The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  “And may peace walk with you,” he said half-derisively—“if the Shining One wills it!”

  He considered us again.

  “Show me, strangers, where you came through the rock,” he commanded. We led the way to where we had emerged from the well of the stairway.

  “It was here,” I said, tapping the cliff.

  “But I see no opening,” he said suavely.

  “It closed behind us,” I answered; and then, for the first time, realized how incredible the explanation sounded. The derisive gleam passed through his eyes again. But he drew his poniard and gravely sounded the rock.

  “You give a strange turn to our speech,” he said. “It sounds strangely, indeed—as strange as your answers.” He looked at us quizzically. “I wonder where you learned it! Well, all that you can explain to the Afyo Maie.” His head bowed and his arms swept out in a wide salaam. “Be pleased to come with me!” he ended abruptly.

  “In peace?” I asked.

  “In peace,” he replied—then slowly—“with me at least.”

  “Oh, come on, Doc!” cried Larry. “As long as we’re here let’s see the sights. Allons mon vieux!” he called gaily to the green dwarf. The latter, understanding the spirit, if not the words, looked at O’Keefe with a twinkle of approval; turned then to the great Norseman and scanned him with admiration; reached out and squeezed one of the immense biceps.

  “Lugur will welcome you, at least,” he murmured as though to himself. He stood aside and waved a hand courteously, inviting us to pass. We crossed. At the base of the span one of the elfin shells was waiting.

  Beyond, scores had gathered, their occupants evidently discussing us in much excitement. The green dwarf waved us to the piles of cushions and then threw himself beside us. The vehicle started off smoothly, the now silent throng making way, and swept down the green roadway at a terrific pace and wholly without vibration, toward the seven-terraced tower.

  As we flew along I tried to discover the source of the power, but I could not—then. There was no sign of mechanism, but that the shell responded to some form of energy was certain—the driver grasping a small lever which seemed to control not only our speed, but our direction.

  We turned abruptly and swept up a runway through one of the gardens, and stopped softly before a pillared pavilion. I saw now that these were much larger than I had thought. The structure to which we had been carried covered, I estimated, fully an acre. Oblong, with its slender, vari-coloured columns spaced regularly, its walls were like the sliding screens of the Japanese—shoji.

  The green dwarf hurried us up a flight of broad steps flanked by great carved serpents, winged and scaled. He stamped twice upon mosaicked stones between two of the pillars, and a screen rolled aside, revealing an immense hall scattered about with low divans on which lolled a dozen or more of the dwarfish men, dressed identically as he.

  They sauntered up to us leisurely; the surprised interest in their faces tempered by the same inhumanly gay malice that seemed to be characteristic of all these people we had as yet seen.

  “The Afyo Maie awaits them, Rador,” said one.

  The green dwarf nodded, beckoned us, and led the way through the great hall and into a smaller chamber whose far side was covered with the opacity I had noted from the aerie of the cliff. I examined the—blackness—with lively interest.

  It had neither substance nor texture; it was not matter—and yet it suggested solidity; an entire cessation, a complete absorption of light; an ebon veil at once immaterial and palpable. I stretched, involuntarily, my hand out toward it, and felt it quickly drawn back.

  “Do you seek your end so soon?” whispered Rador. “But I forget—you do not know,” he added. “On your life touch not the blackness, ever. It—”

  He stopped, for abruptly in the density a portal appeared; swinging out of the shadow like a picture thrown by a lantern upon a screen. Through it was revealed a chamber filled with a soft rosy glow. Rising from cushioned couches, a woman and a man regarded us, half leaning over a long, low table of what seemed polished jet, laden with flowers and unfamiliar fruits.

  About the room—that part of it, at least, that I could see—were a few oddly shaped chairs of the same substance. On high, silvery tripods three immense globes stood, and it was from them that the rose glow emanated. At the side of the woman was a smaller globe whose roseate gleam was tempered by quivering waves of blue.

  “Enter Rador with the strangers!” a clear, sweet voice called.

