Directly beneath the beating heart stood a low stone table on which lay a tablet of polished black onyx, and atop of this a bronze mallet. I could have held back from that table as easily as I could have held back from breathing! And as I bent above the onyx tablet, in letters of living flame which faded as soon as noted, there formed the words:
“Tekala! In the day when your heart becomes harder than mine, lift this mallet, and if you dare, smite! Yet remember—vengeance is of the Gods!”
Vengeance?… Smite!…
The flame within my brain roared like the surges of a volcano’s angry, molten sea!
Crash!
The pulsating heart of Atlantan burst into a scintillant shower of glittering red slivers at the impact of the mallet in my hand. And ere the tinkle of tiny falling fragments had ceased—
Roar upon roar of thunder, continuous, flash following upon flash of lightning, until the world was all a-glare with purple-white fire. The Old Stone Woman, ponderous as she was, swayed and lurched like a ship on a stormy sea as earthquake shocks added their destructive forces to the universal cataclysm! And I? I lay down on the cupped floor within that harsh stone breast, and slept! Aye, like a wearied babe cradled in its mother’s comforting bosom! Nor did a single dream disturb me; and as for the tempest’s turmoil, and the earthquakes, their din was but a lullaby wooing my sick spirit to deeper, most restful slumber.
* * * *
How long that slumber lasted I never knew. Time had ceased when I awoke. Above, the skies were black as never midnight had been, and the very foundations of earth were trembling as each shock came with terrific violence.
My mind, inevitably, went out to Kalkan the Golden. Aye, Mictla’s foul temple still stood, or at least, a part of it. The great fane was but a heap of tumbled ruins, yet the effigy of the Owl-Man Devil-God was unharmed. And on the ruined dais about the altar, some standing and some crouched, were assembled Tizoq, Granat, Ayara, Dokar, Quamac, and a few of Mictla’s evil acolytes and dancing-women. Drawn up in solid ranks before them, facing outward, were the men of the Purple Cohort, the King’s own bodyguard—and they were sorely pressed to defend their charges.
Down the streets converging upon the fane came people fleeing in terror before walls of water inexorably flowing inward. The sea had risen—or had the land subsided? The spears of the guards were dripping gouts of crimson, for the dais was the sole refuge, and many strove to reach it.
Even as I gazed, a levin-bolt sped straight from the black vault of heaven. Full on the round head of Mictla’s effigy it smote with a vicious crackle—I sensed it, I say, in the distance! The great idol reeled, swayed, lurched far over, then with a dull roar it precipitated itself ponderously on the group occupying the dais. A cloud of dust arose, soon settled by the driving rain. I saw Tizoq, or, rather, his dead, ugly face, peering, hideously convulsed, from beneath a pile of debris. Then the waters reached the place, and naught remained save tossing, tumbling waves a-play with strange flotsam!
The terrific forces unleashed when I shattered the ancient heart of the Old Stone Woman were destroying an old land as well as an ancient people. The awful quakes were rending chasms wide and deep in the bosom of the solid ground, and long dormant earth-fires streamed upward. And ever the sea overcame the land. Shattering explosions took place as water and fire met. The entire continent of Atlantan became the picture of hell let loose. There was not a city left, and even the villages of savages in the wild lands were swallowed up in the vast cracks, or incinerated by leaping, roaring, whistling flames. Yet the Old Stone Woman still stared into space, waiting for a dying world to reach its end. And ever the inward rushing waters were victorious over earth and fire alike.
Atlantan was no more beneath the sun! The great continent with its millions of men, women and children, its temples and colleges and palaces, its gardens and glorious cities and fertile countrysides, its rivers and mountains and lakes and plains, its mines with eon-old hoarded treasures of precious metals and gorgeous gems, Atlantan rests at the bottom of the mighty ocean from which, ages agone, it arose!
