She sighed breathless after a while and still looking straight ahead, said:
“It is good not to be alone. Poor Mokar. He missed me and could not get through the valley of the mists to me. Luckily he found you, my friend.”
Hank is a slow-acting guy most of the time. Then again he acts with the speed of a fighter throwing a counter punch. This was one of those times. Suddenly his hands imprisoned hers and he was facing her.
“Uh, huh,” Hank said. “That’s right. He found me and you found me. So that makes everything just right. But where does it leave me?”
She was innocence itself. “How do you mean?”
“Who are you? Where do you come from? What’s this all about, this business with Mokar; how did you manage to hypnotize me into the dream I had?” Hank shook her hands imprisoned in his for emphasis.
She didn’t answer immediately but looked down at her hands which were beginning to show a redness from the tightness of his grip. Hank flushed and released her hands. She threw back her head in an odd gesture and the hood fell away from those beautiful tresses which fell in a wonderfully effective wave about her shoulders. Even I, who can take my women or leave them alone, felt a thrill at the sight.
“I am Luria,” she said. “You know that. And I come from the valley of the mists . . .”
“You come in dreams,” Hank said. “In dreams of mist and terror.”
I gaped at the man. What the heck had gotten into him? He had turned so that his profile was to us. This time it was she who took the initiative. She took hold of his hands and began to talk:
“I came to you across the great void. It was hard for I was already here and
I had to transpose my soul-self back to the place from whence I’d come. There is no other but you who can understand me. Yet we live side by side. Our worlds are the same. The same in the same time. Will you come back with me and live in this side-by-side world? The time has come when I have need of you . . .”
“Wait a minute, Hank!” I broke in before he could give this girl an answer. “Don’t listen to her. It’s some sort of gimmick she’s got that’s working you. I don’t trust her.”
“I do, Berk,” he said. “I know she’s in trouble. I guess I knew it, from the beginning. And I want you to come along with us.”
“Oh boy!” I chortled in simulated glee. “Ain’t that going to be just ducky. Come on along and play, he says. And how do we do that? Hold hands across a table while the lights are out and wait for the message?”
“You’re not scared, are you?” he asked.
“Now we’re playing kid games,” I said. “I dare you . . .”
HE TURNED again so that he was facing her. “Is it possible to bring my friend along?”
She nodded. The wrinkle went out of his forehead and a smile lighted his face. He got up and stepped in front of me.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?” I was mad. Yet at the same time I felt a thrill of excitement. If, I thought, if such a thing could be, why I could write of it later. Fame and fortune could be waiting for me at the end of the trail. But what the heck were we dreaming of? The whole thing was a lot of talk. Dream stuff and coincidence. I snorted loudly. Hank turned back to her and said:
“See. IPs my personal charm. He can’t resist it. It’s because I smoke
Regents. They give off that wonderful aroma and make me nonchalant. Also an outcast. Berk smells that way naturally.”
“Mokar will be glad,” she says. “He likes your friend.”
“Yeah?” I said, quick-like. “Well, I like him too. Just where he’s at, behind bars.”
“Oh,” she said just as quickly. “He won’t be for very long. When you get to know him better you’ll grow much more fond of him. He’s so affectionate.”
“Then he and Hank’ll get along swell. Hank’s an animal lover. Now why couldn’t he have been crazy about fish? I’ve always been wild about mermaids,” I said.
Hank hummed a bit about, “wild about Nellie.” I was too far from him to get in a kick at his shins. Suddenly she rose. It was a movement that was as lithe and sinuous as an animal’s. Her fingers threw the hood back around her hair. Hank started to join her but she shook her head.
“No. I must go alone . . .” she said.
“But how . . .?”
She knew what he meant. “I will come to you when the time comes,” she said. “Nor will it be long.”
I covered a grin. Now she was cooking with butane. So she was going to come when the time was ripe. I figured we’d better not hold our breaths that long. We’d probably be ripe too.
But Hank was all trust and hope. He acted like a kid with the promise of a day at the circus before him. His eyes were shining in anticipation of the day. Man alive! You’d think he was ten instead of thirty. His eyes followed her trim, but very trim, figure until it disappeared into the big cat house.
“Okay kid,” I said. “You can wake up. Dream’s over.”
His lips were bent in a crooked grin but his eyes were dark in some inner thought which was extremely pleasant.
“. . . Not yet,” he said after a moment.
IT WAS some day in the week, I think Tuesday; at any rate it wasn’t long after our visit to the zoo, that I got a phone call from Hank. I was busy on a fantasy for Fantastic Adventures that had to do with flying disks and I wanted to get some of the facts in order. I had a fistful of clippings on my desk, a cigarette burning itself to death in the ashtray, and a brow full of wrinkles on my forehead. The phone at my side rang and I cussed it as I lifted it from the cradle.
“Yeah!”
“Berk!” Hank’s voice crackled in excitement. “Come on over. But fast!”
Oh fine, I thought. He’s been dreaming again. Then another thought pierced me through. Maybe . . .?
“You mean . . .?” I began.
“Right. Drop what you’re doing and shoot out here.”
