Alan.
At eight I was sending my card in to the Demoiselle.
It was one of those towering apartment houses overlooking the East River; sybaritic; their eastward and most desirable windows looking down upon Blackwell’s Island where the outcasts, the lesser fry of criminals, those not worthy of Sing Sing’s social life, Dannemora’s austerity, or the honor of occupancy in similar fortresses of civilization, are penned; a catch basin for the dregs.
The apartment houses were the Zenith complacently contemplating the Nadir.
The elevator went up and up. When it stopped, its operator signaled, and after a second or two a massive door in the shaft slid aside. I stepped out into a hall that was like the ante-room of a medieval chamber. I heard the door whisper its closing, and turned. Tapestries which had been held aside by the women were dropping into place, hiding it. I took swift note of the tapestry’s design, solely through force of habit—an adventurer’s habit of studying landmarks along the path in event of forced retreat. It portrayed the sea—woman, the fay Melusine, being surprised by Raymond of Poitiers, her husband, during her weekly bath of purification. It was very ancient.
The men were Bretons, swarthy, stocky, but clothed as I had never seen men in Brittany. They wore loose tunics of green, tight belted and on their right breasts, in black, the red symbol of the bracelet’s pebble. Their leg coverings were fawn-color, baggy, tapering below the knee and tied tightly at the ankle; like those of the Scythians and the old Celts. Their feet were sandaled. As they took my coat and hat I gave them pleasant greeting in the Breton—a noble’s customary greeting to a peasant. They responded humbly, and in kind, and I saw a furtive, puzzled glance pass between them.
They drew aside another tapestry, one pressing his hand against the wall as he did so. A door slid open. I passed through into a surprisingly large, high-ceilinged room paneled with ancient dark oak. It was dimly lit, but I glimpsed carven chests here and there, an astrolabe, and a great table strewn with leathern and vellum-covered books. I turned just in time to see the door slip back in place, leaving the paneling apparently unbroken. Nevertheless, I thought I could find it again in case of need.
The two men led me across the room, toward its right hand corner. Again they drew a tapestry aside, and a mellow golden glow bathed me. They bowed, and I passed into the glow.
I stood in an octagonal room not more than twenty feet across. Its eight sides were covered with silken hangings of exquisite texture. They were sea-green and woven in each was an undersea picture—fishes strangely shaped and colored swimming through a forest of feathery kelp…anemones waving deadly tentacles over mouths that were like fantastic flowers…a gold and silver school of winged snakes guarding their castles of royal coral. In the center of the room a table was set with antique crystal, translucent porcelain and archaic silver gleaming under the light of tall candles.
I thrust my hand into the hanging by which I had entered, drew it aside. There was no sign of a door…I heard laughter, like the laughter of little ruthless waves, the laughter of Dahut…
She was at the far side of the octagonal chamber, holding one of the hangings half aside. There was another room there, for light streamed through and formed a faint rosy aureole around her head. And the beauty of her made me for a dozen heart-beats forget everything else in the world—even forget that there was a world. From white shoulders to white feet she was draped in a web-like gown of filmy green in flowing folds like the stola of the women of ancient Rome. Her feet were sandaled. Two thick braids of her pale gold hair dropped between her breasts, and through her drapings every lovely line and contour were plain. She wore no jewels—nor needed any. Her eyes both caressed and menaced me—and there was both tenderness and menace in her laughter.
She came toward me and put her hands on my shoulders. Her fragrance was like that of some strange flower of the sea, and touch and fragrance rocked me.
She said, and in the Breton tongue:
“So, Alain—you still are cautious. But tonight you go only when it is my will that you go. You taught me my lesson well, Alain de Carnac.”
I asked, stupidly, still under that numbing spell of her beauty:
“When did I teach you anything, Demoiselle?”