And I, whose hand struck the fatal blow bringing all that to pass—because I usurped the prerogative of that awful power, Destiny, I am still alive, nor can I ever die while earth endures; for in the hollow of the harsh breast of the Old Stone Woman, enclosed in a new red crystal heart, by Destiny’s inexorable decree, I am compelled to take the place of the old shattered heart of Atlantan, there to remain ever young and undying until Atlantan shall again rise from the sea-slime!”
* * * *
The writing ceased. We three—Carman, Otilie and I—sat staring at each other, in speechless amazement. Suddenly Otilie sighed softly and slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
“Good Lord!” Carman ejaculated. “The strain was too prolonged for the poor creature! Help me, Henri, to lift her to the table-top.”
But Tekala’s “projection” raised a minatory hand. Gliding to where lay the prostrate form, she knelt, placed the palms of her hands on Otilie’s temples for a second, and calmly arose, nodding confidently at us.
To our infinite surprise, Otilie awoke none the worse for her experience. Carman attempted to condole with her, but Otilie waved him aside scornfully.
“I’m all right,” she stated. “For a minute I was out, no? But the Shining Lady”—as she designated our visitor—“gave me of her strength, and I feel stronger right now than ever in my life! And I would cheerfully go through a greater strain for her any time she needs me!”
Tekala started with surprise, as if she could hardly believe what she heard, but then an expression of absolute love for Otilie came upon her face as she signed her to take up her pencil again.
“It seems,” Otilie’s hand transcribed. “That I have found three friends, and I have searched the world over, inspired by such hope, but fearing that never should I succeed in my search.
“Tell me, you who are named Leonard, what would you do, were you Tekala?”
“Let me understand you more fully,” Carman replied gravely. “Are you here, or in the heart of the Old Stone Woman?”
“My undying body is in the breast of the Old Stone Woman,” Otilie wrote. “But all which is Tekala’s self is here! Oh, I tell you that in all the long ages that have passed since the great cataclysm, I have had ample time to develop powers more than mortal! I could, with ease, materialize here and now, for you, but to what avail? Ere long my will would grow wearied and I should again become but a luminous shadow. But, oh! To be free, in a proper, physical body—”
And right there, Carman interrupted:
“If I were you, I would search the wide world over for a suitable body, one young and fair, take possession thereof, and leave my old body right where it is till doomsday!”
“But my punishment—the will of the gods?” Tekala was visibly shocked.
“I’d not worry about the gods,” Carman counseled. “The gods passed when Atlantan sank, nor can the lost gods ever return!”
“But where shall I find a body whose tenant is willing to be supplanted? I would not dispossess a soul in whom the love of life runs strongly. And I cannot, will not take a dead body—there are laws I dare not transgress—”
And at that point Otilie interrupted, somewhat diffidently, but decidedly, and in her melodious voice was a queer note of reverence and pleading.
“O Shining Lady! Can you use such an ugly body as mine? For if you can, I pray you, take it! I have nothing to live for! I am so ugly that little children run from me in the streets, and what man so low as to love poor, deformed Otilie? Perhaps with your powers you can make this twisted form straight and my hideous face fair. If so, tell me what to do, O most Beautiful, and I will gladly obey! But one thing do I ask—let there still be enough left of Otilie to remember how ugly she was, and know how beautiful she has become! Lady—Lady Tekala! Help poor Otilie! Set free her soul, and take her warped body and twist it to your own semblance! It would be the sole mercy I ever knew in all my dreary
life, and it is mercy that I ask!”
Had Otilie struck Tekala the effect would have been the same! Tekala reeled and almost fell, but recovered her equilibrium and glided to Otilie. Long and earnestly the two looked at each other—the ugliest woman I have ever seen, and the loveliest woman the world has ever beheld—and what silent message passed between them I dare not even surmise.
But obviously both were satisfied, for Tekala bent her regal head and kissed Otilie full on her mouth. Carman and I, watching, saw a look of unearthly ecstasy transfigure Otilie’s features, and then the unbelievable happened!
