The Blind Spot

by Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint

  XXIX

  THE OCCULT WORLD

  "In telling what I know," began Watson, "I shall use a bit of a preface.It's necessary, in a way, if you are to understand me; besides, it willgive you the advantage of looking into the Blind Spot with the cleareyes of reason. I intend to tell all, to omit nothing. My purpose indoing this is that, in case we should fail tonight, you will be able togive my account to the world."

  It was a strange introduction. His listeners exchanged thoughtfulglances. But they all affirmed, and Sir Henry hitched his chair almostimpatiently.

  "All right, Mr. Watson. Please proceed."

  "To begin with," said Watson, "I assume that you all know of Dr.Holcomb's announcement concerning the Blind Spot. You remember that hepromised to solve the occult; how he foretold that he would prove it notby immaterial but by the very material means; that he would produce thefact and the substance.

  "Now, the professor had promised to deliver something far greater thanhe had thought it to be. At the same time, what he knew of theBlind Spot was part conjecture and part fact. Like his forebears andcontemporaries, he looked upon man as the real being.

  "But it's a question, now, as to which is reality and which is not.There is not a branch of philosophy that looks upon the question in thatlight. Bishop Berkeley came near and he has been followed by others; butthey all have been deceived by their own sophistry. However, except forthe grossest materialists, all thinkers take cognizance of a hereafter.

  "No one dreamed of a Blind Spot and what it may lead to, what it mightcontain. We are five-sensed; we interpret the universe by the measure offive yardsticks. Yet, the Blind Spot takes even those away; the more weknow, it seems, the less certain we are of ourselves. As I said to Mme.Le Fabre, it is a difficult question to determine, after all, just whoare the ghosts. At any rate, I KNOW"--and he paused for effect--"I knowthat there are uncounted millions who look upon us and our workings asentirely supernatural!

  "Remember that what I have to tell you is just as real as your own liveshave been since babyhood.

  "It was slightly over a year ago that my last night on the eartharrived.

  "I had gone out for the evening, in the forlorn hope of meeting afriend, of having some slight taste of pleasure before the end came.

  "For several days I had been labouring under a sort of premonition,knowing that my life was slowly seeping away and that my vitality wasslipping, bit by bit, to what I thought must be death. Had I then knownwhat I know now, I could have saved myself. But if I had done it, if Ihad saved myself, we would never have found Dr. Holcomb.

  "Perhaps it was the same fate that led me to Harry, that night. I don'tknow. Nevertheless, if there is any truth in what I have learned onthe other side of the Blind Spot, it would seem that there is somethinghigher than mere fate. I had never believed in luck; but when everythingworks out to a fraction of a breath, one ceases to be sceptical on thequestion of destiny and chance. _I_ say, everything that happened thatnight was FORCED from the other side. In short, my giving that ring toHarry was simply a link in the chain of circumstances. It just had tobe; the PROPHECY would not have had it otherwise."

  Without stopping to explain what he meant by the word "prophecy," Watsonwent on:

  "That's what makes it puzzling. I have never been able to understandhow every bit has dovetailed with such exactness. We--you and I--arecertainly not supernatural; and yet, on the other side of the Spot, theproof is overwhelmingly convincing.

  "I was very weak that night. So weak that it is difficult for me toremember. The last I recollect was my going to the back of the house;to the kitchen, I think. I had a light in my hands. The boys were in thefront room, waiting. One of them had opened a door some yards away fromwhere I stood.

  "Coming as it did, on the instant, it is difficult to describe. But Iknew it instinctively for what it was: the dot of blue on the ceiling,and the string of light. Then, a sensation of falling, like droppinginto space itself. It is hard to describe the horrifying terror ofplunging head on from an immense height to a plain at a vastly lowerlevel.

  "And that's all that I remember--from this side." [Footnote: NOTE.--Injustice to Mr. Watson, the present writers have thought it best at thisstage to transpose the story from the first to the third person. Anynarrative, unless it is negative in its material, is hard to give inthe first person; for where the narrator has played an active, positivepart, he must either curb himself or fall under the slur of braggadocio.Yet, the world wants the details exactly as they happened; hence thetransposition. EDITORS.]

