“Are the chains locked?”
“Yes. And she must have the key. But we could file the links if only we had files. If only each of us had a file, we could get free. Perhaps the man upstairs has a key, but I hardly think so.”
“Did you write on that pretty wall upstairs, the whitewashed wall?”
“I did; I think we all did. One man wrote a sonnet to the woman, verses in her honor, telling about her beautiful eyes. He raved about that poem for hours while he was dying. Did you ever see it on the wall?”
“I did not see it. The old people whitewash the walls before each new master comes.”
“I thought so.”
“Are you sure you would know what to do, George, if she sang to you and you were loose?”
“Yes, we would know.”
So I left him, promising an end to the matter as soon as I could arrange it.
* * * *
The next day saw me calling on the Donna Marchesi. I took her flowers that time, a corsage of vivid purple and scarlet orchids. She entertained me in her music room and I, taking the hint, asked her to sing. Shyly, almost with reluctance, she did as I asked. She sang the selection from the Italian opera that I knew so well. I was generous in my applause.
She smiled.
“You like to hear me sing?”
“Indeed! I want to hear you again. I could hear you daily without growing tired.”
“You’re nice,” she purred. “Perhaps it could be arranged.”
“You are too modest. You have a wonderful voice. Why not give it to the world?”
“I sang once in public,” she sighed. “It was in New York, at a private musical. There were many men there. Perhaps it was stage fright; my voice broke badly, and the audience, especially the men, were not kind. I am not sure, but I thought that I heard some of them hiss me.”
“Surely not!” I protested.
“Indeed, so. But no man has hissed my singing since then.”
“I hope not!” I replied indignantly. “You have a wonderful voice, and, when I applauded you, I was sincere. By the way, may I change my mind and ask for the key to the door in the cellar?”
“Do you want it, really want it, my friend?”
“I am sure I do. I may never use it, but it will please me to have it. Little things in life make me happy, and this key is a little thing.”
“Then you shall have it. Will you do me a favor? Wait till Sunday to use it. Today is Friday, and you will not have to wait many hours.”
“It will be a pleasure to do as you desire,” I replied, kissing her hand. “And shall I hear you sing again? May I come often to hear you sing?”
“I promise you that,” she sighed. “I am sure that you will hear me sing often in the future. I feel that in some way our fates approach the same star.”
I looked into her eyes, her yellow cat-eyes, and I was sure that she spoke the truth. Destiny had certainly brought me to find her in Sorona.
* * * *
I bought two dozen rat-tailed files, and dashed across the mountains to Milan. There I was closeted with the consuls of three nations: England, France and my own. They did not want to believe my story. I gave them names, and they had to admit that there had been inquiries, but they felt that the main details were nightmares, resulting from an over-use of Italian wines. But I insisted that I was not drunk with new wine. At last, they called in the chief of the detective bureau. He knew Franco, the real-estate agent; also the lady in question. And he had heard something of the villa; not much, but vague whisperings.
“We will be there Saturday night,” he promised. “That leaves you tonight. The lady will not try to trap you till Sunday. Can you attend to the old people?”
“They will be harmless. See that Franco does not have a chance to escape. Here is the extra key to the door. I will go through before twelve. When I am ready, I will open the door. If I am not out by one in the morning, you come through with your police. Do we all understand?”
“I understand,” said the American consul. “But I still think you are dreaming.”
Back at the villa, I again drugged the old people, not much, but enough to insure their sleep that night. They liked me. I was liberal with my gold, and I carelessly showed them where I kept my reserve.
Then I went through the door. Again I heard the Donna Marchesi sing to an audience that would never hiss her. She left, and I started to distribute the files. From one blind wretch to the next I went, whispering words of cheer and instruction for the next night. They were to cut through a link in the chain, but in such a way that the Tiger Cat would not suspect that they had gained their liberty. Were they pleased to have a hope of freedom? I am not sure, but they were delighted at another prospect.