Otilie swayed and fell, lying on her back, and Tekala, standing there, turned about facing us, gradually leaning back and little by little merging herself with the other form lying so still on the floor, until the transformation was accomplished and the two had become one! And we two, staring spellbound, incredulous, saw the poor, twisted body of Otilie straighten, the bosom swell and heave, and the grotesque features slowly bloom into loveliness beyond all words!
Tekala arose from her recumbent position and faced us in triumph, and truly if she had been beautiful before, now she was Beauty’s self! She held out her exquisite arms to me—me, Henri d’Armond—and her voice that still spoke with Otilie’s deep, rich, bell-like resonance, uttered the words I’d hoped to hear, but had never believed possible:
“Henri, my beloved, I am yours, take me!”
In an instant my arms were about her, my lips claiming hers in insatiable hunger—my brain swaying, drunken with happiness, experiencing rapture unearthly—
There came a terrific crash! I saw a blaze of unbearable brilliance filled with figures not of earth, and in their midst yet dominant, a great Face, calm, majestic, awful in its inexorable justice. And I knew, even in my stunned and bewildered condition, that I looked full into the sublime countenance of Destiny itself, that power which is above all gods, and which I, a mere mortal, had, in my presumption, defied when I aided Tekala.
At the same moment I experienced an irresistible force snatch her from my arms despite the fervor of my embrace. I heard her voice, heart-broken, calling despairingly:
“Henri! Henri! Never again—”
My senses left me and I fell to the floor, unconscious.
* * * *
How long I lay there I cannot say, but when my senses returned—I could see nothing but a blaze of light. Of Leonard Carman there was no trace, nor of Tekala.
Dimly I heard a voice saying in deep contralto tones:
“Mr. d’Armond, are you alive?”
“Who speaks?” I demanded shakily, and heard the welcome reply:
“I, Otilie.”
She helped me to my feet. My hand groped until I found hers. I heard her sobbing.
“Are you hurt?” I questioned, stupidly, for I was still dazed.
“Not hurt,” she gasped. “But oh, that poor, dear, lovely lady, Tekala! Her gods were not dead, after all, even if Mr. Carman said they were—and they have taken their vengeance upon her—and me! For I am again Otilie, ugly as ever, and you—what have they done to you?”
“I—am blind,” I replied shakily. “Nor do I ever expect to see again! Help me to a chair.”
Uttering little words of pity and sympathy, she complied, and as I felt her warm tenderness for me in my misfortune flow through me with the touch of her hand, I said, weakly:
“Otilie, I need you! Will you come and live with me and take care of a poor, blind fool?”
“I—I—am so ugly,” she sobbed. “But if you need me—and can endure my presence—yes.”
Otilie and I were married the next day. After all, I am rich as compared to her and can make life a little more bearable for her in her unfortunate condition. It is purely an arrangement of convenience, yet she takes excellent care of me, forestalling my slightest wish. She at least is happy. Yesterday I heard her singing as she went about the house.
As for myself—I am blind, as I said before. Ten years now I have dwelt in darkness—tortured by memory, and blessed by memory.
Three months ago I saw dimly a dull red light glowing in my everlasting gloom. Later it came again, growing stronger. At first I thought it was my sight returning, and found out that I was wrong. Ultimately it became a crimson glory like incandescent blood. And I knew it for what it really was!
Within the swelling breast of the Old Stone Woman, deep in the ocean’s eternal gloom there beats still the great crimson crystal heart. And imprisoned, undying, facing each other yet unable to move, within the pulsating Heart of Atlantan are the two beings I loved, but who, in their arrogance, set at naught the awful fiat of Destiny—ancient priest and ancient priestess, whom Tekala recognized as Ixtlil of old, but yet the Carman I knew who counseled Tekala to her fall, and the priestess Tekala, whom, for so brief a moment I held in my arms, and whose lips I pressed but once ere she was torn from me! And there, undying and unchanging, they wait, wait, wait until Atlantan once more emerges from the depths.