  Rador bowed deeply and stood aside, motioning us to pass. We entered, the green dwarf behind us, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the doorway fade as abruptly as it had appeared and again the dense shadow fill its place.

  “Come closer, strangers. Be not afraid!” commanded the bell-toned voice.

  We approached.

  The woman, sober scientist that I am, made the breath catch in my throat. Never had I seen a woman so beautiful as was Yolara of the Dweller’s city—and none of so perilous a beauty. Her hair was of the colour of the young tassels of the corn and coiled in a regal crown above her broad, white brows; her wide eyes were of grey that could change to a cornflower blue and in anger deepen to purple; grey or blue, they had little laughing devils within them, but when the storm of anger darkened them—they were not laughing, no! The silken webs that half covered, half revealed her did not hide the ivory whiteness of her flesh nor the sweet curve of shoulders and breasts. But for all her amazing beauty, she was—sinister! There was cruelty about the curving mouth, and in the music of her voice—not conscious cruelty, but the more terrifying, careless cruelty of nature itself.

  The girl of the rose wall had been beautiful, yes! But her beauty was human, understandable. You could imagine her with a babe in her arms—but you could not so imagine this woman. About her loveliness hovered something unearthly. A sweet feminine echo of the Dweller was Yolara, the Dweller’s priestess—and as gloriously, terrifyingly evil!

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Justice of Lora

  As I looked at her the man arose and made his way round the table toward us. For the first time my eyes took in Lugur. A few inches taller than the green dwarf, he was far broader, more filled with the suggestion of appalling strength.

  The tremendous shoulders were four feet wide if an inch, tapering down to mighty thewed thighs. The muscles of his chest stood out beneath his tunic of red. Around his forehead shone a chaplet of bright-blue stones, sparkling among the thick curls of his silver-ash hair.

  Upon his face pride and ambition were written large—and power still larger. All the mockery, the malice, the hint of callous indifference that I had noted in the other dwarfish men were there, too—but intensified, touched with the satanic.

  The woman spoke again.

  “Who are you strangers, and how came you here?” She turned to Rador. “Or is it that they do not understand our tongue?”

  “One understands and speaks it—but very badly, O Yolara,” answered the green dwarf.

  “Speak, then, that one of you,” she commanded.

  But it was Marakinoff who found his voice first, and I marvelled at the fluency, so much greater than mine, with which he spoke.

  “We came for different purposes. I to seek knowledge of a kind; he”—pointing to me “of another. This man”—he looked at Olaf—“to find a wife and child.”

  The grey-blue eyes had been regarding O’Keefe steadily and with plainly increasing interest.

  “And why did you come?” she asked him. “Nay—I would have him speak for himself, if he can,” she stilled Marakinoff peremptorily.

  When Larry spoke it was haltingly, in the tongue that was strange to him, searching for the proper words.

  “I came to help these men—and because something I could not then understand called me, O lady, whose eyes are like forest pools at dawn,” he answered; and even in the unfamiliar words there was a touch of the Irish brogue, and little merry lights danced in the eyes Larry had so apostrophiz
ed.

  “I could find fault with your speech, but none with its burden,” she said. “What forest pools are I know not, and the dawn has not shone upon the people of Lora these many sais of laya.[3] But I sense what you mean!”

  The eyes deepened to blue as she regarded him. She smiled.

  “Are there many like you in the world from which you come?” she asked softly. “Well, we soon shall—”

  Lugur interrupted her almost rudely and glowering.

  “Best we should know how they came hence,” he growled.

  She darted a quick look at him, and again the little devils danced in her wondrous eyes.

  “Yes, that is true,” she said. “How came you here?”

  Again it was Marakinoff who answered—slowly, considering every word.

  “In the world above,” he said, “there are ruins of cities not built by any of those who now dwell there. To us these places called, and we sought for knowledge of the wise ones who made them. We found a passageway. The way led us downward to a door in yonder cliff, and through it we came here.”

  “Then have you found what you sought?” spoke she. “For we are of those who built the cities. But this gateway in the rock—where is it?”