The next night I doubled the tips to the old servants. With tears of gratitude in their eyes, they thanked me as they called me their dear master. I put them to sleep as though they were babies. In fact, I wondered at the time if they would ever recover from the dose of chloral I gave them. I did not even bother to tie them, but just tossed them on their beds.
At half past ten, automobiles began to arrive with darkened lights. We had a lengthy conference, and soon after eleven I went through the door. I lost no time in making sure that each of the blind mice was a free man, but I insisted that they act as though bound till the proper time. They were trembling, but it was not from fear, not that time.
Back in my hiding-place I waited, and soon I heard the singing voice. Ten minutes later the Donna Marchesi had her lantern hung on the nail. Ah! She was more beautiful that night than I had ever seen her. Dressed in filmy white, her beautiful body, lovely hair, long lithe limbs would have bound any man to her through eternity. She seemed to sense that beauty, for, after giving out the first supply of rolls, she varied her program. She told her audience how she had dressed that evening for their special pleasure. She described her jewels and her costume. She almost became grandiose as she told of her beauty, and, driving in the dagger, she twisted it as she reminded them that never would they be able to see her, never touch her or kiss her hand. All they could do was to hear her sing, applaud and at last die.
Of all the terrible things in her life that little talk to those blind men was the climax.
And then she sang. I watched her closely, and I saw what I suspected. She sang with her eyes closed. Was she in fancy seeming that she was in an opera-house before thousands of spellbound admirers? Who knows? But ever as she sang that night her eyes were closed, and even as she came to a close, waiting for the usual applause, her eyes were closed.
She waited in the silence for the clap of hands. It did not come. With terrific anger, she whirled to her basket and reached for her whip.
“Dogs!” she cried. “Have you so soon forgot your lesson?”
And then she realized that the twenty blind men were closing in on her. They were silent, but their outstretched hands were feeling for something that they wanted very much. Even when her whip started to cut, they were silent. Then one man touched her. To her credit, there was no sign of fear. She knew what had happened. She must have known, but she was not afraid. Her single scream was nothing but the battle-cry of the tiger cat going into action.
There was a single cry, and that was all. The men reached for what they wanted in silence. For a while they were all in a struggling group on their feet, but soon they were all on the ground. It was simply a mass, and under that mass was a biting, scratching, fighting, dying animal.
I couldn’t stand it. I had planned it all, I wanted it all to happen, but when it came, I just couldn’t stand it. Covered with the sweat of fear, I ran to the door and unlocked it. I swung it open, went through the doorway, closed it and locked it again. The men, waiting for me in the cellar, looked on with doubt. It seemed that they were right in thinking that my tale was an alcoholic one.
“Give me whisky!” I gasped, as I dropped on the floor.
In a few minutes I had recovered.
“Open the door,”
I ordered. “And bring the blind men out.”
One at a time they were brought to the kitchen, and identified. Some were terribly mutilated in the face, long deep scratches, and even pieces bitten out, and one had the corner of his mouth torn. Most of them were sobbing hysterically, but, in some way, though none said so, I judged that they were all happy.
We went back to the cellar and through the door. On the stone floor was a clotted mass of red and white.
“What’s that?” asked the American consul.
“I think that is the Donna Marchesi,” I replied. “She must have met with an accident.”
THE THIRTY AND ONE
Originally published in Marvel Science Stories, Nov. 1938.
Cecil, OverLord of Walling, in the Dark Forest, mused by the fire. The blind Singer of Songs had sung the sagas of ancient times, had waited long for praise and then, disquieted, had left the banquet hall guided by his dog. The Juggler had merrily tossed his golden balls into the air till they seemed a glistening cascade, but still the OverLord had mused, unseeing. The wise Homunculus had crouched at his feet uttering words of wisdom and telling tales of Gobi and the buried city of Ankor. But nothing could rouse the OverLord from his meditations.
At last, he stood up and struck the silver bell with a hammer of gold. Serving men answered the call.
“Send me the Lady Angelica and the Lord Gustro,” he commanded, and then once again sat down with chin in hand, waiting.