THE ETERNAL CONFLICT
Originally published in Weird Tales, October 1925.
APOLOGY
I am a member of a great and secret Occult Order, despite the fact that I am—or was—a businessman dwelling in New York City, and living in the midst of this practical Twentieth Century.
We hold, as do many, that the universe is ruled by a Supreme Power whose name no man knows, and whose attributes can be but dimly surmised.
We hold that the Presence is served by many beings throughout the universe—Archangels; Angels; Planetary Rulers; a Celestial Host.
We hold that, among these, and not the least, is One, feminine rather than masculine in appearance and attributes, whom we consider to be the goddess of Love, Beauty, Light, and Truth.
To her is our Temple dedicated; and to her we give reverence. We are not idolators in any sense of that word, for we know that she is but one of those who serve the Presence.
After all, is the idea so outre?
This universe is a “going concern”, as we would say of a huge industrial plant. Such a plant has its general manager; assistant managers; superintendents; foremen, etc. Why not the universe, which is the greatest plant of all?
We hold that our Order is but incorporated into her department—that is all. So, if in the following narration of the stupendous events and adventures through which I have just recently passed (and which would never have been written without her permission) I refer to her as a goddess, it is not that I seek to impose my views upon anyone. I do but ask from others that privilege I myself am overjoyed to extend—tolerance of viewpoint and respect for divergent opinions.
One statement more I would like to add. It is useless for anyone to search for our address in any directory. We publish no periodical. We seek no converts nor members. I say this lest anyone should think this story is put forth as a new and subtle form of propaganda—for it is not so intended.
Likewise, where I have spoken plainly of the powers and forces of nature; the vibrations of the ether; the transmuting of latent energy into active dynamism; and of the multiplicity of the realms, regions, and planes of greater space; believe as much, or as little, as you please. It matters not.
Yet bear this in mind: The mystery of today is the common experience of tomorrow—as the mystery of yesterday is the common knowledge of today. Science advances by degrees, nor is there any limit placed upon its progress.
So, to my tale.
* * * *
I entered the outer hall of the Temple, went direct to one of the little dressing rooms, undressed, bathed, and donned the robes of my rank. Thence I went on into the great room of the Temple proper; and made my way direct to the Black Shrine. So long as I was outside its walls, there were faint, dim lights shining all about; sufficient at least to see my way.
But once inside the Shrine, not even a cat could have seen—anything; for the place was so arranged as to exclude all reflected and latent light. Also, it was constructed entirely of black marble, unpolished, so that n
o reflections could by any possibility occur.
But I know the mystic chants, for I am a high initiate—so, raising my arms, in a whisper I intoned the mighty words.
Slowly the blackness lessened, and I ceased. I knew what was coming, and waited. There grew a faint, dim, all-pervading luminosity too vague to be styled “light”; but this gradually strengthened until it became clearly perceptible, although it was more of a glow than genuine light.
Suddenly as though ripped apart, it divided, brightened, formed into four columns in the four quarters of the Shrine—to north, east, south and west. That to the north assumed a white hue; the eastern one turned as blue as the noonday skies; that to the south glowed ruby red; and that to the west became a soft, warm yellow.
Yet in the center of the Shrine was still only blackness absolute. But it was a blackness wherein one could see—although all that could be seen was the square, black stone altar; bare of everything, not ornamented or carven in any manner.
The altar was nine feet high, and before it at foot of the eastern face stood the “couch of dreams”, which was a stone slab seven feet long and a fraction over three feet in width. This was raised above the floor about two feet by small, square blocks of black stone placed under the four corners.
Crouched on the floor before the altar was one of the “Doves” of the Temple—a girl of surpassing loveliness. She had fallen asleep, and, as I stood above her, looking down, the intensity of my gaze penetrated to her dormant mind.
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™, Vol. 4: Nictzin Dyalhis Page 8