Black Gods and Scarlet Dreams

by C. L. Moore

  Lakkdarol roars by night, as Earthmen's camp-towns have a way of doing on every planet where Earth's outposts are, and it was beginning lustily as Smith went down among the awakening lights toward the center of town. His business there does not concern us. He mingled with the crowds where the lights were brightest, and there was the click of ivory counters and the jingle of silver, and red segir gurgled invitingly from black Venusian bottles, and much later Smith strolled homeward under the moving moons of Mars, and if the street wavered a little under his feet now and then — why, that is only understandable. Not even Smith could drink red segir at every bar from the Martian Lamb to the New Chicago and remain entirely steady on his feet. But he found his way back with very little difficulty — considering — and spent a good five minutes hunting for his key before he remembered he had left it in the inner lock for the girl.

  He knocked then, and there was no sound of footsteps from within, but in a few moments the latch clicked and the door swung open. She retreated soundlessly before him as he entered, and took up her favorite place against the window, leaning back on the sill and outlined against the starry sky beyond. The room was in darkness.

  Smith flipped the switch by the door and then leaned back against the panels, steadying himself. The cool night air had sobered him a little, and his head was clear enough — liquor went to Smith's feet, not his head, or he would never have come this far along the lawless way he had chosen. He lounged against the door now and regarded the girl in the sudden glare of the bulbs, blinking a little as much at the scarlet of her clothing as at the light.

  “So you stayed,” he said.

  “I — waited,” she answered softly, leaning farther back against the sill and clasping the rough wood with slim, three-fingered hands, pale brown against the darkness.

  “Why?”

  She did not answer that, but her mouth curved into a slow smile. On a woman it would have been reply enough — provocative, daring. On Shambleau there was something pitiful and horrible in it — so human on the face of one half-animal. And yet . . . that sweet brown body curving so softly from the tatters of scarlet leather — the velvety texture of that brownness — the white-flashing smile. . . . Smith was aware of a stirring excitement within him. After all — time would be hanging heavy now until Yarol came. . . . Speculatively he allowed the steel-pale eyes to wander over her, with a slow regard that missed nothing. And when he spoke he was aware that his voice had deepened a little.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She came forward slowly, on bare clawed feet that made no slightest sound on the floor, and stood before him with downcast eyes and mouth trembling in that pitifully human smile. He took her by the shoulders — velvety soft shoulders, of a creamy smoothness that was not the texture of human flesh. A little tremor went over her, perceptibly, at the contact of his hands.

  Northwest Smith caught his breath suddenly and dragged her to him . . . sweet yielding brownness in the circle of his arms . . . heard her own breath catch and quicken as her velvety arms closed about his neck. And then he was looking down into her face, very near, and the green animal eyes met his with the pulsing pupils and the flicker of — something — deep behind their shallows — and through the rising clamor of his blood, even as he stooped his lips to hers, Smith felt something deep within him shudder away — inexplicable, instinctive, revolted. What it might be he had no words to tell, but the very touch of her was suddenly loathsome — so soft and velvet and unhuman — and it might have been an animal's face that lifted itself to his mouth — the dark knowledge looked hungrily from the darkness of those slit pupils — and for a mad instant he knew that same wild, feverish revulsion he had seen in the faces of the mob.

  “God!” he gasped, a far more ancient invocation against evil than he realized, then or ever, and he ripped her arms from his neck, swung her away with such a force that she reeled half across the room. Smith fell back against the door, breathing heavily, and stared at her while the wild revolt died slowly within him.

  She had fallen to the floor beneath the window, and as she lay there against the wall with bent head he saw, curiously, that her turban had slipped — the turban that he had been so sure covered baldness — and a lock of scarlet hair fell below the binding leather, hair as scarlet as her garment, as un-humanly red as her eyes were unhumanly green. He stared, and shook his head dizzily and stared again, for it seemed to him that the thick lock of crimson had moved, squirmed of itself against her cheek.

