by C. L. Moore
Scarlet Dream
1
Northwest Smith bought the shawl in the Lakkmanda Markets of Mars. It was one of his chiefest joys to wander through the stalls and stands of that greatest of market-places whose wares are drawn from all the planets of the solar system, and beyond. So many songs have been sung and so many tales written of that fascinating chaos called Lakkmanda Markets that there is little need to detail it here.
He shouldered his way through the colourful cosmopolitan throng, the speech of a thousand races beating in his ears, the mingled odours of perfume and sweat and spice and food and the thousand nameless smells of the place assailing his nostrils. Vendors cried their wares in the tongues of a score of worlds.
As he strolled through the thick of the crowd, savouring the confusion and the odours and the sights from lands beyond counting, his eye was caught by a flash of that peculiar geranium scarlet that seems to lift itself bodily from its background and smite the eye with all but physical violence. It came from a shawl thrown carelessly across a carved chest, typically Martian drylander work by the exquisite detail of that carving, so oddly at variance with the characteristics of the harsh dryland race. He recognized the Venusian origin of the brass tray on the shawl, and knew the heap of carved ivory beasts that the tray held as the work of one of the least-known races on Jupiter’s largest moon, but from all his wide experience he could draw no remembrance of any such woven work as that of the shawl. Idly curious, he paused at the booth and asked of its attendant.
‘How much for the scarf?’
The man—he was a canal Martian—glanced over his shoulder and said carelessly: ‘Oh, that. You can have it for half a cris—gives me a headache to look at the thing.’
Smith grinned and said: ‘I’ll give you five dollars.’
‘Ten.’
‘Six and a half, and that’s my last offer.’
‘Oh, take the thing.’ The Martian smiled and lifted the tray of ivory from the chest.
Smith drew out the shawl. It clung to his hands like a live thing, softer and lighter than Martian ‘lamb’s-wool’. He felt sure it was woven from the hair of some beast rather than from vegetable fibre, for the electric clinging of it sparkled with life. And the crazy pattern dazzled him with its utter strangeness. Unlike any pattern he had seen in all the years of his wanderings, the wild, leaping scarlet threaded its nameless design in one continuous, tangled line through the twilight blue of the background. That dim blue was clouded exquisitely with violet and green—sleepy evening colours against which the staring scarlet flamed like something more sinister and alive than colour. He felt that he, could almost put his hand between the colour and the cloth, so vividly did it start up from its background.
‘Where in the universe did this come from?’ he demanded of the attendant.
The man shrugged.
‘Who knows? It came in with a bale of scrap cloth from New York. I was a little curious about it myself, and called the market-master there to trace it. He says it was sold for scrap by a down-and-out Venusian who claimed he’d found it in a derelict ship floating around one of the asteroids. He didn’t know what nationality the ship had been—a very early model, he said, probably one of the first space-ships, made before the identification symbols were adopted. I’ve wondered why he sold the thing for scrap. He could have got double the price, anyhow, if he’d made any effort.’
‘Funny.’ Smith stared down at the dizzy pattern writhing through the cloth in his hands. ‘Well, it’s warm and light enough. If it doesn’t drive me crazy trying to follow the pattern, I’ll sleep warm at night.’
He crumpled it in one hand, the whole six-foot square of it folding easily into his palm, and stuffed the silky bundle into his pocket—and thereupon forgot it until after his return to his quarters that evening.
He had taken one of the cubicle steel rooms in the great steel lodging-houses the Martian government offers for a very nominal rent to transients. The original purpose was to house those motley hordes of spacemen that swarm every port city of the civilized planets, offering them accommodations cheap and satisfactory enough so that they will not seek the black byways of the town and there fall in with the denizens of the Martian underworld whose lawlessness is a byword among space sailors.
