The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™, Vol. 4: Nictzin Dyalhis

by Nictzin Dyalhis

  The Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol MINIPACK™, by Eando Binder

  The Paul Di Filippo MINIPACK™

  The John Gregory Betancourt MINIPACK™

  The Thubway Tham Thanksgiving MINIPACK™

  OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY

  The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany MEGAPACK™”)

  The Wildside Book of Fantasy

  The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

  Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

  More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

  X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

  THE SEA-WITCH

  “By the power I hold, I call you forth from your hiding-place of flesh—come ye out.”

  Heldra Helstrom entered my life in a manner peculiarly her own. And while she was the most utterly damnable woman in all the world, at the same time, in my opinion, she was the sweetest and the most superbly lovely woman who ever lived. A three-day northeast gale was hammering at the coast. It was late in the fall of the year, and cold as only our North Atlantic coast can very well be, but in the very midst of the tempest I became afflicted with a mild form of claustrophobia. So I donned sea-boots, oilskins and sou’wester hat, and sallied forth for a walk along the shore.

  My little cottage stood at the top of a high cliff. There was a broad, safe path running down to the beach, and down it I hurried. The short winter day was even then drawing to a close, and after I’d trudged a quarter of a mile along the shore, I decided I’d best return to my comfortable fireside. The walk had at least given me a good appetite.

  There was none of the usual lingering twilight of a clear winter evening. Darkness fell so abruptly I was glad I’d brought along a powerful flashlight. I’d almost reached the foot of my path up the cliff when I halted, incredulous, yet desiring to make sure.

  I turned the ray of the flashlight on the great comber just curling to break on the shore, and held the light steady, my breath gasping in my throat. Such a thing as I thought I’d seen couldn’t be—yet it was!

  I started to run to the rescue, and could not move a foot. A power stronger than my own will held me immovable. I could only watch, spellbound. And even as I stared, that gigantic comber gently subsided, depositing its precious living burden on the sands as softly as any nurse laying a babe into a cradle.

  Waist-deep in a smother of foam she stood for a brief second, then calmly waded ashore and walked with free swinging stride straight up the beam of my flashlight to where I stood.

  Regardless of the hellish din and turmoil of the tempest, I thrilled, old as I am, at the superb loveliness of this most amazing specimen of flotsam ever a raging sea cast ashore within memory of man.

  Never a shred of clothing masked her matchless body, yet her flesh glowed rosy-white, when by all natural laws it should have been blue-white from the icy chill of wintry seas.

  “Well!” I exclaimed. “Where did you come from? Are you real—or am I seeing that which is not?”

  “I am real,” replied a clear, silvery voice. “And I came from out there.” An exquisitely molded arm flung a gesture toward the raging ocean. “The ship I was on was sinking, so I stripped off my garb, flung myself on Ran’s bosom, and Ran’s horses gave me a most magnificent ride! But well for you that you stood still as I bade you, while I walked ashore. Ran is an angry god, and seldom well-disposed toward mortals.”

  “Ran?” The sea-god of the old Norse vikings! What strange woman was this, who talked of “Ran” and his “horses,” the white-maned waves of old ocean? But then I bethought me of her naked state in that unholy tempest.

  “Surely you must be Ran’s daughter,” I said. “That reef is ten miles off land! Come—I have a house near by, and comforts—you cannot stand here.”

  “Lead, and I will follow,” she replied simply.

  SHE went up that path with greater ease than I, and walked companionably beside me from path-top to house, although she made no talk. Oddly, I felt that she was reading me, and that what she read gave her comfort.

  When I opened the door, it seemed as if she held back for a merest moment.

  “Enter,” I bade her, a bit testily. “I should think you’d had enough of this weather by now!”

  She bowed her head with a natural stateliness which convinced me that she was no common person, and murmured something too low for me to catch, but the accents had a distinct Scandinavian trend.

  “What did you say?” I queried, for I supposed she’d spoken to me.