  “After we passed, it closed upon us; nor could we after find trace of it,” answered Marakinoff.

  The incredulity that had shown upon the face of the green dwarf fell upon theirs; on Lugur’s it was clouded with furious anger.

  He turned to Rador.

  “I could find no opening, lord,” said the green dwarf quickly.

  And there was so fierce a fire in the eyes of Lugur as he swung back upon us that O’Keefe’s hand slipped stealthily down toward his pistol.

  “Best it is to speak truth to Yolara, priestess of the Shining One, and to Lugur, the Voice,” he cried menacingly.

  “It is the truth,” I interposed. “We came down the passage. At its end was a carved vine, a vine of five flowers”—the fire died from the red dwarf’s eyes, and I could have sworn to a swift pallor. “I rested a hand upon these flowers, and a door opened. But when we had gone through it and turned, behind us was nothing but unbroken cliff. The door had vanished.”

  I had taken my cue from Marakinoff. If he had eliminated the episode of car and Moon Pool, he had good reason, I had no doubt; and I would be as cautious. And deep within me something cautioned me to say nothing of my quest; to stifle all thought of Throckmartin—something that warned, peremptorily, finally, as though it were a message from Throckmartin himself!

  “A vine with five flowers!” exclaimed the red dwarf. “Was it like this, say?”

  He thrust forward a long arm. Upon the thumb of the hand was an immense ring, set with a dull-blue stone. Graven on the face of the jewel was the symbol of the rosy walls of the Moon Chamber that had opened to us their two portals. But cut over the vine were seven circles, one about each of the flowers and two larger ones covering, intersecting them.

  “This is the same,” I said; “but these were not there”—I indicated the circles.

  The woman drew a deep breath and looked deep into Lugur’s eyes.

  “The sign of the Silent Ones!” he half whispered.

  It was the woman who first recovered herself.

  “The strangers are weary, Lugur,” she said. “When they are rested they shall show where the rocks opened.”

  I sensed a subtle change in their attitude toward us; a new intentness; a doubt plainly tinged with apprehension. What was it they feared? Why had the symbol of the vine wrought the change? And who or what were the Silent Ones?

  Yolara’s eyes turned to Olaf, hardened, and grew cold grey. Subconsciously I had noticed that from the first the Norseman had been absorbed in his regard of the pair; had, indeed, never taken his gaze from them; had noticed, too, the priestess dart swift glances toward him.

  He returned her scrutiny fearlessly, a touch of contempt in the clear eyes—like a child watching a snake which he did not dread, but whose danger be well knew.

  Under that look Yolara stirred impatiently, sensing, I know, its meaning.

  “Why do you look at me so?” she cried.

  An expression of bewilderment passed over Olaf’s face.

  “I do not understand,” he said in English.

  I caught a quickly repressed gleam in O’Keefe’s eyes. He knew, as I knew, that Olaf must have understood. But did Marakinoff?

  Apparently he did not. But why was Olaf feigning ignorance?

  “This man is a sailor from what we call the North,” thus Larry haltingly. “He is crazed, I think. He tells a strange tale of a something of cold fire that took his wife and babe. We found him wandering where we were. And because he is strong we brought him with us. That is all, O lady, whose voice is sweeter than the honey of the wild bees!”

  “A shape of cold fire?” she repeated.

  “A shape of cold fire that whirled beneath the moon, with the sound of little bells,” answered Larry, watching her intently.

  She looked at Lugur and laughed.

  “Then he, too, is fortunate,” she said. “For he has come to the place of his something of cold fire—and tell him that he shall join his wife and child, in time; that I promise him.”

  Upon the Norseman’s face there was no hint of comprehension, and at that moment I formed an entirely new opinion of Olaf’s intelligence; for certainly it must have been a prodigious effort of the will, indeed, that enabled him, understanding, to control himself.

  “What does she say?” he asked.

  Larry repeated.

  “Good!” said Olaf. “Good!”

  He looked at Yolara with well-assumed gratitude. Lugur, who had been scanning his bulk, drew close. He felt the giant muscles which Huldricksson accommodatingly flexed for him.

