The A. Merritt Megapack Page 17

  His voice trailed into silence. Fighting, fighting with every fibre of brain and nerve against the sleep, I felt myself being steadily overcome. Yet before oblivion rushed down upon me I seemed to see upon the grey-screened wall nearest the Irishman an oval of rosy light begin to glow; watched, as my falling lids inexorably fell, a flame-tipped shadow waver on it; thicken; condense—and there looking down upon Larry, her eyes great golden stars in which intensest curiosity and shy tenderness struggled, sweet mouth half smiling, was the girl of the Moon Pool’s Chamber, the girl whom the green dwarf had named—Lakla: the vision Larry had invoked before that sleep which I could no longer deny had claimed him—

  Closer she came—closer—-the eyes were over us.

  Then oblivion indeed!

  CHAPTER XVI

  Yolara of Muria vs. the O’Keefe

  I awakened with all the familiar, homely sensation of a shade having been pulled up in a darkened room. I thrilled with a wonderful sense of deep rest and restored resiliency. The ebon shadow had vanished from above and down into the room was pouring the silvery light. From the fountain pool came a mighty splashing and shouts of laughter. I jumped and drew the curtain. O’Keefe and Rador were swimming a wild race; the dwarf like an otter, out-distancing and playing around the Irishman at will.

  Had that overpowering sleep—and now I confess that my struggle against it had been largely inspired by fear that it was the abnormal slumber which Throckmartin had described as having heralded the approach of the Dweller before it had carried away Thora and Stanton—had that sleep been after all nothing but natural reaction of tired nerves and brains?

  And that last vision of the golden-eyed girl bending over Larry? Had that also been a delusion of an overstressed mind? Well, it might have been, I could not tell. At any rate, I decided, I would speak about it to O’Keefe once we were alone again—and then giving myself up to the urge of buoyant well-being I shouted like a boy, stripped and joined the two in the pool. The water was warm and I felt the unwonted tingling of life in every vein increase; something from it seemed to pulse through the skin, carrying a clean vigorous vitality that toned every fibre. Tiring at last, we swam to the edge and drew ourselves out. The green dwarf quickly clothed himself and Larry rather carefully donned his uniform.

  “The Afyo Maie has summoned us, Doc,” he said. “We’re to—well—I suppose you’d call it breakfast with her. After that, Rador tells me, we’re to have a session with the Council of Nine. I suppose Yolara is as curious as any lady of—the upper world, as you might put it—and just naturally can’t wait,” he added.

  He gave himself a last shake, patted the automatic hidden under his left arm, whistled cheerfully.

  “After you, my dear Alphonse,” he said to Rador, with a low bow. The dwarf laughed, bent in an absurd imitation of Larry’s mocking courtesy and started ahead of us to the house of the priestess. When he had gone a little way on the orchid-walled path I whispered to O’Keefe:

  “Larry, when you were falling off to sleep—did you think you saw anything?”

  “See anything!” he grinned. “Doc, sleep hit me like a Hun shell. I thought they were pulling the gas on us. I—I had some intention of bidding you tender farewells,” he continued, half sheepishly. “I think I did start ’em, didn’t I?”

  I nodded.

  “But wait a minute—” he hesitated. “I had a queer sort of dream—”

  “What was it?” I asked eagerly,

  “Well,” he answered slowly, “I suppose it was because I’d been thinking of—Golden Eyes. Anyway, I thought she came through the wall and leaned over me—yes, and put one of those long white hands of hers on my head—I couldn’t raise my lids—but in some queer way I could see her. Then it got real dreamish. Why do you ask?”

  Rador turned back toward us,

  “Later,” I answered, “Not now. When we’re alone.”

  But through me went a little glow of reassurance. Whatever the maze through which we were moving; whatever of menacing evil lurking there—the Golden Girl was clearly watching over us; watching with whatever unknown powers she could muster.

  We passed the pillared entrance; went through a long bowered corridor and stopped before a door that seemed to be sliced from a monolith of pale jade—high, narrow, set in a wall of opal.