At last, the two came in answer to his summons. The Lady was his only daughter, as fair and as wise a Lady as there was in all Walling. Lord Gustro, some day, would be her husband, and help her rule in the Dark Forest. Meantime, he perfected himself in the use of the broadsword, lute, the hunting with the falcon, and the study of books. He was six feet tall, twenty years old, and had in him the makings of a man.
The three sat around the fire, two waiting to hear the one talk, the one waiting till he knew just how to say what had to be said. At last, Cecil began to talk.
“You no doubt know what is on my mind. For years I have tried to give happiness and peace and prosperity, to the simple folk of our land of Walling. We were well situated in a valley surrounded by lofty, impassable forests. Only one mountain pass connected us with the great, cruel, and almost unknown world around us. Into that world, we sent in springtime, summer, and fall, our caravans of mules laden with grain, olives, wine, and uncut stones. From that world, we brought salt, weapons, bales of woolen and silken goods, for our needs. No one tried to molest us, for we had nothing much that they coveted. Perhaps safety made us grow soft, sleepy, and unprepared for danger.
“But it has come. We might have known there were things in that outer world we knew not of and therefore could not even dream of. But this spring, our first caravan winding over the mountains found, at the boundaries of the Dark Forest, a Castle blocking their way. Their mules were not birds and could not fly over; they were not moles and could not burrow under. And the lads with the mules were not warriors and could not break their way through. So they came back, unmolested, ’tis true, but with their goods unsold and unbartered.
“Now, I do not think that Castle was built by magic. I have personally looked at it, and it seems nothing but stone and mortar. And it is not held by an army of fighting men, for all we can hear is that one man holds it. But what a man! Half again as tall as our finest lad, and skilled in the use of weapons. I tried him out. One at a time, I sent to him John of the flying ax, and Herman who had no equal with the double-edged sword, and Rubin who could split a willow wand at two hundred paces with his steel-tipped arrow. These three men lie, worm food, in the ravine below the castle. And meantime, our country is strangulated as far as trade is concerned. We have cattle in the meadow, and wood in the forest, and grain in the bin, but we have no salt, no clothes to cover us from the cold, no finery for our women, or weapons for our men. And we never will have these as long as this castle and this man block our caravans.”
“We can capture the Castle and kill the giant!” cried Lord Gustro, with the impetuosity of youth.
“How?” asked the OverLord. “Did I not tell you that the path is narrow? You know that. On one side, the mountains tower lofty as the flight of the bird and smooth as a woman’s skin. On the other side, is the Valley of the Daemons, and no one has ever fallen into it and come back alive. The only path is just wide enough for one man or one man-led mule, and that path now leads through the castle. If we could send an army, ’twould be different. But only one man at a time can we send, and there is no man equal to successful combat with this giant.”
The Lady Angelica smiled as she whispered, “We may conquer him through chicanery. For example, I have seen this hall filled with fighting men and fair ladies almost put into an endless sleep by gazing at the golden balls flying through the air and back into the clever hands of the Juggler. And the Blind Singer of Songs can make anyone forget all except the music of his tales. And our Homunculus is very wise.”
The OverLord shook his head. “Not thus will the question be answered. This madman wants one thing, and that one thing means everything in the lastward, as far as our land and people are concerned. Perhaps you have guessed. I will give you the demand ere you ask the question. Our Lady’s hand in marriage, and thus, when I die, he becomes the OverLord of Walling.”
Lady Angelica looked over at Lord Gustro. He looked at the OverLord’s daughter. At last, he said:
“Better to eat our grain and eat our olives and drink our wine. Better that our men wear bearskins and our women cover themselves with the skins of deer. It would be best for them to wear shoes of wood than pantofles of unicorn skin brought from Araby. It were a sweeter fate for them to perfume their bodies with crushed violets and may-flowers from our forest than to smell sweet with perfumes from the trees of the unknown Island of the East. This price is too heavy. Let us live as our fathers and fathers’ fathers lived, even climb trees like the monkey folk, than trust to such an OverLord. Besides, I love the Lady Angelica.”