  At the contact of it her hands flew up and she tucked it away with a very human gesture and then dropped her head again into her hands. And from the deep shadow of her fingers he thought she was staring up at him covertly.

  Smith drew a deep breath and passed a hand across his forehead. The inexplicable moment had gone as quickly as it came — too swiftly for him to understand or analyze it. “Got to lay off the segir,” he told himself unsteadily. Had he imagined that scarlet hair? After all, she was no more than a pretty brown girl-creature from one of the many half-human races peopling the planets. No more than that, after all. A pretty little thing, but animal. . . . He laughed a little shakily. “No more of that,” he said. “God knows I'm no angel, but there's got to be a limit somewhere. Here.” He crossed to the bed and sorted out a pair of blankets from the untidy heap, tossing them to the far corner of the room. “You can sleep there.” Wordlessly she rose from the floor and began to rearrange the blankets, the uncomprehending resignation of the animal eloquent in every line of her.

  Smith had a strange dream that night. He thought he had awakened to a room full of darkness and moonlight and moving shadows, for the nearer moon of Mars was racing through the sky and everything on the planet below her was endued with a restless life in the dark. And something . . . some nameless, unthinkable thing . . . was coiled about his throat . . . something like a soft snake, wet and warm. It lay loose and light about his neck . . . and it was moving gently, very gently, with a soft, caressive pressure that sent little thrills of delight through every nerve and fiber of him, a perilous delight — beyond physical pleasure, deeper than joy of the mind. That warm softness was caressing the very roots of his soul with a terrible intimacy. The ecstasy of it left him weak, and yet he knew — in a flash of knowledge born of this impossible dream — that the soul should not be handled. . . . And with that knowledge a horror broke upon him, turning the pleasure into a rapture of revulsion, hateful, horrible — but still most foully sweet. He tried to lift his hands and tear the dream-monstrosity from his throat — tried but half-heartedly, for though his soul was revolted to its very deeps, yet the delight of his body was so great that his hands all but refused the attempt.

  But when at last he tried to lift his arms a cold shock went over him and he found that he could not stir . . . his body lay stony as marble beneath the blankets, a living marble that shuddered with a dreadful delight through every rigid vein.

  The revulsion grew strong upon him as he struggled against the paralyzing dream — a struggle of soul against sluggish body — titanically, until the moving dark was streaked with blankness that clouded and closed about him at last and he sank back into the oblivion from which be had awakened.

  Next morning, when the bright sunlight shining through Mars' clear thin air awakened him, Smith lay for a while trying to remember. The dream had been more vivid than reality, but he could not now quite recall . . . only that it had been more sweet and horrible than anything else in life. He lay puzzling for a while, until a soft sound from the corner aroused him from his thoughts and he sat up to see the girl lying in a cat-like coil on her blankets, watching him with round, grave eyes. He regarded her somewhat ruefully.

  “Morning,” he said “I've just had the devil of a dream. . . . Well, hungry?” She shook her head silently, and he could have sworn there was a covert gleam of strange amusement in her eyes.

  He stretched and yawned, dismissing the nightmare temporarily from his mind.

  “What am I goin
g to do with you?” he inquired, turning to more immediate matters. “I'm leaving here in a day or two and I can't take you along, you know. Where'd you come from in the first place?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Not telling? Well, it's your own business. You can stay here until I give up the room. From then on you'll have to do your own worrying.”

  He swung his feet to the floor and reached for his clothes.

  Ten minutes later, slipping the heat-gun into its holster at his thigh,. Smith turned to the girl.

  “There's food-concentrate in that box on the table. It ought to hold you until I get back. And you'd better lock the door again after I've gone.”

  Her wide, unwavering stare was his only answer, and he was not sure she had understood, but at any rate the lock clicked after him as before, and he went down the steps with a faint grin on his lips.

  The memory of last night's extraordinary dream was slipping from him, as such memories do, and by the time he had reached the street the girl and the dream and all of yesterday's happenings were blotted out by the sharp necessities of the present.

