Beyond the Barriers of Space and Time

by Judith Merril (ed. )

  She flung her hands out.

  “Fear. You remember, it was a long time before I would consent to sit for her? I felt sure in some way she would bring me misfortune.”

  Raoul shrugged his shoulders.

  “Whereas, in actual fact, she brought you the exact opposite,” he said drily. “All the sittings have been attended with marked success. The spirit of the little Amélie was able to control you at once, and the materializations have really been striking. Professor Roche ought really to have been present at the last one.”

  “Materializations,” said Simone in a low voice. “Tell me, Raoul (you know that I know nothing of what takes place while I am in the trance), are the materializations really so wonderful?”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “At the first few sittings the figure of the child was visible in a kind of nebulous haze,” he explained, “but at the last séance—”

  “Yes?”

  He spoke very softly.

  “Simone, the child that stood there was an actual living child of flesh and blood. I even touched her—but seeing that the touch was acutely painful to you, I would not permit Madame Exe to do the same. I was afraid that her self-control might break down, and that some harm to you might result.”

  Simone turned away again towards the window.

  “I was terribly exhausted when I woke,” she murmured. “Raoul, are you sure—are you really sure that all this is right? You know what dear old Elise thinks, that I am trafficking with the devil?”

  She laughed rather uncertainly.

  “You know what I believe,” said Raoul gravely. “In the handling of the unknown there must always be danger, but the cause is a noble one, for it is the cause of science. All over the world there have been martyrs of science, pioneers who have paid the price so that others may follow safely in their footsteps. For ten years now you have worked for science at the cost of a terrific nervous strain. Now your part is done, from today onward you are free to be happy.”

  She smiled at him affectionately, her calm restored. Then she glanced quickly up at the clock.

  “Madame Exe is late,” she murmured. “She may not come.”

  “I think she will,” said Raoul. “Your clock is a little fast, Simone.”

  Simone moved about the room, rearranging an ornament here and there.

  “I wonder who she is, this Madame Exe?” she observed. “Where she comes from, who her people are? It is strange that we know nothing about her.”

  Raoul shrugged his shoulders.

  “Most people remain incognito if possible when they come to a medium,” he observed. “It is an elementary precaution.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Simone listlessly.

  A little china vase she was holding slipped from her fingers and broke to pieces on the tiles of the fireplace. She turned sharply on Raoul.

  “You see,” she murmured, “I am not myself. Raoul, would you think me very—very cowardly if I told Madame Exe I could not sit today?”

  His look of pained astonishment made her redden.

  “You promised, Simone ” he began gently.

  She backed against the wall.

  “I won’t do it, Raoul. I won’t do it.”

  And again that glance of his, tenderly reproachful, made her wince.

  “It is not of the money I am thinking, Simone, though you must realize that the money this woman has offered you for a last sitting is enormous—simply enormous.”

  She interrupted him defiantly.

  “There are things that matter more than money.”

  “Certainly there are,” he agreed warmly. “That is just what I am saying. Consider—this woman is a mother, a mother who has lost her only child. If you are not really ill, if it is only a whim on your part—you can deny a rich woman a caprice, can you deny a mother one last sight of her child?”

  The medium flung her hands out despairingly in front of her.

  “Oh, you torture me,” she murmured. “All the same you are right. I will do as you wish, but I know now what I am afraid of—it is the word ‘mother.’ ”

  “Simone!”

  “There are certain primitive elementary forces, Raoul. Most of them have been destroyed by civilization, but motherhood stands where it stood at the beginning. Animals—human beings, they are all the same. A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”

  She stopped, panting a little, then turned to him with a quick, disarming smile.

  “I am foolish today, Raoul. I know it.”

  “Lie down for a minute or two,” he urged. “Rest till she comes.”

  “Very well.” She smiled at him and left the room.

