,” she whispered. “And the smallest drop will be enough…”
The evening was already a madness. Reed bent down and brushed aside the heavy blue-black veil of hair. His teeth sank into the flesh he had so fiercely kissed. He felt the moisture of blood; but as it touched his tongue, there was a savage roaring in his ears, and his entire body seemed enveloped in a shroud of consuming flame. His knees sagged, and intolerable dizziness sent him plunging headlong through a paradoxical blend of incredible brightness and impenetrable gloom. He was falling…falling…dropping everlastingly through space…
When his descent finally ended, he was still conscious, yet immeasurably dazed…
* * * *
His fingers were digging into the nap of a Persian rug. Bit by bit the blacknesses faded. He was in his tent, under the white glare of a gasoline lamp.
He was alone. His lips tingled, and there was a stinging at the base of his throat. Then he remembered and tentatively touched the bite.
His hand came back unstained; but clinging to his finger was a long, wavy strand of blue-black hair.
And that seemed to prove that she had been more than moon-glamor and desert wizardry.
He seized the lantern and bounded to the door of the tent. And when old Habeeb returned from the camp of the Arab laborers, Reed was still circling the tent, seeking footprints that would indicate the direction she had taken.
The search was vain. The old Arab muttered under his breath as he watched. He seemed to realize that his master was seeking something that would not have left any trace.
For a long time Habeeb eyed the green basalt statue of a woman standing on a lion. He sniffed the lingering fragrance in the tent.
“Bint el Hareth was walking by moonlight! I betake me to Allah for refuge against—”
“Shut up!” snapped Reed. “Or you’ll be taking refuge from my boot! Tell me about this Bint el Hareth.”
“She is a peril that walks by night,” Habeeb explained. “She sends fools—begging your honor’s pardon—out into the desert to find the key to her silver girdle. And they do not come back.”
“Nevertheless, I’m going to find her.”
“Don’t worry, sahib,” was the old Arab’s ominous answer. “She will find you. But it is possible that you may yet escape.”
“Dammit! I don’t want to escape. I want to find her.”
“Patience, sahib.” The old man smiled thinly and stroked his white beard. “They always do. What I meant was there is a way to avoid destruction. Only, no Arab has ever been able to use that method.”
“And what’s that?”
“It’s really very simple.” An ironic light burned in Habeeb’s narrowed eyes. “She is insanely jealous. Therefore avoid all other women, and she will not destroy you with her deadly kisses.” He sighed, shook his head, and repeated, “But that, of course, is utterly impossible for any Arab…”
Reed nodded. Simple enough, after all. Keep your mind on archaeology. A tough contract sometimes, but it could be done.
“And now, sahib,” resumed the old Arab, after an interminable silence, “I am going my way. You are the forgotten of Allah.”
Before Reed could detain him, Habeeb was stalking out into the darkness.
And for the remainder of the night, Reed studied the cuneiform text on the pedestal of the statuette. As Bint el Hareth had said, it described a fortress in northern Kurdistan. And the ritual to be chanted when the certain stars rose to the slits that cleft the dome of the turret was simple to an archaeologist…
* * * *
Reed finally set out for Kurdistan. His few belongings were packed on a donkey. Into that perilous, bandit-infested region no white man dared venture openly, so he went as a wandering native.
The news of his mission seemed somehow to precede him. But that helped rather than hindered. The superstitious natives regarded him as a madman and thus an object of reverence. One whose wits were in paradise must be a saint…
Weeks later, he reached his destination: a gray ruin perched on a foreboding crag that commanded the valley in which nestled a Kurdish village.
What he found in the ruins was dismaying confirmation of what that strange girl who called herself Bint el Hareth had said. In a circular vault in the foundation were arched crypts. In each lay the body of a man. There were bearded, hawk-nosed captains, nomads in sheepskin jackets, dignitaries in silks now crumbled to dust. Their bodies were skin stretched over bone. They were as hollow as insects baked dry in the sun. Reed had heard of mummies made by nature; but on the forehead of each was the red imprint of a woman’s lips. This was a promise—and a warning.
The last kiss of Bint el Hareth?
But as his first wave of horror subsided, he resolved to stay. In this desolate waste there were only the women of the savage mountaineers—certainly no temptation!
Then he searched the age-old ruin. Only a single turret was intact. In its uppermost stage he found the vaulted dome pierced by slits. Its circular wall was buttressed by monstrous winged bulls with human heads, bearded and mitred. Placid, sinister guardians of the cabalistic circle were outlined in mosaic on the floor beneath the crown of the dome.
The madness of his quest no longer troubled Reed. He had dug too many buried marvels from the earth to doubt that Bint el Hareth would make good her promise. And that single strand of black hair told him that she had been more than illusion.
He had long since traded his donkey for provisions. Now he had but a pair of empty saddle bags. And as the sun dipped toward the western hills, Reed descended into the valley to buy food.
He strode down among the mud huts of the village. The chattering of the crowd subsided. His story had gone before him. And awed, furtive whispers of the natives told him that since the ruins were haunted by demons, he must indeed be a saint to survive such peril.
