Darkness and Dawn

by George England

  For the chief, the obeah-man of this vile drove, rising now from beside the fire with a gibbering chatter and a look of bestial malice, held between his fangs a twisted brown leaf.

  Stern knew at a glance the leaf was the rudely cured product of some degenerated tobacco-plant. He saw a glow of red at the tip of the close-rolled tobacco. Vapor issued from the chief's slit-mouth.

  "Good Lord—he's—smoking!" stammered the engineer. "And that means—means an almost human brain. And—quick, Beatrice, the water! I didn't expect this! Thought they were all alike. Back to the tower, quick! Here, fill the pail—I'll keep him covered!"

  Up he brought the automatic, till the bead lay fair upon the naked, muscular breast of the obeah.

  Beatrice handed Stern the rifle, then snatching the pail, dipped it, filled it to the brim. Stern heard the water lap and gurgle. He knew it was but a few seconds, yet it seemed an hour to him, at the very least.

  Keener than ever before in his whole life, his mental pictures now limned themselves with lightning rapidity upon his brain.

  Stamped on his consciousness was this lithe, lean, formidable body, showing beyond dispute its human ancestry; the right hand that held a steel-pointed spear; the horrible ornament (a withered little smoked hand) that dangled from the left wrist by a cord of platted fiber.

  Vividly Stern beheld a deep gash or scar that ran from the chief's right eye—a dull, fishlike eye, evidently destroyed by that wound—down across the leathery cheek, across the prognathous jaw; a reddish-purple wale, which on that clay-blue skin produced an effect indescribably repulsive.

  Then the chief grunted, and moved forward, toward them. Stern saw that the gait was almost human, not shuffling and uncertain like that of the others, but firm and vigorous. He estimated the height at more than five feet, eight inches; the weight at possibly one hundred and forty pounds. Even at that juncture, his scientific mind, always accustomed to judging, instinctively registered these data, with the others.

  "Here, you, get back there!" shouted Stern, as the girl rose again from filling the pail.

  The cry was instinctive, for even as he uttered it, he knew it could not be understood. A thousand years of rapid degeneration had long wiped all traces of English speech from the brute-men, who now, at most, chattered some bestial gibberish. Yet the warning echoed loudly through Madison Forest; and the obeah hesitated.

  The tone, perhaps, conveyed some meaning to that brain behind the sloping forehead. Perhaps some dim, racial memory of human speech still lingered in that mind, in that strange organism which, by some freak of atavism, had "thrown back" out of the mire of returning animality almost to the human form and stature once again.

  However that may have been, the creature-chief halted in his advance. Undecided he stood a moment, leaning upon his spear, sucking at the rude mockery of a cigar. Stern remembered having seen Consul, the trained chimpanzee, smoke in precisely the same manner, and a nameless loathing filled him at his mockery of the dead, buried past.

  "Let me carry the pail!" said he. "We've got to hurry—hurry—or it may be too late!"

  "No, no—I'll keep the water!" she answered, panting. "You need both hands clear! Come!"

  Thus they turned, and, with a shuddering glance behind, started back for the tower again.

  But the obeah, with a whining plaint, spat away his tobacco-leaf. They heard a shuffle of feet. And, looking round again, both saw that he had crossed the little brook.

  There he stood now, his right hand out, palm upward, his lips curled in the ghastly imitation of a smile, blue gums and yellow lushes showing, a sight to freeze the blood with horror. Yet through it all, the meaning was most clearly evident.

  Beatrice, laden as she was with the heavy water-bucket, more precious now to them than all the wealth of the dead world, would still have retreated, but with a word of stern command he bade her wait. He stopped short in his tracks.

  "Not a step!" commanded he. "Hold on! If he makes friends with us—with gods—that's a million times better every way! Hold on—wait, no—this is his move."

  He faced the obeah. His left hand gripped the repeating rifle, his right the automatic, held in readiness for instant action. The muzzle sight never for a second left its aim at the chief's heart.

  And for a second silence fell there in the forest. Save for the rustling murmur of the Horde, and a faint, woodland trickle of the stream, you might have thought the place untouched by life.