  Raoul remained for a minute or two lost in thought, then he strode to the door, opened it, and crossed the little hall. He went into a room the other side of it, a sitting room very much like the one he had left, but at one end was an alcove with a big armchair set in it. Heavy black velvet curtains were arranged so as to pull across the alcove. Elise was busy arranging the room. Close to the alcove she had set two chairs and a small round table. On the table was a tambourine, a horn and some paper and pencils.

  “The last time,” murmured Elise with grim satisfaction. “Ah, Monsieur, I wish it were over and done with.”

  The sharp ting of an electric bell sounded.

  “There she is, that great gendarme of a woman,” continued the old servant. “Why can’t she go and pray decently for her little one’s soul in a church, and burn a candle to Our Blessed Lady? Does not the good God know what is best for us?”

  “Answer the bell, Elise,” said Raoul peremptorily.

  She threw him a look, but obeyed. In a minute or two she returned ushering in the visitor.

  “I will tell my mistress you are here, Madame.”

  Raoul came forward to shake hands with Madame Exe. Simone’s words floated back to his memory.

  “So big and so black.”

  She was a big woman, and the heavy black of French mourning seemed almost exaggerated in her case. Her voice when she spoke was very deep.

  “I fear I am a little late, Monsieur.”

  “A few minutes only,” said Raoul, smiling. “Madame Simone is lying down. I am sorry to say she is far from well, very nervous and overwrought.”

  Her hand, which she was just withdrawing, closed on his suddenly like a vice.

  “But she will sit?” she demanded sharply.

  “Oh, yes, Madame.”

  Madame Exe gave a sigh of relief, and sank into a chair, loosening one of the heavy black veils that floated round her.

  “Ah, Monsieur!” she murmured, “you cannot imagine, you cannot conceive the wonder and the joy of these séances to me! My little one! My Amélie! To see her, to hear her, even—perhaps—yes, perhaps to be even able to—stretch out my hand and touch her.”

  Raoul spoke quickly and peremptorily.

  “Madame Exe—how can I explain?—on no account must you do anything except under my express directions. Otherwise there is the gravest danger.”

  “Danger to me?”

  “No, Madame,” said Raoul, “to the medium. You must understand that the phenomena that occur are explained by science in a certain way. I will put the matter very simply, using no technical terms. A spirit, to manifest itself, has to use the actual physical substance of the medium. You have seen the vapor of fluid issuing from the lips of the medium. This finally condenses and is built up into the physical semblance of the spirit’s dead body. But this ectoplasm we believe to be the actual substance of the medium. We hope to prove this some day by careful weighing and testing—but the great difficulty is the danger and pain which attends the medium on any handling of the phenomena.”

  Madame Exe had listened to him with close attention.

  “That is very interesting. Monsieur. Tell me, shall not a time come when the materialization shall advan
ce so far that it shall be capable of detachment from its parent, the medium?”

  “That is a fantastic speculation, Madame.”

  She persisted.

  “But, on the facts, not impossible?”

  “Quite impossible today.”

  “But perhaps in the future?”

  He was saved from answering, for at that moment Simone entered. She looked languid and pale, but had evidently regained entire control of herself. She came forward and shook hands with Madame Exe, though Raoul noticed the faint shiver that passed through her as she did so.

  “I regret, Madame, to hear that you are indisposed,” said Madame Exe.

  “It is nothing,” said Simone rather brusquely. “Shall we begin?”

  She went to the alcove and sat down in the armchair. Suddenly Raoul in his turn felt a wave of fear pass over him.

  “You are not strong enough,” he exclaimed. “We had better cancel the séance. Madame Exe will understand.”

  “Monsieur!”

  Madame Exe rose indignantly.

  “Yes, yes, it is better not, I am sure of it.”

  “Madame Simone promised me one last sitting.”

  “That is so,” agreed Simone quietly, “and I am prepared to carry out my promise.”

  “I hold you to it, Madame,” said the other woman.

  “I do not break my word,” said Simone coldly. “Do not fear, Raoul,” she added gently, “after all, it is for the last time—the last time, thank God.”