The great steel building that housed Smith and countless others was not entirely free from the influences of Martian byways, and if the police had actually searched the place with any degree of thoroughness a large percentage of its dwellers might have been transferred to the Emperor’s prisons—Smith almost certainly among them, for his activities were rarely within the law and though he could not recall at the moment any particular flagrant sins committed in Lakkdarol, a charge could certainly have been found against him by the most half-hearted searcher. However, the likelihood of a police raid was very remote, and Smith, as he went in under the steel portals of the great door, rubbed shoulders with smugglers and pirates and fugitives and sinners of all the sins that keep the spaceways thronged.
In his little cubicle he switched on the light and saw a dozen replicas of himself, reflected dimly in the steel walls, spring into being with the sudden glow. In that curious company he moved forward to a chair and pulled out the crumpled shawl. Shaking it in the mirror-walled room produced a sudden wild writhing of scarlet patterns over walls and floor and ceiling, and for an instant the room whirled in an inexplicable kaleidoscope and he had the impression that the four-dimensional walls had opened suddenly to undreamed-of vastness where living scarlet in wild, unruly patterns shivered through the void.
Then in a moment the walls closed in again and the dim reflections quieted and became only the images of a tall, brown man with pale eyes, holding a curious shawl in his hands. There was a strange, sensuous pleasure in the clinging of the silky wool to his fingers, the lightness of it, the warmth. He spread it out on the table and traced the screaming scarlet pattern with his finger, trying to follow that one writhing line through the intricacies of its path, and the more he stared the more irritatingly clear it became to him that there must be a purpose in that whirl of colour, that if he stared long enough, surely he must trace it out…
When he slept that night he spread the bright shawl across his bed, and the brilliance of it coloured his dreams fantastically…
That threshing scarlet was a labyrinthine path down which he stumbled blindly, and at every turn he looked back and saw himself in myriad replicas, always wandering lost and alone through the pattern of the path. Sometimes it shook itself under his feet, and whenever he thought he saw the end it would writhe into fresh intricacies…
The sky was a great shawl threaded with scarlet lightning that shivered and squirmed as he watched, then wound itself into the familiar, dizzy pattern that became one mighty Word in a nameless writing, whose meaning he shuddered on the verge of understanding, and woke in icy terror just before the significance of it broke upon his brain…
He slept again, and saw the shawl hanging in a blue dusk the colour of its background, started and stared until the square of it melted imperceptibly into the dimness and the scarlet was a pattern incised lividly upon a gate…a gate of strange outline in a high wall, half seen through that curious, cloudy twilight blurred with exquisite patches of green and violet, so that it seemed no mortal twilight, but some strange and lovely evening in a land where the air was suffused with coloured mists, and no winds blew. He felt himself moving forward, without effort, and the gate opened before him…
He was mounting a long flight of steps. In one of the metamorphoses of dreams it did not surprise him that the gate had vanished, or that he had no remembrance of having climbed the long flight stretching away behind him. The lovely coloured twilight still veiled the air, so that he could see but dimly the steps rising before him and melting into the mist.
And now, suddenly, he was aware of a stirring in the dimness, and a girl came flying down the stairs in headlong, stumbling terror. He could see the shadow of it on her face, and h
er long, bright-coloured hair streamed out behind her, and from head to foot she was dabbled with blood. In her blind flight she must not have seen him, for she came plunging downward three steps at a time and blundered full into him as he stood undecided, watching. The impact all but unbalanced him, but his arms closed instinctively about her and for a moment she hung in his embrace, utterly spent, gasping against his broad leather breast and too breathless even to wonder who had stopped her. The smell of fresh blood rose to his nostrils from her dreadfully spattered garments.
Finally she lifted her head and raised a flushed, creamy-brown face to him, gulping air through lips the colour of holly berries. Her dabbled hair, so fantastically golden that it might have been almost orange, shivered about her as she clung to him with lifted, lovely face. In that dizzy moment he saw that her eyes were sherry-brown with tints of red, and the fantastic coloured beauty of her face had a wild tinge of something utterly at odds with anything he had ever known before. It might have been the look in her eyes…
‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘It—it has her! Let me go!…Let me—’
Smith shook her gently.