  Yet death lurked there, and destiny—the destiny of the whole world, the future, the human race, forever and ever without end; and the cords of Fate were being loosed for a new knitting.

  And Stern, with Beatrice there at his side, stood harsh and strong and very grim; stood like an incarnation of man's life, waiting.

  And slowly, step by step, over the yielding, noiseless moss, the grinning, one-eyed, ghastly obeah-man came nearer, nearer still.

  Chapter XXIV - The Fight in the Forest

  *

  Now the Thing was close, very close to them, while a hush lay upon the watching Horde and on the forest. So close, that Stern could hear the soughing breath between those hideous lips and see the twitching of the wrinkled lid over the black, glittering eye that blinked as you have often seen a chimpanzee's.

  All at once the obeah stopped. Stopped and leered, his head craned forward, that ghastly rictus on his mouth.

  Stern's hot anger welled up again. Thus to be detained, inspected and seemingly made mock of by a creature no more than three-quarters human, stung the engineer to rage.

  "What do you want?" cried he, in a thick and unsteady voice. "Anything I can do for you? If not, I'll be going."

  The creature shook its head. Yet something of Stern's meaning may have won to its smoldering intelligence. For now it raised a hand. It pointed to the pail of water, then to its own mouth; again it indicated the pail, then stretched a long, repulsive finger at the mouth of Stern.

  The meaning seemed clear. Stern, even as he stood there in anger—and in wonder, too, at the fearlessness of this superthing—grasped the significance of the action.

  "Why, he must mean," said he, to Beatrice, "he must be trying to ask whether we intend to drink any of the water, what? Maybe it's poisoned, now, or something! Maybe he's trying to warn us!"

  "Warn us? Why should he?"

  "How can I tell? It isn't entirely impossible that he still retains some knowledge of his human ancestors. Perhaps that tradition may have been handed down, some way, and still exists in the form of a crude beast-religion."

  "Yes, but then—?"

  "Perhaps he wants to get in touch with us, again; learn from us; try to struggle up out of the mire of degeneration, who knows? If so—and it's possible—of course he'd try to warn us of a poisoned spring!"

  Acting on this hypothesis, of which he was now half-convinced, Stern nodded. By gesture-play he answered: Yes. Yes, this woman and he intended to drink of the water. The obeah-man, grinning, showed signs of lively interest. His eyes brightened, and a look of craft, of wizened cunning crept over his uncanny features.

  Then he raised his head and gave a long, shrill, throaty call, ululating and unspeakably weird.

  Something stirred in the forest. Stern heard a rustle and a creeping murmur; and quick fear chilled his heart.

  To him it seemed as though a voice were calling, perhaps the inner, secret voice of his own subjective self—a voice that cried:

  "You, who must drink water—now he knows you are not gods, but mortal creatures. Tricked by his question and your answer, your peril now is on you! Flee!"

  The voice died. Stern found himself, with a strange, taut eagerness tingling all through him, facing the obeah and—and not daring to turn his back.

  Retreat they must, he knew. Retreat, at once! Already in the forest he understood that heads were being lifted, beastlike ears were listening, brute eyes peering and ape-hands clutching the little, flint-pointed spears. Already the girl and he should have been half-way back to th
e tower; yet still, inhibited by that slow, grinning, staring advance of the chief, there the engineer stood.

  But all at once the spell was broken.

  For with a cry, a hoarse and frightful yell of passion, the obeah leaped—leaped like a huge and frightfully agile ape—leaped the whole distance intervening.

  Stern saw the Thing's red-gleaming eyes fixed on Beatrice. In those eyes he clearly saw the hell-flame of lust. And as the woman screamed in terror, Stern pulled trigger with a savage curse.

  The shot went wild. For at the instant—though he felt no pain—his arm dropped down and sideways.

  Astounded, he looked. Something was wrong! What? His trigger-finger refused to serve. It had lost all power, all control.

  For God's sake, what could it be?

  Then—all this taking but a second—Stern saw; he knew the truth. Staring, pale and horrified, he understood.

  There, through the fleshy part of his forearm, thrust clean from side to side by a lightning-swift stroke, he saw the obeah's spear!