  Rador stamped twice and the same supernally sweet, silver bell tones of—yesterday, I must call it, although in that place of eternal day the term is meaningless—bade us enter. The door slipped aside. The chamber was small, the opal walls screening it on three sides, the black opacity covering it, the fourth side opening out into a delicious little walled garden—a mass of the fragrant, luminous blooms and delicately colored fruit. Facing it was a small table of reddish wood and from the omnipresent cushions heaped around it arose to greet us—Yolara.

  Larry drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp of admiration and bowed low. My own admiration was as frank—and the priestess was well pleased with our homage.

  She was swathed in the filmy, half-revelant webs, now of palest blue. The corn-silk hair was caught within a wide-meshed golden net in which sparkled tiny brilliants, like blended sapphires and diamonds. Her own azure eyes sparkled as brightly as they, and I noted again in their clear depths the half-eager approval as they rested upon O’Keefe’s lithe, well-knit figure and his keen, clean-cut face. The high-arched, slender feet rested upon soft sandals whose gauzy withes laced the exquisitely formed leg to just below the dimpled knee.

  “Some giddy wonder!” exclaimed Larry, looking at me and placing a hand over his heart. “Put her on a New York roof and she’d empty Broadway. Take the cue from me, Doc.”

  He turned to Yolara, whose face was somewhat puzzled.

  “I said, O lady whose shining hair is a web for hearts, that in our world your beauty would dazzle the sight of men as would a little woman sun!” he said, in the florid imagery to which the tongue lends itself so well.

  A flush stole up through the translucent skin. The blue eyes softened and she waved us toward the cushions. Black-haired maids stole in, placing before us the fruits, the little loaves and a steaming drink somewhat the colour and odor of chocolate. I was conscious of outrageous hunger.

  “What are you named, strangers?” she asked.

  “This man is named Goodwin,” said O’Keefe. “As for me, call me Larry.”

  “Nothing like getting acquainted quick,” he said to me—but kept his eyes upon Yolara as though he were voicing another honeyed phrase. And so she took it, for: “You must teach me your tongue,” she murmured.

  “Then shall I have two words where now I have one to tell you of your loveliness,” he answered.

  “And also that’ll take time,” he spoke to me. “Essential occupation out of which we can’t be drafted to make these fun-loving folk any Roman holiday. Get me!”

  “Larree,” mused Yolara. “I like the sound. It is sweet—” and indeed it was as she spoke it.

  “And what is your land named, Larree?” she continued. “And Goodwin’s?” She caught the sound perfectly.

  “My land, O lady of loveliness, is two—Ireland and America; his but one—America.”

  She repeated the two names—slowly, over and over. We seized the opportunity to attack the food; halting half guiltily as she spoke again.

  “Oh, but you are hungry!” she cried. “Eat then.” She leaned her chin upon her hands and regarded us, whole fountains of questions brimming up in her eyes.

  “How is it, Larree, that you have two countries and Goodwin but one?” she asked, at last unable to keep silent longer.

  “I was born in Ireland; he in America. But I have dwelt long in his land and my heart loves each,” he said.

  She nodded, understandingly.

  “Are all the men of Ireland like you, Larree? As all the men here are like Lugur or Rador? I like to look at you,” she went on, with naive frankness. “I am tired of men like Lugur and Rador. But they are strong,” she added, swiftly. “Lugur c
an hold up ten in his two arms and raise six with but one hand.”

  We could not understand her numerals and she raised white fingers to illustrate.

  “That is little, O lady, to the men of Ireland,” replied O’Keefe. “Lo, I have seen one of my race hold up ten times ten of our—what call you that swift thing in which Rador brought us here?”

  “Corial,” said she.

  “Hold up ten times twenty of our corials with but two fingers—and these corials of ours—”

  “Coria,” said she.

  “And these coria of ours are each greater in weight than ten of yours. Yes, and I have seen another with but one blow of his hand raise hell!

  “And so I have,” he murmured to me. “And both at Forty-second and Fifth Avenue, N. Y.—U. S. A.”