  At a sign from her Raoul drew the heavy black curtains across the alcove. He also pulled the curtains of the windows so that the room was in semi-obscurity. He indicated one of the chairs to Madame Exe and prepared himself to take the other. Madame Exe, however, hesitated.

  “You will pardon me. Monsieur, but—you understand I believe absolutely in your integrity and in that of Madame Simone. All the same, so that my testimony may be the more valuable, I took the liberty of bringing this with me.”

  From her handbag she drew a length of fine cord.

  “Madame!” cried Raoul. “This is an insult!”

  “A precaution.”

  “I repeat it is an insult.”

  “I don’t understand your objection. Monsieur,” said Madame Exe coldly. “If there is no trickery you have nothing to fear.”

  Raoul laughed scornfully.

  “I can assure you that I have nothing to fear, Madame. Bind me hand and foot if you will.”

  His speech did not produce the effect he hoped, for Madame Exe merely murmured unemotionally, “Thank you, Monsieur,” and advanced upon him with her roll of cord.

  Suddenly Simone from behind the curtain gave a cry.

  “No, no, Raoul, don’t let her do it.”

  Madame Exe laughed derisively.

  “Madame is afraid,” she observed sarcastically.

  “Yes, I am afraid.”

  “Remember what you are saying, Simone,” cried Raoul. “Madame Exe is apparently under the impression that we are charlatans.”

  “I must make sure,” said Madame Exe grimly.

  She went methodically about her task, binding Raoul securely to his chair.

  “I must congratulate you on your knots, Madame,” he observed ironically when she had finished. “Are you satisfied now?”

  Madame Exe did not reply. She walked around the room examining the panelling of the walls closely. Then she locked the door leading into the hall, and, removing the key, returned to her chair.

  “Now,” she said in an indescribable voice, “I am ready.”

  The minutes passed. From behind the curtain the sound of Simone’s breathing became heavier and more stertorous. Then it died away altogether, to be succeeded by a series of moans. Then again there was silence for a little while, broken by the sudden clattering of the tambourine. The horn was caught up from the table and dashed to the ground. Ironic laughter was heard. The curtains of the alcove seemed to have been pulled back a little, the medium’s figure was just visible through the opening, her head fallen forward on her breast. Suddenly Madame Exe drew in her breath sharply. A ribbonlike stream of mist was issuing from the medium’s mouth. It condensed and began gradually to assume a shape, the shape of a little child.

  “Amélie! My little Amélie!”

  The hoarse whisper came from Madame Exe. The hazy figure condensed still further. Raoul stared almost incredulously. Never had there been a more successful materialization. Now, surely it was a real child, a real flesh and blood child standing there.

  “Maman!”

  The soft childish voice spoke.

  “My child!” cried Madame Exe. “My child!”

  She half-rose from her seat.

  “Be careful, Madame,” cried Raoul warningly.

  The materialization came hesitatingly through the curtains. It was a child. She stood there, her arms held out.

  “Maman!”

  “Ah!” cried Madame Exe.

  Again she half-rose from her seat.

  “Madame,” cried Raoul, alarmed, “the medium ”

  “I must touch her,” cried Madame Exe hoarsely.

  She moved a step forward.

  “For God’s sake, Madame, control yourself,” cried Raoul.

  He was really alarmed now.

  “Sit down at once.”

  “My little one, I must touch her.”

  “Madame, I command you, sit down!”

  He was writhing desperately with his bonds, but Madame Exe had done her work well; he was helpless. A terrible sense of impending disaster swept over him.

  “In the name of God, Madame, sit down!” he shouted. “Remember the medium.”

  Madame Exe paid no attention to him. She was like a woman transformed. Ecstasy and delight showed plainly in her face. Her outstretched hand touched the little figure that stood in the opening of the curtains. A terrible moan came from the medium.

  “My God!” cried Raoul. “My God! This is terrible. The medium—”

  Madame Exe turned on him with a harsh laugh.

