Black Gods and Scarlet Dreams

by C. L. Moore

  He slept again, and saw the shawl hanging in a blue dusk the color of its background, stared 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 colored 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 colored 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 her long, bright-colored 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, creamybrown face to him, gulping in air through lips the color 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, colored 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 has 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 violent 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 hail, 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 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 leather-brownness of him, his spaceman's suit, his scarred 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 pity 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 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 toward 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 know 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,” S
mith 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 colored 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 brown-ness 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 twilight of the gallery.

  “Where are we going?” she asked Smith. “Out there?” And he nodded toward 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. It is better not to look out the windows of this place. 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 hail where the blue mist floated so beautifully with its clouds of violet and green confusing the eye, and a great stillness all about.

  The hallways led straight, as nearly as he could see, for the floating clouds veiled it, toward 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.

  They stood under the great arch of the Temple, looking out over the shining land beyond.

  Afterward he could never quite remember what had made it so unutterably strange, so indefinably dreadful. There were trees, feathery masses of green and bronze above the bronze-green grass; the bright air shimmered, and through the leaves he caught the glimmer of water not far away. At first glance it seemed a perfectly normal sense — yet tiny details caught his eyes that sent ripples of coldness down his back. The grass, for instance.

  When they stepped down upon it and began to cross the meadow toward the trees beyond which water gleamed, he saw that the blades were short and soft as fur, and they seemed to cling to his companion's bare feet as she walked. As he looked out over the meadow he saw that long waves of it, from every direction, were rippling toward them as if the wind blew from all sides at once toward the common center that was themselves. Yet no wind blew.

  “It — it's alive,” he stammered, startled. “The grass!”

  “Yes, of course,” she said indifferently.

  And then he realized that though the feathery fronds of the trees waved now and then, gracefully together, there was no wind. And they did not sway in one direction only, but by twos and threes in many ways, dipping and rising with a secret, contained life of their own.

  When they reached the belt of woodland he looked up curiously and heard the whisper and rustle of leaves above him, bending down as if in curiosity as the two passed beneath. They never bent far enough to touch them, but a sinister air of watchfulness, of aliveness, brooded over the whole uncannily alive landscape, and the ripples of the grass followed them wherever they went.

  The lake, like that twilight in the Temple, was a sleepy blue clouded with violet and green, not like real water, for the colored blurs did not diffuse or change as it rippled.

  On the shore, a little above the water line, stood a tiny, shrine-like building of some creamy stone, its walls no more than a series of arches open to the blue, translucent day. The girl led him to the doorway and gestured within negligently.

  “I live here,” she said.

  Smith stared. It was quite empty save for two low couches with a blue coverlet thrown across each. Very classic it looked, with its whiteness and austerity, the arches opening on a vista of woodland and grass beyond.

  “Doesn't it ever get cold?” he asked. “Where do you eat? Where are your books and food and clothes?”

  “I have some spare tunics under my couch,” she said. “That's all. No books, no other clothing, no food. We feed at the Temple. It is never any colder or warmer than this.”

  “But what do you do?”

  “Do? Oh, swim in the lake, sleep and rest and wander through the woods. Times passes very quickly.”

  “Idyllic,” murmured Smith, “but rather tiresome, I should think.”

  “When one knows,” she said, “that the next moment may be one's last, life is savored to the full. One stretches the hours out as long as possible. No, for us it is not tiresome.”

  “But have you no cities? Where are the other people?”

  “It is best not to collect in crowds. Somehow they seem to draw — it. We live in twos and threes — sometimes alone. We have no cities. We do nothing — what purpose in beginning anything when we know we shall not live to end it? Why even think too long of one thing? Come down to the lake.”

  She took his hand and led him across the clinging grass to the sandy brink of the water, and they sank in silence on the narrow beach. Smith looked out over the lake where vague colors misted the blue, trying not to think of the fantastic things that were happening to him. Indeed, it was hard to do much thinking, here, in the midst of the blueness and the silence, the very air dreamy about them . . . the cloudy water lapping the shore with tiny, soft sounds like the breathing of a sleeper. The place was heavy with the stillness and the dreamy colors, and Smith was never sure, afterward, whether in his dream he did not sleep for a while; for presently he heard a stir at his side and the girl reseated herself, clad in a fresh tunic, all the blood washed away. He could not remember her having left, but it did not trouble him.

  The light had for some time been sinking and blurring, and imperceptibly a cloudy blue twilight closed about them, seeming somehow to rise from the blurring lake, for it partook of that same dreamy blueness clouded with vague colors. Smith thought that he would be content never to rise again from that cool sand, to sit here for ever in the blurring twilight and the silence of his dream. How long he did sit there he never knew. The blue peace enfolded him utterly, until he was steeped in its misty evening colors and permeated through and through with the tranced quiet.

  The darkness had deepened until he
could no longer see any more than the nearest wavelets lapping the sand. Beyond, and all about, the dream-world melted into the violet-misted blueness of the twilight. He was not aware that he had turned his head, but presently he found himself looking down on the girl beside him. She was lying on the pale sand, her hair a fan of darkness to frame the pallor of her face.

  In the twilight her mouth was dark too, and from the darkness under her lashes he slowly became aware that she was watching him unwinkingly.

  For a long while he sat there, gazing down, meeting the half-hooded eyes in silence. And presently, with the effortless detachment of one who moves in a dream, he bent down to meet her lifting arms. The sand was cool and sweet, and her mouth tasted faintly of blood.

  II

  There was no sunrise in that land. Lucid day brightened slowly over the breathing landscape, and grass and trees stirred with wakening awareness, rather horribly in the beauty of the morning. Whew Smith woke, he saw the girl coming up from the lake, shaking blue water from her orange hair. Blue droplets clung to the creaminess of her skin, and she was laughing and flushed from head to foot in the glowing dawn.

  Smith sat up on his couch and pushed back the blue coverlet.

  “I'm hungry,” he said. “When and what do we eat?”

  The laughter vanished from her face in a breath. She gave her hair a troubled shake and said doubtfully, “Hungry?”

  “Yes, starved! Didn't you say you get your food at the Temple? Let's go up there.” She sent him a sidelong, enigmatic glance from under her lashes as she turned aside.

  “Very well,” she said.

  “Anything wrong?” He reached out as she passed and pulled her to his knee, kissing the troubled mouth lightly. And again he tasted blood.