  Yolara considered all this with manifest doubt.

  “Hell?” she inquired at last. “I know not the word.”

  “Well,” answered O’Keefe. “Say Muria then. In many ways they are, I gather, O heart’s delight, one and the same.”

  Now the doubt in the blue eyes was strong indeed. She shook her head.

  “None of our men can do that!” she answered, at length. “Nor do I think you could, Larree.”

  “Oh, no,” said Larry easily. “I never tried to be that strong. I fly,” he added, casually.

  The priestess rose to her feet, gazing at him with startled eyes.

  “Fly!” she repeated incredulously. “Like a Zitia? A bird?”

  Larry nodded—and then seeing the dawning command in her eyes, went on hastily.

  “Not with my own wings, Yolara. In a—a corial that moves through—what’s the word for air, Doc—well, through this—” He made a wide gesture up toward the nebulous haze above us. He took a pencil and on a white cloth made a hasty sketch of an airplane. “In a—a corial like this—” She regarded the sketch gravely, thrust a hand down into her girdle and brought forth a keen-bladed poniard; cut Larry’s markings out and placed the fragment carefully aside.

  “That I can understand,” she said.

  “Remarkably intelligent young woman,” muttered O’Keefe. “Hope I’m not giving anything away—but she had me.”

  “But what are your women like, Larree? Are they like me? And how many have loved you?” she whispered.

  “In all Ireland and America there is none like you, Yolara,” he answered. “And take that any way you please,” he muttered in English. She took it, it was evident, as it most pleased her.

  “Do you have goddesses?” she asked.

  “Every woman in Ireland and America, is a goddess”; thus Larry.

  “Now that I do not believe.” There was both anger and mockery in her eyes. “I know women, Larree—and if that were so there would be no peace for men.”

  “There isn’t!” replied he. The anger died out and she laughed, sweetly, understandingly.

  “And which goddess do you worship, Larree?”

  “You!” said Larry O’Keefe boldly.

  “Larry! Larry!” I whispered. “Be careful. It’s high explosive.”

  But the priestess was laughing—little trills of sweet bell notes; and pleasure was in each note.

  “You are indeed bold, Larree,” she said, “to offer me your worship. Yet am I pleased by your boldness. Still—Lugur is strong; and you are not of those who—what did you say—have tried. And your wings are not here—Larree!”

  Again her laughter rang out. The Irishman flushed; it was touché for Yolara!

  “Fear not for me with Lugur,” he said, grimly. “Rather fear for him!”

  The laughter died; she looked at him searchingly; a little enigmatic smile about her mouth—so sweet and so cruel.

  “Well—we shall see,” she murmured. “You say you battle in your world. With what?”

  “Oh, with this and with that,” answered Larry, airily. “We manage—”

  “Have you the Keth—I mean that with which I sent Songar into the nothingness?” she asked swiftly.

  “See what she’s driving at?” O’Keefe spoke to me, swiftly. “Well I do! But here’s where the O’Keefe lands.

  “I said,” he turned to her, “O voice of silver fire, that your spirit is high even as your beauty—and searches out men’s souls as does your loveliness their hearts. And now listen, Yolara, for what I speak is truth”—into his eyes came the far-away gaze; into his voice the Irish softness—“Lo, in my land of Ireland, this many of your life’s length agone—see”—he raised his ten fingers, clenched and unclenched them times twenty—“the mighty men of my race, the Taitha-da-Dainn, could send men out into the nothingness even as do you with the Keth. And this they did by their harpings, and by words spoken—words of power, O Yolara, that have their power still—and by pipings and by slaying sounds.

  “There was Cravetheen who played swift flames from his harp, flying flames that ate those they were sent against. And there was Dalua, of Hy Brasil, whose pipes played away from man and beast and all living things their shadows—and at last played them to shadows too, so that wherever Dalua went his shadows that had been men and beast followed like a storm of little rustling leaves; yea, and Bel the Harper, who could make women’s hearts run like wax and men’s hearts flame to ashes and whose harpings could shatter strong cliffs and bow great trees to the sod—”

  His eyes were bright, dream-filled; she shrank a little from him, faint pallor under the perfect skin.