  Again the intricate business that had brought him here claimed his attention. He went about it to the exclusion of all else, and there was a good reason behind everything he did from the moment he stepped out into the street until the time when he turned back again at evening; though had one chosen to follow him during the day his apparently aimless rambling through Lakkdarol would have seemed very pointless.

  He must have spent two hours at the least idling by the space-port, watching with sleepy, colorless eyes the ships that came and went, the passengers, the vessels lying at wait, the cargoes — particularly the cargoes. He made the rounds of the town's saloons once more, consuming many glasses of varied liquors in the course of the day and engaging in idle conversation with men of all races and worlds, usually in their own languages, for Smith was a linguist of repute among his contemporaries. He heard the gossip of the spaceways, news from a dozen planets of a thousand different events. He heard the latest joke about the Venusian Emperor and the latest report on the Chino-Aryan war and the latest song hot from the lips of Rose Robertson, whom every man on the civilized planets adored as “the Georgia Rose.” He passed the day quite profitably, for his own purposes, which do not concern us now, and it was not until late evening, when he turned homeward again, that the thought of the brown girl in his room took definite shape in his mind, though it had been lurking there, formless and submerged, all day.

  He had no idea what comprised her usual diet, but he bought a can of New York roast beef and one of Venusian frog-broth and a dozen fresh canal-apples and two pounds of that Earth lettuce that grows so vigorously in the fertile canal-soil of Mars. He felt that she must surely find something to her liking in this broad variety of edibles, and — for his day had been very satisfactory — he hummed The Green Hills of Earth to himself in a surprisingly good baritone as he climbed the stairs.

  The door was locked, as before, and he was reduced to kicking the lower panels gently with his boot, for his arms were full. She opened the door with that softness that was characteristic of her and stood regarding him in the semi-darkness as he stumbled to the table with his load.

  The room was unlit again.

  “Why don't you turn on the lights?” he demanded irritably after he had barked his shin on the chair by the table in an effort to deposit his burden there.

  “Light and — dark — they are alike — to me,” she murmured.

  “Cat eyes, eh? Well, you look the part. Here, I've brought you some dinner. Take your choice. Fond of roast beef? Or how about a little frog-broth?” She shook her head and backed away a step.

  “No,” she said. “I cannot — eat your food.”

  Smith's brows wrinkled. “Didn't you have any of the food-tablets?” Again the red turban shook negatively.

  “Then you haven't had anything for — why, more than twenty-four hours! You must be starved.”

  “Not hungry,” she denied.

  “What can I find for you to eat, then? There's time yet if I hurry. You've got to eat, child.”

  “I shall — eat,” she said softly. “Before long — I shall — feed. Have no worry.” She turned away then and stood at the window, looking out over the moonlit landscape as if to end the conversation. Smith cast her a puzzled glance as he opened the can of roast beef.

  There had been an odd undernote in that assurance that, undefinably, he did not like. And the girl had teeth and tongue and presumably a fairly human digestive system, to judge from her form. It was nonsense for her to pretend that he could find nothing that she could eat. She must have had some of the food concentrate after all, he decided, prying up the thermos lid of the inner container to release the long-sealed savor of the hot meat inside.

  “Well, if you won't eat you won't,” he observed philosophically as he poured hot broth and diced beef into the dish-like lid of the thermos can and extracted the spoon from its hiding-place between the inner and outer receptacles. She turned a little to watch him as he pulled up a rickety chair and sat down to the food, and after a while the realization that her green gaze was fixed so unwinkingly upon him made the man nervous, and he said between bites of creamy canal-apple, “Why don't you try a little of this? It's good.”

  “The food — I eat is — better,” her soft voice told him in its hesitant murmur, and again he felt rather than heard a faint undernote of unpleasantness in the words. A sudden suspicion struck him as he pondered on that last remark — some vague memory of horror-tales told about campfires in the past — and he swung round in the chair to look at her, a tiny, creeping fear unaccountably arising. There had been that in her words — in her unspoken words, that menaced.