“But look,” I began. There was no need to go on, unless I wanted to talk to myself. He’d hung up. Believe me I was in just that mood, talking to myself, I mean. The disk story had to be on the editor’s desk by Friday. And I had a good six thousand words to do on it yet. The air was blue with nasty words as I shoved the chair away from the desk and put the old money-machine away. Now why did Hank have to dream, I thought as I put on a pair of slacks! I work in shorts and nothing else. A tee shirt followed the slacks and then socks and shoes. I gave the desk a look of regret as I turned for a last look before closing the door. It was going to be a long time before I saw that desk or room again.
Hank shared a loft studio on north State Street with a couple of other artists. He was alone, sitting before his work desk. There was a half-finished pen and ink drawing on the board. He heard my clattering steps on the rickety stairs and met me at the door. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into his part of the studio.
“Last night,” he began without preamble. “She came to me. She said she would see me again this afternoon. She was in trouble. I saw it in her face. I’ve got to help her. Berk, we’ve got to help her.”
I tried to throw some cold water on him. The whole deal had lost its appeal to me. What the heck! I had this story to do for the boss and besides . . . I found a seat among the magazines on a chair and said:
“Now listen to me, Hank. I’m serious. I went along with this dream-book stuff you gave me because I thought it was some kind of a gag. I didn’t know it was serious. But if it is you’d better see a psychiatrist. Hallucinations may be all right until they reach the stage where a man can’t tell them from reality.
“I guess it’s time we talked this thing over seriously. I don’t know how it began but I can hazard a guess. I’ll bet you went to a party with some of those wacky friends of yours and there was a hypnotist there. And so the gag was for him to use you as a guinea pig. I’ll bet there was this gal we met, at the party. The idea being to see how far post-hypnotism would work. I’ve got to hand it to the lad who did the hynotizing. He
did an A-l Job.”
“Uh uh,” Hank said. “You’re wrong. You’re . . .”
We both noticed it at the same time. All of a sudden there was a terrific breeze in the room. I started to close the window, only I didn’t make it. It was as if someone had glued me to the chair I was in. I could see, hear, smell, reason, but couldn’t act. I was aware of what was going on only I seemed not to be part of it.
I say there was a great gust of blowing in the room. Yet not a paper stirred, not a leaf in the magazines turned. In fact not a material thing felt the wind’s effect except Hank and myself. I saw his hair blowing about his face, saw his shirt collar flap against his chin and knew the same thing was happening to me. I was turned three-quarters to the window and though I couldn’t turn completely I saw that not a leaf stirred on a tree directly outside the window. Not a bit of dust blew. And I even saw a man mop his brow below us. The wind increased and with it came a cloud of darkness. It’s the only way I can describe it. It was a mist of inky blackness and it flowed up from out of nowhere. I tried to move out of its path. I could feel my muscles strain as I did my utmost to lift myself from its path as it rolled toward Hank and me. But though the sweat stood out on my forehead in huge damp drops and rolled down my arms and chest, all my efforts were unavailing. The black curtain enveloped us. It not only encircled us so that nothing was to be seen beyond it, it also did something to our minds. For suddenly all was darkness.
THERE was a dull feeling at the back of my head. And my neck felt stiff. I opened my eyes and looked blankly about me. We were both still sitting as we had been. Hank looked asleep. I shook my head and instantly realized the spell or whatever it was was gone.
“Hey! Hank! Wake up fella.”
As I called to him I rose from my chair. I groaned aloud as every bone in my body ached with the effort. My words seemed to have no effect. I staggered a bit in the few feet which separated us. My hand had little life in it as it shook him weakly. But it was enough. His eyes opened and looked dazedly about him. Then they began to focus and reason returned to their depths. The old grin appeared on them and he said:
“Well? What do you say now?”
I blew out my breath and sighed. Was nothing going to convince him? But of course. All he had to do was see the outside. I whirled and pointing through the glass, said:
“Lo-oo—yeow!”
The last was a screech of horror. This wasn’t State Street. This wasn’t Chicago. This wasn’t anything I’d ever seen. This was Hell!
We were no longer three flights up. We were at ground level. And what ground. It looked like some cataclysm of nature had ripped and twisted the ground in a mad convulsion. It was bare of foliage and brown and hard with huge boulders strewn about as if giants had been rolling them in a game of bowls. We seemed to be in a sort of hollow, like the bottom of a soup plate. I couldn’t see what lay beyond the lip of the bowl. Hank must have seen the terror and bewilderment in my eyes. He rose and stepped to my side.
“Holy cats!” he breathed softly.
“I could think of other things,” I said. “All appropriate to the landscape.”
“Save it!” he said sharply. “Let’s take a look around.”
Too anxious I wasn’t to see what there was to be seen. But I wouldn’t have stayed alone in the room for all the tea in China. Matter of fact I hoped we were in China. But at the pit of my stomach was a feeling we weren’t in China. It was the kind of feeling which said, brother, you’re in the next place to where you’ve always said you’re going.