‘What was her?’ he demanded. ‘Who? Listen to me! You’re covered with blood, do you know it? Are you hurt?’
She shook her head wildly.
‘No—no—let me go! I must—not my blood—hers…’
She sobbed on the last word, and suddenly collapsed in his arms, weeping with a violent intensity that shook her from head to foot. Smith gazed helplessly about over the orange head, then gathered the shaking girl in his arms and went on up the steps through the violet gloaming.
He must have climbed for all of five minutes before the twilight thinned a little and he saw that the stairs ended at the head of a long hallway, high-arched like a cathedral aisle. A row of low doors ran down one side of the hall, and he turned aside at random into the nearest. It gave upon a gallery whose arches opened into blue space. A low bench ran along the wall under the gallery windows, and he crossed towards it, gently setting down the sobbing girl and supporting her against his shoulder.
‘My sister,’ she wept. ‘It has her—oh, my sister!’
‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ Smith heard his own voice saying, surprisingly. ‘It’s all a dream, you know. Don’t cry—there never was any sister—you don’t exist at all—don’t cry so.’
She jerked her head up at that, startled out of her sobs for a moment, and stared at him with sherry-brown eyes drowned in tears. Her lashes clung together in wet, starry points. She stared with searching eyes, taking in the dark face and eyes paler than steel. And then a look of infinite pity softened the strangeness of her face, and she said gently:
‘Oh…you come from—from—you still believe that you dream!’
‘I know I’m dreaming.’ persisted Smith childishly. ‘I’m lying asleep in Lakkdarol and dreaming of you, and all this and when I wake—’
She shook her head sadly.
‘You will never wake. You have come into a more deadly dream than you could ever guess. There is no waking from this land.’
‘What do you mean? Why not?’ A little absurd panic was starting up in his mind at the sorrow and the pity in her voice, the sureness of her words. Yet this was one of those rare dreams wherein he knew quite definitely that he dreamed. He could not be mistaken…
‘There are many dream countries,’ she said, ‘many nebulous, unreal half-lands where the souls of sleepers wander, places that have an actual, tenuous existence, if one knows the way…But here—it has happened before, you see—one may not blunder without passing a door that opens one way only. And he who has taken the key to open it may come through, but he can never find the way into his own waking land again. Tell me—what key opened the door to you?’
‘The shawl,’ Smith murmured. ‘The shawl…of course. That damnable red pattern, dizzy—’
He passed a hand across his eyes, for the memory of it, writhing, alive, searingly scarlet, burned behind his eyelids.
‘What was it?’ she demanded, breathlessly, he thought, as if a half-hopeless eagerness forced the question from her lips. ‘Can you remember?’
‘A red pattern,’ he said slowly, ‘a thread of bright scarlet woven into a blue shawl—nightmare pattern—painted on the gate I came by…but it’s only a dream, of course. In a few minutes I’ll wake…’
She clutched his knee excitedly.
‘Can you remember?’ she demanded. ‘The pattern—the red pattern? The Word?’
‘Word?’ he wondered stupidly. ‘Word—in the sky? No—no, I don’t want to remember—crazy pattern, you know. Can’t forget it—but no, I couldn’t tell you what it was, or trace it for you. Never was anything like it—thank God. It was on that shawl…’
‘Woven on a shawl,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Yes of course. But how you ever came by it, in your world—when it—when it—oh!’
Memory of whatever tragedy had sent her flying down the stairs swept back in a flood, and her face crumpled into tears again. ‘My sister!’
‘Tell me what happened.’ Smith woke from his daze at the sound of her sob. ‘Can’t I help? Please let me try—tell me about it.’
‘My sister,’ she said faintly. ‘It caught her in the hall—caught her before my eyes—spattered me with her blood. Oh!…’
‘It?’ puzzled Smith. ‘What? Is there danger?’ and his hand moved instinctively towards his gun.
She caught the gesture and smiled a little scornfully through her tears.