  It dangled strangely in the firm muscles. The steel barb and full eighteen inches of the shaft were red and dripping.

  Yet still the engineer felt no slightest twinge of pain.

  From his numbed, paralyzed hand the automatic dropped, fell noiselessly into the moss.

  And with a formless roar of killing-rage, Stern swung on the obeah, with the rifle.

  Stern felt his heart about to burst with hate. He did not even think of the second revolver in the holster at his side. With only his left hand now to use, the weapon could only have given clumsy service.

  Instead, the man reverted instantly to the jungle stage, himself—to the law of claw and fang, of clutching talon, of stone and club.

  The beloved woman's cry, ringing in his ears, drove him mad. Up he whirled the Krag again, up, up, by the muzzle; and down upon that villainous skull he dashed it with a force that would have brained an ox.

  The obeah, screeching, reeled back. But he was not dead. Not dead, only stunned a moment. And Stern, horrified, found himself holding only a gun-barrel. The stock, shattered, had whirled away and vanished among the tall and waving ferns.

  Beatrice snatched up the fallen revolver. She stumbled; and the pail was empty. Spurting, splashing away, the precious water flew. No time, now, for any more.

  For all about them, behind them and on every hand, the Things were closing in.

  They had seen blood—had heard the obeah's cry; they knew! Not gods, now, but mortal creatures! Not gods!

  "Run! Run!" gasped Beatrice.

  The spear still hanging from his arm, Stern wheeled and followed. High and hard he swung the rifle-barrel, like a war-club.

  No counting of steps, now; no play at divinity. Panting, horror-stricken, frenzied with rage, bleeding, they ran. It was a hunt—the hunt of the last two humans by the nightmare Horde.

  In front, a bluish and confused mass seemed to dance and quiver through the forest; and a pattering rain of spears and little arrows began to fall about the fugitives.

  Then the girl's revolver sputtered in a quick volley; and again, for a space, silence fell. The way again was clear. But in the path, silent and still, or writhing horribly, lay a few of the Things. And the pine-needles and soft moss were very red, in spots.

  Stern had his pistol out too, by now. For behind and on his flanks, like ferrets hanging to a hunted creature, the swarm was closing in.

  The engineer, his face very white and drawn, veins standing out on his sweat-beaded forehead, heard Beatrice cry out to him, but he could not understand her words.

  Yet as they ran, he saw her level the pistol and snap the hammer twice, thrice, with no result. The little dead click sounded like a death-warrant to him.

  "Empty?" cried he. "Here, take this one! You can shoot better now than I can!" And into her hand he thrust the second revolver.

  Something stung him on the left shoulder. He glanced round. A dart was hanging there.

  With an oath, the engineer wheeled about. His eyes burned and his lips drew back, taut, from his fine white teeth.

  There, already recovered from the blow which would have killed a man ten times over, he saw the obeah snarling after him. Right down along the path the monster was howling, beating his breast with both huge fists. And, now feeling fear no more than pain, Stern crouched to meet his onslaught.

  Chapter XXV - The Goal, and Through It

  *

  It all happened in a moment of time, a moment, long—in seeming—as an hour. The girl's revolver crackled, there behind him. Stern saw a little round bluish hole take shape in the obeah's ear, and red drops start.

  Then with a ghastly screaming, the Thing was upon him.

  Out struck the engineer, with the rifle-barrel. All the force of his splendid muscles lay behind that blow. The Thing tried to dodge. But Stern had been too quick.

  Even as it sprang, with talons clutching for the man's throat, the steel barrel drove home on the jaw.

  An unearthly, piercing yell split the forest air. Then Stern saw the obeah, his jaw hanging oddly awry, all loose and shattered, fall headlong in the path.

  But before he could strike again, could batter in the base of the tough skull, a moan from Beatrice sent him to her aid.

  "Oh, God!" he cried, and sank beside her on his knees.

  On her forehead, as she lay gasping among the bushes, he saw an ugly welt.

  "A stone? They've hit her with a stone! Killed her, perhaps?"