  “I invoked the favor of the old gods on the hospitable of heart, and on the sheltering rooftree,” she replied. Then she crossed my threshold, but she reached out her arm and rested her shapely white hand lightly yet firmly on my left forearm as she stepped within.

  She went direct to the big stove, which was glowing dull-red, and stood there, smiling slightly, calm, serene, wholly ignoring her nakedness, obviously enjoying the warmth, and not by a single shiver betraying that she had any chill as result of exposure.

  “I think you need this,” I said, proffering a glass of brandy. “There’s time enough for exchanging names and giving explanations, later,” I added. “But right now, I’ll try and find something for you to put on. I have no women’s things in the house, as I live alone, but will do the best I can.”

  I passed into my bedroom, laid out a suit of pajamas and a heavily quilted bathrobe, and returned to the living-room where she stood.

  “You are a most disconcertingly beautiful young woman,” I stated bluntly; “which you know quite well without being told. But doubtless you will feel more at ease if you go in there and don some things I’ve laid out for you. When you come out, I’ll get some supper ready.”

  She was back instantly, still unclad. I stared, wonderingly.

  “Those things did not fit,” she shrugged. “And that heavy robe—in this warm house?”

  “But—” I began.

  “But—this,” she smiled, catching up a crimson silk spread embroidered in gold, which covered a sandalwood table.

  I’d brought from the orient many years before. A couple of swift motions and the gorgeous thing became a wondrous robe adorning her lovely figure, clinging, and in some subtle manner hinting at the flawless splendor of her incomparable body. A long narrow scarf of black silk whereon twisted a silver dragon was whipped from its place on a shelf and transposed into a sash from her swelling breasts to her sloping hips, bringing out more fully every exquisite curve of her slender waist and torso—and she smiled again.

  “Now,” she laughed softly, “am I still a picture for your eyes? I hope so, for you have befriended me this night—I who sorely need a friend; and it is such a little thing I can do—making myself pleasing in your sight.

  “And because you have holpen me”—I stared at the archaic form she used—“and will continue to aid and befriend (for so my spirit tells me), I will love you always, love you as Ragnar Wave-Flame loved Jarl Wulf Red-Brand, as a younger sister, or a dutiful niece.”

  “Yet of her it is told,” I interrupted, deliberately speaking Swedish and watching keenly to see the effect, “that the love given by the foam-born Sea-Witch brought old Earl Wulf of the Red-Sword but little luck, and that not of a sort desired by most men!”

  “That is ill said,” she retorted. “His fate was from the Norns, as is the fate of all. Not hers the fault of his doom, and when his carles within the hour captured his three slayers, she took red vengeance. With her own foam-white hands she flayed them alive, and covered their twitching bodies with salt ere she placed the old Jarl in his long-ship and set it afire. And she sailed with that old man on his last seafaring, steering his bla
zing dragon-ship out of the stead, singing of his great deeds in life, that the heroes in Valhalla might know who honored them by his coming.”

  She paused, her superb bosom heaving tumultuously. Then with a visible effort she calmed herself.

  “But you speak my tongue, and know the old tales of the Skalds. Are you, then, a Swede?”

  “I speak the tongue, and the old tales of the Skalds, the ancient minstrels, I learned from my grandmother, who was of your race.”

  “Of my race?” her tone held a curious inflection. “Ah, yes! All women are of one race…perhaps.”

  “But I spoke of supper,” I said, moving toward the kitchen.

  “But—no!” She barred my progress with one of her lovely hands laid flat against my chest. “It is not meet and fitting, Jarl Wulf, that you should cook for me, like any common house-carle! Rather, let your niece, Heldra, prepare for you a repast.”

  “‘Heldra’? That, then, is your name?”

  “Heldra Helstrom, and your loving niece.” She nodded.

  “But why call me Jarl Wulf?” I demanded, curious to understand. She had bestowed the name seriously, rather than in playful banter.

  “Jarl Wulf you were, in a former life,” she asserted flatly. “I knew you on the shore, even before Ran’s horse stood me on my feet!”