He shouldered his haversack, now stocked with grain, cheese, and mutton. But before he could turn to ascend the slope, he saw that the Kurds were not as fanatic as he had expected. His supposed madness was an unneeded protection. At the further extremity of the village a white man sat cross-legged at the door of a mud hut. In front of him was an array of bottles and bandages.
Filing toward him was a line of natives, men, women, and children. A missionary doctor, dispensing iodine, pills and religion. At his side, handing him instruments and antiseptics, was a girl with copper-colored hair, and skin like Jersey cream.
* * * *
Reed, despite his better judgment, joined the throng of ailing natives. The red-haired girl’s young, heart-stirring loveliness reminded him of the years since he had seen a white woman. She must be the ruddy faced, grey-bearded doctor’s daughter. He crowded closer, trying to catch her voice above the guttural Kurdish chatter and babbling.
The simple severity of her unadorned, faded blouse and sturdy tweed skirt could not mask the gracious loveliness of her figure. Her mouth was sweet and generous, and her slender arms were made to close about a lover’s neck.
And despite his recollections of Bint el Hareth, Reed’s hungry glance strayed toward the shadowed hollow between her pert breasts as she stooped to unwind
a bandage from a grimy ankle. Then, straightening up to get a roll of fresh lint, she caught Reed’s trenchant gaze.
She returned his steadfast regard. The ghost of a smile for an instant brightened lips shaped to murmur endearments between kisses exchanged by moonlight; then she remembered that that bronzed, bearded man with the haversack on his shoulder was another tribesman. She hastily turned toward the tray of instruments, but not before Reed noted the flush that crept from her cheeks down the whiteness of her throat.
Warm and human and sweetly curved—Reed’s teeth gritted, and he resolutely turned. Bint el Hareth was a night-wandering witchery guarded by a silver girdle; and this red-haired girl was only a woman. Yet he was trembling from head to foot, and his brain was a reeling confusion as he pictured those warm roundnesses that could be cupped in his hands. That is, if he went back and revealed himself as a scholar and a white man.
As Reed reached the fringe of the village he caught a glint of steel in the shadows of a ravine that opened into the valley. There was a yell, abruptly checked. A file of horsemen came charging from cover. A bandit raid!
It was none of Reed’s business. He had paid for his supplies. He could reach the ruins during the confusion of the attack; but he knew what would happen to the red-haired girl. Flinging aside his haversack, he ran down the street shouting a warning. The traders bounded from their booths. Muzzle-loading rifles, repeaters, and curved swords blossomed from every mud hut; but before the defense could be organized, the raiders had closed in. A second detachment followed, and a third.
The warning had only postponed the end. A man dropped at Reed’s side. He snatched the Kurd’s rifle and poured lead into the wave of advancing horsemen. The gun jammed. Clubbing it, Reed beat his way through the milling throng. The red-haired girl was somewhere at its further edge.
A bearded tribesman, charging on horse through a huddle of screeching women, wheeled as he saw Reed. His dripping blade rose. Reed parried the scimitar cut, felt the glancing steel rake his shoulder, but he carried through, smashing home with his clubbed gun. The enemy ducked, but the rifle butt, driving through, crashed across the horse’s head. The beast reared, unseating its rider. And before the raider could regain his feet, Reed closed in. Kicking, jabbing and grappling, they wallowed in the red street. Horse and foot charged over them, but Reed kept his hold of that corded throat; and as the enemy’s dagger hacked and slashed him, he smashed the raider’s head against a boulder.
Reed regained his feet. He had won a sword.
The village was now a howling butchery. Crackling flames were gutting the woodwork of the traders’ booths. The shouts of the raiders and the shrieks of the surviving villagers drowned the voice that Reed still hoped to hear.
He plunged headlong into the tangle, hacking right and left with his curved blade. He saw the red-haired girl huddled in a narrow passageway between two houses. Her garments had been torn to shreds, and her flesh was raked and bruised. She was scrambling to her feet, still clutching the short dagger that had cut down a bandit. But before she could kick clear of her dead captor, another raider saw her and closed in.
Reed ploughed into the nightmare of murder. His reckless wrath and the confusion gave him his chance. He was hacked and battered and bleeding, but he made it—and in time to catch the bandit before he could whirl. The raider pitched forward in a gory huddle, shorn from shoulder to hip. Reed jerked the girl to her feet.
“Head for the ruin on the cliff,” he shouted. He paused to pick up an abandoned rifle and a bandolier of cartridges.
Once their path was blocked by a pair of looters; but before they could recognize Reed as an enemy, they dropped in a vengeful mill of steel.
The archaeologist and his companion were now in the clear; but before they were beyond the red glow of the burning market stalls, half a dozen bandits saw the girl’s red hair and almost bare body and took up the pursuit.
Reed knelt, snapped the rifle into line. Three shots—wild, hasty shots, but two of them pitched to the ground like bags of grain. The survivors broke for cover.