  “I say to you, Yolara, that these things were and are—in Ireland.” His voice rang strong. “And I have seen men as many as those that are in your great chamber this many times over”—he clenched his hands once more, perhaps a dozen times—“blasted into nothingness before your Keth could even have touched them. Yea—and rocks as mighty as those through which we came lifted up and shattered before the lids could fall over your blue eyes. And this is truth, Yolara—all truth! Stay—have you that little cone of the Keth with which you destroyed Songar?”

  She nodded, gazing at him, fascinated, fear and puzzlement contending.

  “Then use it.” He took a vase of crystal from the table, placed it on the threshold that led into the garden. “Use it on this—and I will show you.”

  “I will use it upon one of the ladala—” she began eagerly.

  The exaltation dropped from him; there was a touch of horror in the eyes he turned to her; her own dropped before it.

  “It shall be as you say,” she said hurriedly. She drew the shining cone from her breast; levelled it at the vase. The green ray leaped forth, spread over the crystal, but before its action could even be begun, a flash of light shot from O’Keefe’s hand, his automatic spat and the trembling vase flew into fragments. As quickly as he had drawn it, he thrust the pistol back into place and stood there empty handed, looking at her sternly. From the anteroom came shouting, a rush of feet.

  Yolara’s face was white, her eyes strained—but her voice was unshaken as she called to the clamouring guards:

  “It is nothing—go to your places!”

  But when the sound of their return had ceased she stared tensely at the Irishman—then looked again at the shattered vase.

  “It is true!” she cried, “but see, the Keth is—alive!”

  I followed her pointing finger. Each broken bit of the crystal was vibrating, shaking its particles out into space. Broken it the bullet of Larry’s had—but not released it from the grip of the disintegrating force. The priestess’s face was triumphant.

  “But what matters it, O shining urn of beauty—what matters it to the vase that is broken what happens to its fragments?” asked Larry, gravely—and pointedly.

  The triumph died from her face and for a space she was silent; brooding.

  “Next,” whispered O’Keefe to me. “Lots of surprises in the little box; keep your eye on the opening and see what comes out.”

  We had not long to wait. There was a sparkle of anger about Yolara, something too of injured pride. She clapped her hands; whispered to the maid who answered
her summons, and then sat back regarding us, maliciously.

  “You have answered me as to your strength—but you have not proved it; but the Keth you have answered. Now answer this!” she said.

  She pointed out into the garden. I saw a flowering branch bend and snap as though a hand had broken it—but no hand was there! Saw then another and another bend and break, a little tree sway and fall—and closer and closer to us came the trail of snapping boughs while down into the garden poured the silvery light revealing—nothing! Now a great ewer beside a pillar rose swiftly in air and hurled itself crashing at my feet. Cushions close to us swirled about as though in the vortex of a whirlwind.

  And unseen hands held my arms in a mighty clutch fast to my sides, another gripped my throat and I felt a needle-sharp poniard point pierce my shirt, touch the skin just over my heart!

  “Larry!” I cried, despairingly. I twisted my head; saw that he too was caught in this grip of the invisible. But his face was calm, even amused.

  “Keep cool, Doc!” he said. “Remember—she wants to learn the language!”

  Now from Yolara burst chime upon chime of mocking laughter. She gave a command—the hands loosened, the poniard withdrew from my heart; suddenly as I had been caught I was free—and unpleasantly weak and shaky.

  “Have you that in Ireland, Larree!” cried the priestess—and once more trembled with laughter.

  “A good play, Yolara.” His voice was as calm as his face. “But they did that in Ireland even before Dalua piped away his first man’s shadow. And in Goodwin’s land they make ships—coria that go on water—so you can pass by them and see only sea and sky; and those water coria are each of them many times greater than this whole palace of yours.”

  But the priestess laughed on.