She answered:
“Long…and long…and long ago.” And now I thought that the menace nigh banished the tenderness in her eyes. The straight brows drew together in unbroken line. She said, absently:
“I had thought that it would be easy to say that which I have to say when I met you tonight, Alain. I thought the words would pour from me…as the waters poured over Ys. But I am confused…I find it difficult…the memories struggle against each other…hate and love battle…”
By now I had gotten myself a little in hand. I said: “I, too, am confused, Demoiselle. I do not speak the Breton as you and that, perhaps, is why I am dull to your meaning. Could we not speak French or English?”
The truth was that the Breton was a little too intimate; brought me too close to her mind. The other languages would be a barrier. And then I thought: a barrier against what?
She said, fiercely:
“No. And no longer call me Demoiselle, nor de Keradel. You know me!”
I laughed and answered:
“If you are not the Demoiselle de Keradel, then you are the sea—fay Melusine…or Gulnar the Sea-born…and I am safe in your—” I looked at the hangings “-aquarium.”
She said, somberly: “I am Dahut…Dahut the White, Dahut of the Shadows…Dahut of ancient Ys. Reborn. Reborn here—” she tapped her forehead. “And you are Alain de Carnac, my ancient love…my great love…my treacherous love. So—beware.”
Suddenly she leaned toward me; she pressed her lips to mine, savagely; so savagely that her small teeth bruised them. It was not a kiss one could be indifferent to. My arms held her, and it was as though I held flame sheathed in fair flesh. She thrust me from her with what was almost a blow, and so strongly that I stumbled back a step.
She walked to the table and filled from an ewer two slender glasses with pale yellow wine. She said, with mockery:
“To our last parting, Alain. And to our reunion.”
And as I hesitated at the toast: “Don’t be afraid—it is no witch’s potion.”
I touched her glass and drank. We sat, and at some signal I neither saw nor heard, two other of the oddly dressed servants came in and served. They did it in the olden way, kneeling. The wines were excellent, the dinner was superb. The Demoiselle ate and drank daintily. She spoke little, at times deep in thought, at times regarding me with that blend of tenderness and malice. I have never dined tete-a-tete with a pretty girl and had so little to say—nor with one who was so silent. We were, in fact, like two opponents in some game upon which vital issues hung, studying our moves, studying each other, before beginning it. Whatever the game, I had the uncomfortable feeling that the Demoiselle knew much more about it than I—had, in all probability, made the rules.
From the great room beyond the hidden door came muted music and singing. They were queer melodies, vaguely familiar. It was as though the singers were in that room, and yet far, far away. They were shadows of song and music. Shadows of song? Suddenly I thought of Dick’s description of the singing of the shadow. A creep went down my spine. I looked up from my plate to find Dahut’s gaze upon me, amused, mockery in it. I felt wholesome anger begin to stir in me. The lurking fear of her vanished. She was a beautiful woman, and dangerous. That was all. But how dangerous rested with me. I had no doubt she knew what I was thinking. She summoned the servants and they cleared the table, leaving the wine. She said, matter-of-factly: “We’ll go out on the terrace. Bring the wine with you, Alain. You may need it.” I laughed at that, but picked up a bottle and glasses and followed her through the hangings into the room of rosy light.
It was her bedroom.
Like the other it was octagonal, but, unlike it, the top was that of a true turret—that is, the ceiling did not run straight
across. It lifted in a graceful cone. In fact, the two rooms made a double tower, and I surmised that the walls were false, having been built into what had been one large chamber. In this, they were hung with the same sea-green tapestries but with no figures upon them. As I walked slowly on, their hues seemed to change and shift, darkening here into ocean depths, lightening there into the pale emerald of shallows, while constantly within them moved shadows; shadowy shapes that floated up from the depths, then loitered, then languidly sank beneath the range of sight.
There was a low, wide bed, an ancient armoire, a table, two or three low stools, a curiously carven and painted chest, a couch. The rosy light streamed down from some cunningly hidden fixture in the turret’s roof. I felt again the uncomfortable sense of familiarity that had come to me when I had looked upon the black pebble of the bracelet.