  “Surely, then, you must be Ragnar Wave-Flame born again,” I countered.

  “How may that be?” she retorted. “Ragnar Wave-Flame never died; and surely I do not look that old! The sea-born witch returned to the sea-caves whence she came, when the dragon-ship burned out.… But ask me not of myself, now.

  “Yet one thing more I will say: The warp and woof of this strange pattern wherein we both are depicted was wovenof the Norns ere the world began. We have met before—we meet again, here and now—we shall meet yet again; but how, and when, and where, I may not say.”

  “Of a truth, you are ‘fey’,” I muttered.

  “At times—I am,” she assented. Then her wondrous sapphire eyes gleamed softly into my own hard gray eyes, her smile was tender, wistful, womanly, and my doubts were dissipated like wisps of smoke. Yet I shook an admonitory forefinger at her:

  “Witch at least I know you to be,” I said in mock harshness. “Casting glamyr on an old man.”

  “No need for witchery,” she laughed. “All women possess that power!”

  * * * *

  During the “repast” she spread before me, I told her that regardless of who I might have been in a dim and remote past of which I had no memory, in this present life I was plain John Craig, retired professor of anthropology, ethnology and archeology, and living on a very modest income. I explained that while I personally admired her, and she was welcome to remain in my home for ever, yet in the village near by were curious minds, and gossiping tongues, and evil thoughts a-plenty, and if I were to tell the truth of her arrival—

  “But I have nowhere to go, and none save you to befriend me; all I loved or owned is out there.” Again she indicated the general direction of the reef. “And you say that I may remain here, indefinitely? I will be known as your niece, Heldra, no? Surely, considering the differences in our age and appearance, there can be no slander.”

  Her eyes said a thousand things no words could convey. There was eagerness, sadness, and a strange tenderness.… I came to an abrupt decision. After all, whose business was it?

  “I am alone in the world, as you are,” I said gravely. “As my niece, Heldra, you shall remain. If you will write out a list of a woman’s total requirements in wearing-apparel, I will send away as soon as possible and have them shipped here in haste. I am old, as all can see, and I do not think any sensible persons will suspect aught untoward in your making your home with me. And I will think up a plausible story which will satisfy the minds of fools without telling, in reality, anything.”

  Our repast ended, we arose from the table and returned to the living-room. I filled and lighted a nargilyeh, a three-stemmed water-pipe, and settled myself in my armchair. She helped herself to a cigarette from a box on the table, then stretched her long, slender body at full length on my divan, in full relaxation of comfort.

  I told her enough of myself and my forebears to insure her being able to carry out the fiction of being my niece. And in return I learned mighty little about her. But what she did tell me was sufficient. I never was unduly curious about other people’s business.

  Unexpectedly, and most impolitely, I yawned. Yet it was natural enough, and it struck me that she needed a rest, if anyone ever did. But before I could speak, she forestalled me.

  With a single graceful movement she rose from her reclining posture and came and stood before me within easy arm’s-reach. Two swift motions, and her superb body flashed rosy-white, as nude as when she waded ashore.

  The crimson silken spread she’d worn as regally as any robe was laid at my feet with a single gesture, the black scarf went across my knees, and the glorious creature was kneeling before me in attitude of absolute humility. Before I could remonstrate or bid her arise, her silvery voicerang softly, solemnly, like a muted trumpet:

  “Thus, naked and with empty hands, out of the wintry seas in a twilight gray and cold, on a night of storm I came. And you lighted a beacon for my tired eyes, that I might see my way ashore. You led me up the cliff and to your hospitable hearth, and in your kindly heart you had already given the homeless a home.

  “And now, kneeling naked before you, as I came, I place my hands between your hands—thus—and all that I am, and such service as I can render, are yours, hand-fasted.”

  I stared, well-nigh incredulous. In effect, in the old Norse manner, she was declaring herself to all intents and purposes my slave! But her silvery voice went on:

  “And now, I rise and cover myself again with the mantle of your bounty, that you may know me, indeed your niece, as Jarl Wulf knew Ragnar Wave-Flame!”