  “What do I care for your medium?” she cried. “I want my child.”

  “You are mad!”

  “My child, I tell you. Mine! My own! My own flesh and blood! My little one come back to me from the dead, alive and breathing.”

  Raoul opened his lips, but no words would come. She was terrible, this woman! Remorseless, savage, absorbed by her own passion. The baby lips parted, and for the third time the same word echoed: “Maman!”

  “Come then, my little one,” cried Madame Exe.

  With a sharp gesture she caught up the child in her arms. From behind the curtains came a long-drawn scream of utter anguish.

  “Simone!” cried Raoul. “Simone!”

  He was aware vaguely of Madame Exe rushing past him, of the unlocking of the door, of retreating footsteps down the stairs.

  From behind the curtains there still sounded the terrible high long-drawn scream—such a scream as Raoul had never heard. It died away in a horrible kind of gurgle. Then there came the thud of a body falling… Raoul was working like a maniac to free himself from his bonds. In his frenzy he accomplished the impossible, snapping the rope by sheer strength. As he struggled to his feet, Elise rushed in, crying, “Madame!”

  “Simone!” cried Raoul.

  Together they rushed forward and pulled the curtain.

  Raoul staggered back.

  “My God!” he murmured. “Red—all red…”

  Elise’s voice came beside him, harsh and shaking.

  “So Madame is dead. It is ended. But tell me, Monsieur, what has happened. Why is Madame all shrunken away—why is she half her usual size? What has been happening here?”

  “I do not know,” said Raoul.

  His voice rose to a scream.

  “I do not know. I do not know. But I think—I am going mad… Simone! Simone!”

  The twin phrases, “water witch” and “rain magic,” have enchanted me ever since, at the age of ten, I first found them on the �
��Myths and Legends” shelf at the Public Library.

  Years later, I heard with amusement the stories of anthropologists who learned to take their raincoats along when they went out to study the primitive Indian rain-dance superstitions. Later still, in a dry summer in in New York, I discovered that modern science had taken the magic entirely out of rainmaking. Then Kenneth Roberts published his startling report on Henry Gross and His Dowsing Rod, in which he spoke irritably indeed of the “unfortunate modern American habit of referring to a water dowser as a water witch.”

  When the day comes that every home is equipped with a household manual of weather control, and the use of the divining rod is taught in high-school science labs, I shall still reserve my right to think of these things as rain magic and water witching, and shall continue to enjoy the Indian legends on which Mr. Brown’s story is based.

  Medicine Dancer by Bill Brown

  The red convertible raced around the shoulder of Big Dog Mesa in a loose and frantic sort of driving. It sucked dust up from the gravel patches in the macadam, laying these floating clouds in the hot air as smoke signals had once hung over the mesa.

  If the girl was frantic, it showed only in her driving. Her black hair was smoothed tight across her scalp and bound around her head with two braids as slick as blacksnakes. The ends of the braids hung down in two short tails to give the suggestion of Indian she wanted.

  Taka jerked the car around a chuck hole and glanced off into the valley to the right, thankful for the dryness and barrenness. It had been weeks since she had seen anything but rain, torrents of rain and wet, slippery streets. At every town where she’d danced on the big medicine drums, it had rained.

  The best primitive dancer in America, they said. She’d read it in the columns and heard it on the air. Sensational! Savage! But they didn’t know it was the medicine drums with the corn and the lightning symbols that made her dance that way. And no one knew yet that she brought the rain.

  The white people weren’t evil like Old Pete, her father, had said. No, they called her the Thunder Bird and they gave her a thousand dollars a week. And sometimes they let her sit at their tables in the night clubs and they bought her champagne even when it was against the law in some states to buy a drink for an Indian. And they groomed her and polished her and made her a calendar cover Indian girl in a pure white-feathered head dress. And they all got drenched to see her because they would come in light clothes when the weather report said fair weather and she would dance on the drums and it would rain in the night even while she was dancing.