A casement opened upon the terrace. I set the wine upon the table and walked out upon the terrace, Dahut beside me. The tower was at the top of the building as I had thought, and at its southeast corner. At my right was the magical night panorama of New York. Far below, the East River was a belt of tarnished silver studded with the diamonded bands of bridges. About twenty feet beneath was another terrace, plain to the view since the building was of the step-back kind.
I said to the Demoiselle, jestingly:
“Is this like your tower in ancient Ys, Dahut? And was it from a balcony such as this that your servants hurled the lovers of whom you had tired?”
This was in questionable taste, but she had invited it; and, beside, the inexplicable anger was growing within me. She answered:
“It was not so high. Nor were the nights in Ys like these. You looked up into the skies to see the stars, instead of down upon the city. And my tower looked down upon the sea. Nor did I cast my lovers from it, since in—death—they served me better than in life. And not by casting them from any tower could I have brought that to be.”
She had spoken tranquilly; with evident sincerity. Whether she had spoken truth or not, I had then no slightest doubt that what she had spoken she believed to be truth. I caught her by the wrists. I said:
“Did you kill Ralston?”
She answered with that same tranquillity:
“Why, yes.”
She pressed a sandaled foot on mine and leaned close to me, looking up into my eyes. Hot jealousy mingled with my wrath. I asked:
“Had he been your lover?”
She said:
“He would not have been had I met you before I met him.”
“And those others? You killed them?”
“Why, yes.”
“And were they too—”
“Not if I had met you—”
My hands ached to go round her throat. I tried to drop her wrists, and could not. It was as though she held them, clamped. I could not move a finger. I said:
“You are a flower of evil, Dahut, and your roots feed on hell.” I said: “It was his money then that bought you, like any harlot?”
She leaned back and laughed; and her eyes laughed and in the laughter of eyes and mouth was triumph. She said:
“In the old days you cared nothing about lovers who had gone before. Why do you care now, Alain? But no—it was not his money. Nor did he die because he had given it to me. I was tired of him, Alain…yet I liked him…and Brittis had had no amusement for a long, long time, poor child…if I had not liked him I would not have given him to Brittis…”
I came back to sanity. Undoubtedly, the Demoiselle was scoring me off for those suggestions of mine about her the night before. Her method might be a bit elaborate, but certainly it had been effective. I was more than a little ashamed of myself. I dropped her hands and laughed with her…but why and whence that anger and the devastating jealousy?
I thrust that doubt aside. I said, ruefully:
“Dahut, that wine of yours must have been more potent than I knew. I’ve been acting like a damned fool, and I ask forgiveness.”
She looked at me, enigmatically:
“Forgiveness? Now—I wonder! I am cold. Let us go in.”
I followed her into the turreted room. Suddenly I, too, felt cold, and a strange weakness. I poured some wine and drank it down. I sat upon the couch. There was a haziness about my thoughts, as though a cold fog had gathered round my brain. I poured another glass of wine. I saw that Dahut had brought one of the stools and was sitting at my feet. In her hands was an old and many-stringed lute. She laughed again, and whispered:
“You ask forgiveness—and you do not know what it is that you ask.”
She touched the strings and began to sing. There was something archaic about that song—all weird, sighing minors. I thought that I ought to know that song; that I did know it; had heard it often and often—in just such a turret as this. I looked at the walls. The hues in the hangings were shifting more rapidly…changing from malachite depths to pallid shoals. And the shadows were rising more and more rapidly; were coming closer and closer to the surface before they sank again…
Dahut said:
“You brought the bracelet I gave you?”
Passively, I thrust my hand into my pocket, drew out the bracelet and gave it to her. She fastened it around my wrist. The red symbol on the pebble gleamed as though traced in lines of fire. She said:
“You have forgotten I gave you that…long and long and long ago…lover I loved above all men…lover I have hated above all men. And you have forgotten the name it bears. Well, hear that name once more, Alain de Carnac…and remember what you ask me to forgive.”