  She stood up beneath his gaze demurely, wide green eyes with their pulsing pupils meeting his without a falter. But her mouth was scarlet and her teeth were sharp. . . .

  “What food do you eat?” he demanded. And then, after a pause, very softly, “Blood?” She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending; then something like amusement curled her lips and she said scornfully, “You think me — vampire, eh? No — I am Shambleau!” Unmistakably there were scorn and amusement in her voice at the suggestion, but as unmistakably she knew what he meant — accepted it as a logical suspicion — vampires!

  Fairy-tales — but fairy-tales this unhuman, outland creature was most familiar with. Smith was not a credulous man, nor a superstitious one, but he had seen too many strange things himself to doubt that the wildest legend might have a basis of fact And there was something namelessly strange about her. . . .

  He puzzled over it for a while between deep bites of the canal-apple. And though he wanted to question her about a great many things, he did not, for he knew how futile it would be.

  He said nothing more until the meat was finished and another canal-apple had followed the first, and he had cleared away the meal by the simple expedient of tossing the empty can out of the window. Then he lay back in the chair and surveyed her from half-closed eyes, colorless in a face tanned like saddle-leather. And again he was conscious of the brown, soft curves of her, velvety-subtle arcs and planes of smooth flesh under the tatters of scarlet leather. Vampire she might be, unhuman she certainly was, but desirable beyond words as she sat submissive beneath his low regard, her red-turbaned head bent, her clawed fingers lying in her lap. They sat very still for a while, and the silence throbbed between them.

  She was so like a woman — an Earth woman — sweet and submissive and demure, and softer than soft fur, if he could forget the three-fingered claws and the pulsing eyes — and that deeper strangeness beyond words. . . . (Had he dreamed that red lock of hair that moved? Had it been segir that woke the wild revulsion he knew when he held her in his arms?. Why had the mob so thirsted for her?)

  He sat and stared, and despite the mystery of her and the half-suspicions that thronged his mind — for she was so beautifully soft and curved under those revealing tat
ters — he slowly realized that his pulses were mounting, became aware of a kindling within . . . brown girl-creature with downcast eyes . . . and then the lids lifted and the green flatness of a cat's gaze met his and last night's revulsion woke swiftly again, like a warning bell that clanged as their eyes met — animal, after all, too sleek and soft for humanity, and that inner strangeness. . . .

  Smith shrugged and sat up. His failings were legion, but the weakness of the flesh was not among the major ones. He motioned the girl to her pallet of blankets in the corner and turned to his own bed.

  From deeps of sound sleep he awoke much later. He awoke suddenly and completely, and with that inner excitement that presages something momentous. He awoke to brilliant moonlight, turning the room so bright that he could see the scarlet of the girl's rags as she sat up on her pallet. She was awake, she was sitting with her shoulder half turned to him and her head bent, and some warning instinct crawled coldly up his spine as he watched what she was doing. And yet it was a very ordinary thing for a girl to do — any girl, anywhere. She was unbinding her turban. . . .

  He watched, not breathing, a presentiment of . . . something horrible stirring in his brain, inexplicably. . . . The red folds loosened, and — he knew then that he had not dreamed — again a scarlet lock swung down against her cheek . . . a hair, was it? a lock of hair? . . .thick as a worm it fell, plumply, against that smooth cheek more scarlet than blood and thick as a crawling worm . . . and like a worm it crawled.

  Smith rose on an elbow, not realizing the motion, and fixed an unwinking stare, with a sort of sick, fascinated incredulity, on that — that lock of hair. He had not dreamed. Until now he had taken it for granted that it was the segir which had made it seem to move on that evening before. But now . . . it was lengthening, stretching, moving of itself. It must be hair, but it crawled with a sickening life of its own it squirmed down against her cheek, caressingly, revoltingly, impossibly. . . . Wet, it was, and round and thick and shining. . . .