  Watson opened his eyes.

  The first thing was light and a sense of great pain. There was apressure at the back of the eyeballs, a poignant sensation not unlikea knife-thrust; that, and a sudden fear of madness, of drivellinghelplessness.

  The abrupt return of consciousness in such a condition is not easy toimagine. After all he had gone through, this strange sequel must havebeen terribly puzzling to him. He was a man of good education, wellversed in psychology; in the first rush of consciousness he tried, asbest he could, to weigh himself up in the balance of aberration. And itwas this very fact that gave him his reassurance; for it told him thathe could think, could reason, could count on a mind in full function.

  But he could not see. The pain in his eyeballs was blinding. There wasnothing he could distinguish; everything was woven together, a mereblaze of wonderful, iridescent, blazing coloration.

  But if he could not see, he could feel. The pain was excruciating.He closed his eyes and fell to thinking, curiously enough, that theexperience was similar to what he had gone through when upon learning toswim, he had first opened his eyes under the water. It had been undera blazing sun. The pain and the colour--it was much the same, onlyintensified.

  Then he knew that he was very tired. The mere effort of that one thoughthad cost him vitality. He dropped back into unconsciousness, such aswas more insensibility than slumber. He had strange dreams, of peoplewalking, of women, and of many voices. It was blurred and indistinct,yet somehow not unreal. Then, after an unguessable length of time--heawoke.

  He was much stronger. The lapse may have been very long; he could notknow. But the pain in his eyes was gone; and he ventured to open thelids again in the face of the light that had been so baffling. This timehe could see; not distinctly, but still enough to assure him of reality.By closing his eyes at intervals he was able to rest them and toaccustom them gradually to the new degree of light. And after a bit hecould see plainly.

  He was on a cot, and in a room almost totally different from any thathe had ever seen before. The colour of the walls, even, was dissimilar;likewise the ceiling. It was white, in a way, and yet unlike it; neitherdid it resemble any of the various tints; to give it a name that heafterward learned--alna--implies but little. It was utterly new to him.

  Apparently he was alone. The room was not large; about the size of anordinary bedroom. And after the first novelty of the unplaceable colourhad worn off he began to take stock of his own person.

  First, he was covered by the finest of bed clothing, thick butexceedingly light. There was no counterpane, but two blankets and twosheets; and none of them corresponded to any colour or material he hadever known. He only knew that their tints were light rather than dark.

  Next, he moved his hands out from under the coverings, and held them upbefore his eyes. He was immensely puzzled. He naturally expected to seethe worn, emaciated hands which had been his on that dramatic night; butthe ones before him were plump, normal, of a healthy pink. The wristslikewise were in perfect condition, also his arms. He could not accountfor this sudden return to health, of the vigour he had known before hebegan to wear the ring. He lay back pondering.

  Presently he fell to examining his clothes. There were two garments madeof a silk-like textile, rather heavy as to weight, but exceedingly softas to touch. They were slightly darker than the bed clothing. In a waythey were much like pyjamas, except that both were designed to be merelyslipped into place, without buttons o
r draw-strings. That is, they weretailored to fit snugly over the shoulders and waist, while loose enoughelsewhere.

  Then he noticed the walls of the room. They were after a simple,symmetrical style; coved--to use an architectural expression--or curved,where the corner would come with a radius much larger than common,amounting to four or five feet; so that a person of ordinary heightcould not stand close to the wall without stooping. Where the covedportion flowed into the perpendicular of the wall there was a broadmoulding, like a plate rail, which acted as a support for the hangingpictures.

  Watson counted four of these pictures. Instinctively he felt that theymight give him a valuable clue as to his whereabouts. For, while hismind had cleared enough for him to feel sure that he had truly comethrough the Spot, he knew nothing more. Where was he? What would thepictures tell?

  The first was directly before his eyes. In size perhaps two by threefeet, with its greater length horizontal, it was more of a landscapethan a portrait. And Watson's eagerness for the subject itself made himforget to note whether the work was mechanically or manually executed.

  For it revealed a girl--about ten or twelve--very slightly draped,enjoying a wild romp with a most extraordinary creature. It was thisanimal that made the picture amazing; there was no subtle significancein the scene--there was nothing remarkable about the technique. Thewhole interest, for Watson, was in the animal.