  “But he shall meet Valdor and Tahola before he sees those kin of his,” he laughed mockingly. “And if he bests them—for reward—his wife and babe!”

  A shudder, quickly repressed, shook the seaman’s frame. The woman bent her supremely beautiful head.

  “These two,” she said, pointing to the Russian and to me, “seem to be men of learning. They may be useful. As for this man,”—she smiled at Larry—“I would have him explain to me some things.” She hesitated. “What ‘hon-ey of ’e wild bees-s’ is.” Larry had spoken the words in English, and she was trying to repeat them. “As for this man, the sailor, do as you please with him, Lugur; always remembering that I have given my word that he shall join that wife and babe of his!” She laughed sweetly, sinisterly. “And now—take them, Rador—give them food and drink and let them rest till we shall call them again.”

  She stretched out a hand toward O’Keefe. The Irishman bowed low over it, raised it softly to his lips. There was a vicious hiss from Lugur; but Yolara regarded Larry with eyes now all tender blue.

  “You please me,” she whispered.

  And the face of Lugur grew darker.

  We turned to go. The rosy, azure-shot globe at her side suddenly dulled. From it came a faint bell sound as of chimes far away. She bent over it. It vibrated, and then its surface ran with little waves of dull colour; from it came a whispering so low that I could not distinguish the words—if words they were.

  She spoke to the red dwarf.

  “They have brought the three who blasphemed the Shining One,” she said slowly. “Now it is in my mind to show these strangers the justice of Lora. What say you, Lugur?”

  The red dwarf nodded, his eyes sparkling with a malicious anticipation.

  The woman spoke again to the globe. “Bring them here!”

  And again it ran swiftly with its film of colours, darkened, and shone rosy once more. From without there came a rustle of many feet upon the rugs. Yolara pressed a slender hand upon the base of the pedestal of the globe beside her. Abruptly the light faded from all, and on the same instant the four walls of blackness vanished, revealing on two sides the lovely, unfamiliar garden through the guarding rows of pillars; at our backs soft dra
peries hid what lay beyond; before us, flanked by flowered screens, was the corridor through which we had entered, crowded now by the green dwarfs of the great hall.

  The dwarfs advanced. Each, I now noted, had the same clustering black hair of Rador. They separated, and from them stepped three figures—a youth of not more than twenty, short, but with the great shoulders of all the males we had seen of this race; a girl of seventeen, I judged, white-faced, a head taller than the boy, her long, black hair dishevelled; and behind these two a stunted, gnarled shape whose head was sunk deep between the enormous shoulders, whose white beard fell like that of some ancient gnome down to his waist, and whose eyes were a white flame of hate. The girl cast herself weeping at the feet of the priestess; the youth regarded her curiously.

  “You are Songar of the Lower Waters?” murmured Yolara almost caressingly. “And this is your daughter and her lover?”

  The gnome nodded, the flame in his eyes leaping higher.

  “It has come to me that you three have dared blaspheme the Shining One, its priestess, and its Voice,” went on Yolara smoothly. “Also that you have called out to the three Silent Ones. Is it true?”

  “Your spies have spoken—and have you not already judged us?” The voice of the old dwarf was bitter.

  A flicker shot through the eyes of Yolara, again cold grey. The girl reached a trembling hand out to the hem of the priestess’s veils.

  “Tell us why you did these things, Songar,” she said. “Why you did them, knowing full well what your—reward—would be.”

  The dwarf stiffened; he raised his withered arms, and his eyes blazed.

  “Because evil are your thoughts and evil are your deeds,” he cried. “Yours and your lover’s, there”—he levelled a finger at Lugur. “Because of the Shining One you have made evil, too, and the greater wickedness you contemplate—you and he with the Shining One. But I tell you that your measure of iniquity is full; the tale of your sin near ended! Yea—the Silent Ones have been patient, but soon they will speak.” He pointed at us. “A sign are they—a warning—harlot!” He spat the word.