If Hank had any fears they were well concealed. He moved along, head up and shoulders back like he knew exactly where he was going. My steps lagged but only a few yards behind his. We climbed the few feet to the lip of the earthen bowl and looked about. I know my mouth hung open and that to anyone who might have been looking on I played the part of an idiot very well. At least I had company.
THE ground fell away below our feet steeply for a distance of perhaps a thousand feet. Below us lay a sight to gladden the heart of any farmer. The ground was checkerboarded in neat patterns that sometimes were squares and sometimes rectangles and sometimes even triangles of color. There were trees, heavy-planted like parklands and we could see areas which looked dark with luxurious growth. The air was warm and fragrant and peaceful. It was a placid scene.
But only for a moment.
Immediately below us the ground was sheer. But to either side the slope was gradual. Suddenly there was a great snorting chorus of animal sounds to our right and we turned as one to see what made them. I’ve been scared before. But this was the first time I’d ever been so frightened that I knew what it was to be rooted to one spot.
Coming up at us with the speed of express trains were some ten or fifteen animals the likes of which I’d never seen. They were part lizard and part elk. There was the head of an elk mounted on a lizard’s body. But such a lizard as I didn’t believe existed. I didn’t wait for Hank’s shout of warning. I had already turned and started downward for the place we had just quitted. But my terror rose to a fevered pitch when I saw that there was nothing there. The room or vehicle of transport into this strange and terrible world had disappeared. There was nothing but the convulsed earth and boulders.
It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. These monstrous beasts were too swift.
Now there was the sounds of voices about us, English voices; commands to halt, shouts of anger and some of speculation. Then above the others, a bulllike bellow:
“Stop, fools. Stop ere we rip you apart!”
We came to a sliding stop and side by side waited for, I guess, death. The beasts ground to dust-clouded stops. Then as their riders dismounted they looked at us through their soft strangely gentle eyes. But there was nothing peaceful or gentle in the eyes or faces of the men who surrounded us. Oh no! They looked fierce and very unwelcoming.
I essayed a grin and swallowed hastily as the first of them came close. Beside me Hank’s breath whistled shrilly as he tensed in anticipation of battle. Not that we stood any chance if there was going to be. Not with the way these babies were adorned.
Insofar as size was concerned they looked no bigger than most men from where we’d come. Nor were they any different in facial or physical characteristics, except maybe in fierceness of looks. It was just their get-up. They wore little helmets, serrated and adorned with a strip of feather. Their chests were covered by a wide strip of metal leaving their bellies bare. They wore gauntlets of the same metal and their legs were also covered to some three inches above their knees. The metal was very flexible because it gave as they walked. From their waists to where the leg covering began was a kind of link-metal skirt. It rang metallically as they moved about. There was a belt of leather about their waists. From it hung, on one side a dagger, and on the other a sword.
“Who are you? From whence come you?” asked one who was evidently the leader. He was the biggest and certainly looked the most fierce, a scar which ran the length of one cheek to his chin, giving him the most terrifying look.
My mouth opened and closed, opened and closed but no sound came out. It was Hank who took the lead:
“I am Henry Sharpe. And this is Berkeley Livingston,” he said. “We come from—from Chicago,” he ended weakly.
I knew how he felt. But what the devil were we to say to those questions.
THE leader of this strange troop mulled the words over to himself as though they were some strange food he was tasting. His eyes were on the ground as he mumbled to himself. Suddenly they lifted and pierced us with their fiery glance. I felt my knees turn to water at that uncompromising stare. I knew I was too young to die.
“Of this place from whence you come I have no knowledge,” the big guy said.
“Perhaps Loko may have. He is all-wise. Mount these men and let us be off before we are discovered. We are still a long way from home.”
Immediately his men began a tuneless whistling at which their strange mounts came trotting. One of
them gave me a hand and I slid up until I sat just outside the pocket of the flat saddle they used. Hank too was lifted to the back of one of the elk-lizard deals and in an instant we were off. And I mean off and running. Man oh man! How those babies could travel! They’d have walked off with all honors at any track in the U. S.
I don’t know exactly how long we rode. Timehadnomeaning. Ourwatches had stopped. The sun stood at the zenith all the time. All I know is that my back was sore, my legs were numb and that this character behind whom I was riding had never taken a bath in his life. The only thing which held meaning for me was the changes in scenery. For perhaps a mile after we started, the road or path or whatever it was we followed was level and flat. Then we came to a forest land into which we rode with the same abandon as before. The trees were thick and the branches often swept low so that I was continually ducking to stop from being swept off my mount. This went on for hours, it seemed. Then we were in the open again. But the topography had changed. The gentle slopes were gone. This was hill country, rough and a little frightening. We didn’t ride directly upward but at a long slant. I didn’t notice at first but later I did that we always rode where there was some sort of shelter. The open places were avoided with assiduous care.
My fears lessened or dulled, as the ride went on interminably, and I looked about with more appraising glances. For a land which held the appearances of care there were less people about than I would imagine there to be. Since the sun was always at zenith, time had little meaning, at least in the sense we have of time. This might be the time for sleep or dinner or lunch or breakfast for all I knew. At least they were reasons for the lack of activity in this weird place of ever-sunlight.
Queen of the Panther World Page 2