The Lady smiled her thanks. “I still am thinking of the use of intelligence overcoming brawn. Have we no wisdom left in Walling, besides the fair, faint, dreams of weak woman?”
“I will send for the Homunculus,” her father answered. “He may know the answer to that question.”
The little man came in. He was a man not born of woman, but grown for seven years in a glass bottle, during all of which time he read books held before him by wise men, and was nourished with drops of wine and tiny balls of Asphodel paste. He listened to the problem gravely, though at times he seemed asleep. At last, he said one word.
“Synthesis.”
Cecil reached over and, picking him up, placed him on one knee.
“Have pity on us, Wise Man. We are but simple folk and know but simple words. What is the meaning of this sage word?”
“I know not,” was the peculiar answer. “’Tis but a word that came to me out of the past. It has a sweet sound and methinks may have a meaning. Let me think. I recall now! It was when I was in the glass bottle that a wise man came and held before my eyes an illuminated parchment. On it was written in words of gold, this word and its meaning.
“Synthesis. All things are one and one thing is all.”
“Which makes it all the harder for me,” sighed the OverLord of Walling.
The Lady Angelica left her seat and came over to her father. She sank upon the bearskin at his feet and took the little hand of the dwarf in hers.
“Tell me, my dear Homunculus, what wise man ’twas who thus gave you the message on the illuminated parchment?”
“It was a very wise man and a very old man who lives by himself in a cave by the babbling brook, and yearly the simple folk take him bread and meat and wine, but for years no one has seen him. And perhaps he lives and perhaps he is dead, for all I know is that the food disappears. But perhaps the birds think that it is for them now that he lies sightless and thoughtless on his stone bed these many years.”
&nb
sp; “This is something we will find out for ourselves. Lord Gustro, order some horses, and the four of us will go to this man’s cave. Three horses for us, my Lord, and an ambling pad for our little friend so naught of harm will befall him.”
The four came to the cave, and the four entered it. A light burned at the far end, and there was the wise man, very old and with naught but his eyes telling of the intelligence that never ages. On the table before him in a tangled confusion, were glasses and earthenware, and crucibles, and one each of astrolabe, alembic, and hourglass through which silver sands ran, and this was fixed with cunning machinery so that every day it tilted around and once more let the sand tell the passing of the twenty-and-four hours. There were books covered with mildewed leather and locked with iron padlocks and spider webs. Hung from the wet ceiling was a representation of the sun with the planets revolving eternally around that fair orb, but the pitted moon alternated with light and shadows.
And the wise man read from a book written in letters made by those long dead, and now and then he ate a crust of bread or sipped wine from a ram’s horn, but never did he stop reading. When they touched him on the shoulder to attract his attention, he shook them off, murmuring, “By the Seven Sacred Caterpillars! Let me finish this page, for what a pity were I to die without knowing what this man wrote some thousand years ago in Ankor.”
But at last he finished the page and sat blinking at them with his wise eyes sunk deep into a mummy face while his body shook with the decrepitude of age. And Cecil asked him:
“What is the meaning of the word, ‘synthesis’?”
“’Tis a dream of mine which only now I find the waking meaning of.”
“Tell the dream,” the OverLord commanded.
“’Tis but a dream. Suppose there were thirty wise men learned in all wisdom obtained from the reading of ancient books on alchemy and magic and histories and philosophy. These men knew of animals and jewels such as margarites and chrysoberyls, and of all plants such as dittany which cures wounds, and mandragora which compelleth sleep (though why men should want to sleep, when there is so much to read and profit by the reading, I do not know). But these men are old and some day will die. So, I would take these thirty old men and one young man and have them drink a wine that I have distilled these many years, and by synthesis there would be only one body—that of the young man—but in that man’s brain would be all the subtle and ancient wisdom of the thirty savants, and thus we would do century after century so no wisdom would be lost to the world.”
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction Megapack, Volume 5 Page 13