She spoke a name. Hearing it, a million sparks seemed to burst in my brain—fireflies dissipating the cold fog that gripped it.
She spoke it again, and the shadows within the green tapestries rushed to the surface of the waves, twined arms, locked hands…
Round and round and round the walls they danced…faster and ever faster…shadows of women and of men. Hazily, I thought of the dancing girls in the “House of the Heart’s Desire,” dancing in a circle to the drums of the Senussi sorcerers…as these shadows were dancing to the luting of Dahut.
Faster and faster the shadows spun, and then they, too, began to sing; in faint whispering voices, shadows of voices…and in the green tapestries the shifting colors became the surge and withdrawal of great waves, and the shadow singing became the murmuring of waves, and then their song, and then a clamorous shouting.
Again Dahut spoke the name. The shadows sprang out of the tapestries and ringed me…closer and closer. The shouting of the waves became the roaring of a tempest, beating me down and down—out and out.
CHAPTER IX
IN DAHUT’S TOWER—YS
Hurricane roaring and clamor of the sea dwindled into the ordered beat of great waves breaking against some barrier. I was standing at a window in some high place looking out over a white-capped, stormy sea. The sunset was red and sullen. It made a wide path of blood across the waters. I leaned out the window, eyes straining to the right to find something that ought still to be visible in the gathering dusk. I found it. A vast plain covered with immense upright stones, hundreds of them, marching from every side to a squat, rock-built temple like the hub of a gigantic wheel of which the monoliths were the spokes. They were so far away that they looked like boulders, then suddenly by some trick of mirage they quivered and swam close. The rays of the dying sun painted them and they seemed splashed with blood and the squat temple to drip blood.
I knew that this was Carnac, of which I was the Lord. And that the squat temple was the Alkar-Az where the Gatherer in the Cairn came at the evocation of Dahut the White and the evil priests.
And that I was in ancient Ys.
Then the mirage quivered again and was gone. The dusk blotted out Carnac. I looked down upon Cyclopean walls against which long combers broke, shouting. They were enormously thick and high here, these walls; jutting into the ocean like the prow of some ship of stone; they lessened as they fell back toward the mainland through shallows which were bare sands when
the tides ebbed.
I knew the city well. A fair city. Temples and palaces of sculptured stone with tiled and painted roofs red and orange and blue and green adorned it, and dwellings of lacquered wood utterly unlike the rude homes of my clan. It was filled with hidden gardens where fountains whispered and strange flowers bloomed. It was clustered, this city, between the wave-beaten walls as though the land upon which it stood was a deck of a ship and the walls the bulwarks. They had built it on a peninsula that stretched far out into the sea. The sea menaced it always, and always was held at bay by the walls, and by the sorcery of Ys. Out of the city ran a wide road, straight over the sands to the mainland, and straight to the evil heart of the circling monoliths—where my people were sacrificed.
They who had built Ys were not my people. But it was not they who had raised the stones of Carnac. Our grandmothers had said their grandmothers had told that long and long ago the people who built Ys had come sailing in strangely shaped ships, fortified the neck of the peninsula and settled there; and now we were in thrall to them; and they had taken Carnac and on the trunk of its dark ritual had grafted branches that bore the fruit of unnameable evil. I had come to Ys to lop those branches. And if I lived thereafter to put ax to trunk.
Bitterly did I hate these people of Ys, sorcerers and sorceresses all, and I had a plan to destroy them, one and all; to end the dreadful rites of the Alkar-Az and rid the temple forever of That which came in the wake of torment and death to my own people at the summoning of Dahut and the priests of Ys. I thought all that while knowing at one and the same time I was the Lord of Carnac and also Alan Caranac who had allowed himself to be caught by the wiles of the Demoiselle de Keradel, and was seeing only what she was willing him to see. At least, Alan Caranac knew that, but the Lord of Carnac did not.
I heard the sweetness of a lute touched lightly; heard laughter like little heartless waves, and a voice—the voice of Dahut!
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 185