  “Truly,” I gasped in amazement when I could catch my breath, “you are a strange mixture of the ancient days and this modern period. I have known you but for a few hours, yet I feel toward you as that old Jarl must have felt toward that other sea-witch, unless indeed you and she are one!”

  “Almost,” she replied a trifle somberly. “At least, she was my ancestress!” Then she added swiftly: “Do not misunderstand. Leman to the old Jarl she never was. But later, after he went to Valhalla, in the sea-girt isle where she dwelt she mated with a young viking whom Ran had cast ashore sorely wounded and insensible. She nursed him back to life for sake of his beauty, and he made love to her.

  “But he soon tired of her and her witch ways; wherefore, in wrath she gave him back to Ran—and he was seen no more. Of that mating was born a daughter, also given to Ran, who pitied her and bore her to an old man and his wife whose steading was nigh to the mouth of a fjord; and they, being childless, called her Ranhild, and reared her as their daughter. In course of time, she wed, and bore three tall sons and a daughter.…

  “That was long and long ago—yet I have dived into Ragnar’s hidden sea-cave and talked with Ragnar Wave-Flame face to face. All one night I lay in her arms, and in the dawning she breathed her breath on my brow, lips, and bosom; and all that following day she talked and I listened, and much I learned of the wisdom that an elder world termed witchcraft.”

  For a moment she lapsed into silence. Then she leaned forward, laid her shapely, cool hands on my temples and kissed me on my furrowed old forehead, very solemnly, yet with ineffable gentleness.

  “And now,” she murmured, “ask me never again aught concerning myself, I pray you; for I have told all I may, and further questioning will drive me back to the sea. And I would not have that happen—yet!”

  Without another word she turned, flung herself at full length again on the divan, and, like any tired child, went instantly to sleep. Decidedly, I thought, this “niece” of mine was not as are other women; and later I found that she possessed certain abilities it is well for the world that few indeed can wield.

&n
bsp; She gave me another proof of that belief, by demonstrating her unholy powers, on the night of the next full moon after her arrival.

  It was her custom of an evening to array herself as she had done on her first night—in crimson robe and black sash and naught else, despite the fact that herwardrobe which I had ordered from the great city forty miles away contained all any woman’s heart could wish for. But I admit I enjoyed seeing her in that semi-barbaric attire.

  At times she would sit on the arm of my chair, often with her smooth cool cheek laid against my rough old face, and her exquisitely modeled arm curved about my leathery old neck. The first time she had done that, I had demanded ironically:

  “Witch, are you making love to me?”

  But her sighing, wistful reply had disarmed me, and likewise had brought a lump into my throat.

  “Nay! Not that, 0 Jarl from of old! But—I never knew a father.”

  “Nor I a fair daughter,” I choked. And thereafter, when that mood was upon her I indulged in no more ironies, and we’d sit for hours, neither speaking, engrossed in thoughts for which there are no words. But on the night whereof I write, she pressed her scarlet lips to my cheek, and I asked jestingly:

  “Is there something you want, Heldra?”

  “There is,” she replied gravely. “Will you get a boat—one with oars and a sail, but no engine? Ran hates those.”

  “But surely you do not want it now, tonight, do you?”

  “Yes, if you will be so kind to me.”

  “You must have a very good reason, or you’d not ask,” I said. “I’ll go and get a centerboard dory and bring it to the beach at the foot of the cliff path. It’s clear weather, and the sea is calm, with but a moderate breeze blowing; yet it is colder on the water than you imagine, so you’d best bundle up warmly.”

  “You will hasten,” she implored anxiously.

  “Surely,” I nodded.

  I went out and down to the wharves in the village, where I kept the boat I said I’d get. But when I beached the dory at foot of the path I stared, swearing softly under my breath. Not one stitch of apparel did that witch have on, save the crimson silk robe and black sash she’d worn when I left the cottage!