  Kneeling there, up he snatched the revolver, and in a deadly fire he poured out the last spitting shots, pointblank in the faces of the crowding rabble.

  Up he leaped. The rifle barrel flashed and glittered as he whirled it. Like a reaper, laying a clean swath behind him, the engineer mowed down a dozen of the beast-men.

  Shrieks, grunts, snarls, mingled with his execrations.

  Then fair into a jabbering ape-face he flung the bloodstained barrel. The face fell, faded, vanished, as hideous illusions fade in a dream.

  And Stern, with a strength he never dreamed was his, caught up the fainting girl in his left arm, as easily as though she had been a child.

  Still dragging the spear which pierced his right—his right that yet protected her a little—he ran.

  Stones, darts, spears, clattered in about him. He heard the swish and tang of them; heard the leaves flutter as the missiles whirled through.

  Struck? Was he struck again?

  He knew not, nor cared. Only he thought of shielding Beatrice. Nothing but that, just that!

  "The gate—oh, let me reach the gate! God! The gate—"

  And all of a sudden, though how he could not tell, there he seemed to see the gate before him. Could it be? Or was that, too, a dream? A cruel, vicious mockery of his disordered mind?

  Yes—the gate! It must be! He recognized the giant pine, in a moment of lucidity. Then everything began to dance again, to quiver in the mocking sunlight.

  "The gate!" he gasped once more, and staggered on. Behind him, a little trail of blood-drops from his wounded arm fell on the trampled leaves.

  Something struck his bent head. Through it a blinding pain darted. Thousands of beautiful and tiny lights of every color began to quiver, to leap and whirl.

  "They've—set the building on fire!" thought he; yet all the while he knew it was impossible, he understood it was only an illusion.

  He heard the rustle of the wind through the forest. It blent and mingled with a horrid tumult of grunts, of clicking cries, of gnashing teeth and little bestial cries.

  "The—gate!" sobbed Stern, between hard-set teeth, and stumbled forward, ever forward, through the Horde.

  To him, protectingly, he clasped the beautiful body in the tiger-skin.

  Living? Was she living yet? A great, aching wonder filled him. Could he reach the stair with her, and bear her up it? Hurl back these devils? Save her, after all?

  The pain had grown exquisite, in his head. Something seemed hammering there, with regular
strokes—a red-hot sledge upon an anvil of white-hot steel.

  To him it looked as though a hundred, a thousand of the little blue fiends were leaping, shrieking, circling there in front of him. Ten thousand! And he must break through.

  Break through!

  Where had he heard those words? Ah—Yes—

  To him instantly recurred a distant echo of a song, a Harvard football-song. He remembered. Now he was back again. Yale, 0; Harvard, 17—New Haven, 1898. And see the thousands of cheering spectators! The hats flying through the air—flags waving—red, most of them! Crimson—like blood!

  Came the crash and boom of the old Harvard Band, with big Joe Foley banging the drum till it was fit to burst, with Marsh blowing his lungs out on the cornet, and all the other fellows raising Cain.

  Uproar! Cheering! And again the music. Everybody was singing now, everybody roaring out that brave old fighting chorus:

  ".....Now—all to-geth-er,

  Smash them—and—break—through!"

  And see! Look there! The goal!

  The scene shifted, all at once, in a quite unaccountable and puzzling manner.

  Somehow, victory wasn't quite won, after all. Not quite yet. What was the matter, then? What was wrong? Where was he?

  Ah, the Goal!

  Yes, there through the rack and mass of the Blues, he saw it, again, quite clearly. He was sure of that, anyhow.

  The goal-posts seemed a trifle near together, and they were certainly made of crumbling stone, instead of straight wooden beams. Odd, that!

  He wondered, too, why the management allowed trees to grow on the field, trees and bushes—why a huge pine should be standing right there by the left-hand post. That was certainly a matter to be investigated and complained of, later. But now was no time for kicks.

  "Probably some Blue trick," thought Stern. "No matter, it won't do 'em any good, this time!"

  Ah! An opening! Stern's head went lower still. He braced himself for a leap.

  "Come on, come on!" he yelled defiance.

  Again he heard the cheering, once wind like a chorus of mad devils.