  It was a deer; perfect and beautiful, but cast in a Lilliputian mould.It stood barely a foot high, the most delicate thing he had ever lookedupon. Mature in every detail of its proportion, the dainty hoofs, thefragile legs, smooth-coated body, and small, wide-antlered head--aminiature eight-pointer--made such a vision as might come to the dreamsof a hunter.

  Chick rose up in bed, in order to examine it more closely. Immediatelyhe fell back again slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes.

  Shortly he began examining the other pictures. Two of these weresimple flower studies. Watson scarcely knew which puzzled him most; theblossoms or their containers. For the vases were like large-sized lovingcups, broad as to body, and provided with a handle on either side. Theircolours were unfamiliar. As for the blossoms--in one study the bloomswere a half-dozen in number, and more like Shasta daisies than anythingelse. But their colour was totally unlike, while they possessed wide,striped stamens that gave the flowers an identity all their own. Inthe other vase were several varieties, and every one absolutelyunrecognisable.

  On the opposite side of the room was something fairly familiar. Atfirst glance it seemed a simple basket of kittens, done in black andwhite--something like crayon, and yet resembling sepia. Alongside thebasket, however, was a spoon, one end resting on the edge of a saucer.And it was the size of the spoon that commanded Chick's attention;rather, the size of the kittens, any one of which could have curled upcomfortably in the bowl of the spoon! Judging relatively, if it were anordinary tablespoon, then the kittens were smaller than the smallest ofmice.

  Chick gave it up. Presently he began speculating about the time. Hedecided that, whatever the hour might be, it was still daylight. In onewall of the room was a large, oval window, of a material which may aswell be called glass, frosted, so as to permit no view of what might lieoutside. But it allowed plenty of light to enter.

  Cut in the opposite wall was a doorway, hung with a curtain instead ofa door. This curtain was a gauzy material, but its maroonlike shadecompletely hid all view of whatever lay beyond.

  Chick waited and listened. Hitherto he had not heard a sound. There wasnot even that subtle, mixed hum from the distance that we are accustomedto associate with silence. He felt certain that he was inside the BlindSpot; but as to just where that locality might lie, he knew as littleas before. He knew only that he in a building of some sort. Where, andwhat, was the building?

  Just then he noticed a cord dangling from the ceiling. It came down towithin six inches of his head. He gave it a pull.

  Whereupon he heard a faint, musical jangling in the distance. He triedto analyse the sound. It was not bell-like; perhaps the word "tinkling"would serve better. Provisionally, Chick placed the key at middle D.

  A moment later he heard steps outside the curtain. They were very softand light and deliberate; and almost at the same instant a delicatewhite hand moved the curtain aside.

  It was a woman. Chick lay back and wondered. Although not beautiful shewas very good to look at, with large blue eyes of a deep tenderness andsympathy, even features, and a wonderful fold of rich brown hair held inplace by a satiny net.

  She started when she saw Chick's wide open eyes; then smiled, a motherlysmile and compassionate. She was dressed in a manner at once becomingand odd, to one unaccustomed, in a gown that draped the entire figure,yet left the right arm and shoulder bare. Chick noticed that armespecially; it was white as marble, moulded full, and laced with fineblue veins. He had never seen an arm like that. Nor such a woman. Shemight have been forty.

  She came over to the bed and placed a hand on Chick's forehead. Againshe smiled, and nodded.

  "How do you feel?" she asked.

  Now this is a strange thing; Watson could not account for it. For,although she did not speak English, yet he could understand her quitewell. At the moment it seemed perfectly obvious; afterward, the factbecame amazing.

  He answered in the same way, his thoughts directing his lips. And hefound that as long as he made no conscious attempt to select the wordsfor his thought, he could speak unhesitatingly.

  "Where am I?"

  She smiled indulgently, but did not answer.

  "Is this the--Blind Spot?"

  "The Blind Spot! I do not understand."

  "Who are you?"

  "Your nurse. Perhaps," soothingly, "you would like to talk to theRhamda."

  "The Rhamda!"

  "Yes. The Rhamda Geos."