‘It,’ she said. ‘The—the Thing. No gun can harm it, no man can fight it—It came, and that was all.’
‘But what is it? What does it look like? Is it near?’
‘It’s everywhere. One never knows—until the mist begins to thicken, and the pulse of red shows through—and then it’s too late. We do not fight it, or think of it overmuch—life would be unbearable. For it hungers and must be fed, and we who feed it strive to live as happily as we may before the Thing comes for us. But one can never know.’
‘Where did it come from? What is it?’
‘No one knows—it has always been here—always will be…too nebulous to die or be killed—a Thing out of some alien place we couldn’t understand, I suppose—somewhere so long ago, or in some such unthinkable dimension that we will never have any knowledge of its origin. But as I say, we try not to think.’
‘If it eats flesh,’ said Smith stubbornly, ‘it must be vulnerable—and I have my gun.’
‘Try if you like,’ she shrugged. ‘Others have tried—and it still comes. It dwells here, we believe, if it dwells anywhere. We are—taken—more often in these halls than elsewhere. When you are weary of life you might bring your gun and wait under this roof. You may not have long to wait.’
‘I’m not ready to try the experiment just yet,’ Smith grinned. ‘If the Thing lives here, why do you come?’
She shrugged again, apathetically. ‘If we do not, it will come after us when it hungers. And we come here for—for our food.’ She shot him a curious glance from under lowered lids. ‘You wouldn’t understand. But as you say, it’s a dangerous place. We’d best go now—you will come with me, won’t you? I shall be lonely, now.’ And her eyes brimmed again.
‘Of course. I’m sorry, my dear. I’ll do what I can for you—until I wake.’ He grinned at the fantastic sound of this.
‘You will not wake,’ she said quietly. ‘Better not to hope, I think. You are trapped here with the rest of us and here you must stay until you die.’
He rose and held out his hand.
‘Let’s go, then,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right, but—well, come on.’
She took his hand and jumped up. The orange hair, too fantastically coloured for anything outside a dream, swung about her brilliantly. He saw now that she wore a single white garment, brief and belted, over the creamy brownness of her body. It was torn now, and hideously stained. She made a picture of strange and vivid loveliness, all white and gold and bloody, in the misted t
wilight of the gallery.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Smith. ‘Out there?’ And he nodded towards the blueness beyond the windows.
She drew her shoulders together in a little shudder of distaste.
‘Oh, no,’ she said.
‘What is it?’
‘Listen.’ She took him by the arms and lifted a serious face to his. ‘If you must stay here—and you must, for there is only one way out save death, and that is a worse way even than dying—you must learn to ask no questions about the—the Temple. This is the Temple. Here it dwells. Here we—feed.
‘There are halls we know, and we keep to them. It is wiser. You saved my life when you stopped me on those stairs—no one has ever gone down into that mist and darkness, and returned. I should have known, seeing you climb them, that you were not of us…for whatever lies beyond, wherever that stairway leads—it is better not to know. We have learned that, too. For from the outside the Temple looks strange enough, but from the inside, looking out, one is liable to see things it is better not to see…What that blue space is, on which this gallery opens, I do not know—I have no wish to know. There are windows here opening on stranger things than this—but we turn our eyes away when we pass them. You will learn…’
She took his hand, smiling a little.
‘Come with me, now.’
And in silence they left the gallery opening on space and went down the hall where the blue mist floated so beautifully with its clouds of violet and green confusing the eye, and a great stillness all about.
The hallway led straight, as nearly as he could see, for the floating clouds veiled it, towards the great portals of the Temple. In the form of a mighty triple arch it opened out of the clouded twilight upon a shining day like no day he had ever seen on any planet. The light came from no visible source, and there was a lucid quality about it, nebulous but unmistakable, as if one were looking through the depths of a crystal, or through clear water that trembled a little now and then. It was diffused through the translucent day from a sky as shining and unfamiliar as everything else in this amazing dreamland.