Reed followed the red-head.
Not a word as they clambered up the precipitous ascent. They needed their breath for escape. Finally, as Reed half dragged his exhausted companion into the deepening blackness of the ruin, he said, “The moon will soon rise. And I can pick them off as they come up the slope.”
He struck light and dipped some water from a green-scummed, rain-fed cistern. But before he could wash the smoke and grime and blood from his slashed body, the red-haired girl interposed.
“Let me help you—thanks, I’m all right—only a few scratches. But who are you? I couldn’t believe it when I heard you speak English.”
He ignored the question.
“Sorry about your father,” he commiserated as she bandaged his superficial wounds. “But when this riot quiets down, I’ll get you a native escort to Kirkuk. Or somewhere.”
Her dark eyes widened. Then she said, “That was my uncle. I’m an orphan, and when he came to Kurdistan, I accompanied him. So—well, I’ve really no place to go.”
She rearranged the tattered remnants of her dress, but there was no concealing the tempting roundness of her breasts and the fine gracious curves that swelled upward to meet the scraps of a skirt that now only reached half way to her knees. She was lovelier than Reed had realized, down in the village, and the glow of the fire coaxed alluring lights from her eyes as she sat crouched there, knees drawn up and clasped with her long, slender hands.
Despite the terror of the earlier evening, she was smiling as though the languorous warmth of the fire had blotted out all but the present moment.
She wasted no word on gratitude. None was needed. But the silence and her white presence were an eloquent torture.
Reed leaped to his feet and stalked into the further darknesses. He had to get rid of that tantalizing loveliness. The stars were marching to their ordained positions. Bint el Hareth would soon appear; but that time was too far off for him to endure that red-haired stranger’s presence.
Even as he pondered, nature conspired to defeat him. The penetrating chill of the mountains pierced his heavy woolen cloak. The girl was clad only in a few ragged threads.
He stalked back into the courtyard, slipped out of his cape, and flung it about her shoulders. She caught his hand, and murmured, “You’ll be terribly chilly. You needn’t keep such a close watch. If the bandits knew we were here, they’d have been up here before now.”
The touch of her fingers was seductive as a kiss. Reed seated himself on the rug beside her. He tried to ignore the warmth of her body as she drew closer and flung part of the heavy cape about his shoulders.
“There’s plenty for both of us.”
Her face was now a white vagueness in the gloom. Her bare legs had become seductive witcheries that tapered invitingly from slender ankles to the scanty refuge of fragments of a skirt.
The firm pressure of her breasts against his side was maddening. She was infinitely more real than any night-walking demon. Reed’s resolution melted as her warm breath fanned his cheek and her red curls brushed against his throat. The gloom had become a whirlpool of long imprisoned desire.
He caught her in his arms. Instead of drawing away, she pulled together the edges of the voluminous cape to imprison the warmth of their bodies. But it was her contented sigh that was ruinous.
Peril and the night had brought them together, but it was not until Reed’s hand touched a firm, bare breast that they realized how far apart they were. She shivered, and not from the evening chill. Her half-hearted protest was a languorous murmur, and her arms closed about him as his free hand slid down the inward carve of her waist, and crept caressingly down the tattered wisp that still clung to her hips.
“Our chances of getting back to civilization are zero,” she murmured. “I ought to make you stop…I would, too…but we shouldn’t wast
e the hour we’ve gained…I’d hate to die before I ever lived…”
The bandits could return. He owed them a blood debt for those he had cut down during the raid. He would die—without ever finding Bint el Hareth.
Her voice was now an inarticulate murmur, and her breath was coming in short, quick gasps. Their lips met, and Reed knew that the red-haired girl had drunk as deeply of loneliness as he had during all his wandering…
* * * *
And when, a long time thereafter, Reed noticed that the rising moon was invading their corner of the court, the witchery in her dark eyes convinced him of the exceeding folly of persisting in his pursuit of a phantom of the night. They would leave in the morning; turn their backs on that sinister ruin and let Bint el Hareth walk alone by moonlight…
The red-haired girl seemed to sense his unspoken thoughts.
“We’ve both been awfully lonely,” she whispered. “Oh, how I hated that village—but that’s all over, and maybe you’ll forget—whatever it was that made you look at me that way when you left the fire.”
But before Reed found words, he heard a faint stirring somewhere beyond the gate. Instinct warned him. He snatched the loaded rifle and crept to the gateway.
The raiders had returned. They were creeping up the slope, dark blots in the moonlight. Something had conquered their overwhelming fear of that devil-haunted ruin.
Reed’s rifle snapped into line. A crackling blast. The savage whine of the bullet that ricocheted from a rock down the slope. Moonlight was deceptive. He had wasted a precious cartridge.
“Run for the tower,” he shouted as he slammed the bolt home. “I’ll hold ’em!”
There was no answering fire. No sound. Only those dark, creeping blotches that relentlessly advanced, slipping from cover to cover, tempting him to waste his ammunition until they could close in.
The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction Page 23