The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction Page 5

  “What proof have you?” demanded the Grand Master.

  “I’ve seen him on the terraces of his tower, making strange gestures to the evening star, and bowing to the morning star.”

  “For this he shall be stripped and flogged and driven from the county,” decreed the Master.

  “Let it be recorded,” chanted the assemblage in unison.

  The Scribe at the Grand Master’s elbow wrote on the pages of the Book of Seals.

  “What further charges?” demanded the chief, and again singled out one of those who had taken the floor.

  “He’s an atheist. One day when he was riding through town, the parson invited him to attend church; and this Landon thanked him with supercilious politeness, but told him he didn’t believe in churches.”

  And before the Scribe could record this charge, another Knight assumed the floor.

  “This man is a blasphemer: he claims his tower will outlast the world itself.”

  “H-m-m…yes, that is blasphemy. Scribe, did you get that?” demanded the Grand Master, lapsing from the stilted phrases of the ritual. “What else have we got on this fellow?”

  “He’s living with that de las Torres woman we ran out of town a while ago,” ventured another, uneasily as though picking his way over quicksands.

  “The devil he is!” flared the Grand Master. “How do you know?”

  “Well, me and Judson were watching that tower with a field-glass one evening, and we saw her dancing on the what did you call it—”

  “Terrace?”

  “Yeah. Terrace, that’s the word. Something like a Hula dance, only worse. And what little clothes she did wear was scandalous.”

  “So that bird found herself a home, did she? After we told her to clear out?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ else but that, Master.”

  “Did he get our warning letter, telling him to get rid of the girl?”

  “Sure did, Master. I saw him at the post-office, readin’ it, and then he tore it up and grinned. And a couple of days later, he came to town to get her some clothes and trappings.”

  “Enough!” thundered the Grand Master, resuming his dignity. “Order, please! We have enough to hang this fellow a dozen times. And especially the girl, the way she was corrupting the town.”

  At this last remark, several Knights turned their masked faces and choked coughs which sounded strangely like snickers.

  “We’ll take the place by surprise. Tonight. He has only that one old man for a servant. Right?”

  “You said it, Master. But he’s a hard old duffer. Nearly strangled me one night I tried to look into things while his boss was away,” replied one of the forty.

  “Does he always leave his front door open?” continued the Grand Master.

  “Used to. But now he keeps it barred.”

  “Any secret entrances or exits from which he could escape?”

  “There used to be,” announced a Knight who had worked as a laborer during the construction of the ziggurât. “But they’ve been blocked up.”

  “Well, then we’ve got him sewed up,” declared the Master. “But how about that front door? I hear it’s made of heavy steel bars we couldn’t saw in a month of Sundays.”

  “That’s simple,” volunteered one of the conclave. “I’ll take an acetylene torch from my shop, and we can cut those bars in a few minutes, even if they’re a couple of inches thick. Easy enough.”

  “Very good, Brother. All of you, at 2 a.m., be prepared to raid him. We’ll tar and feather the both of them. Or, while we’re at it…yes, bring some rope; we might change our minds. Remember, we start from here at 2 a.m. Dismissed!”

  The Knights rose and bowed; the Grand Master acknowledged their reverence; and the conclave dissolved.

  “To hell with the man,” muttered the Grand Master as he stepped from the rostrum. “It’s that hell-cat’s hide I want.” And he wiped his chin in memory of a certain tête-à-tête in a booth at Tiptoe Inn.

  CHAPTER 4

  A slender, nebulous presence emerged from the shadows of the holy of holies of the seventh stage of the ziggurât, coming from behind the hangings to the left of the altar and picking its way through the gloom. The apparition paused at the altar steps and one by one struck light to the fifteen sacred candles before the shrine. Then, turning from the altar, the girl knelt beside the ziggurât builder.

  “Couldn’t you wait…did you have to cross the Border to meet her?”

  The touch of her fingertips and the murmur of her voice aroused Landon.

  “Sarpanit…Bright and Shining One…” he muttered as he opened his eyes. Then, collecting himself, and in the flickering light of the candles recognizing his protégée: “You! What are you doing here? Flames and damnation!” he thundered, rising and snatching the girl to her feet, “You and your curiosity!…Meddling fool!” he continued; and then, releasing her wrist, glared at her, transfixing her for an age-long instant with the mordant hatred of his eyes. “If strangling you would do any good…”

  A petty rage is expressed in violence; but a great wrath can not quite conceive the vengeance for which it blindly gropes: so that Landon, instead of tearing his evil genius into small pieces, seated himself wearily on the altar steps, head bowed in despair, shoulders drooping with the burden of adventurous years, perilous quests, soul-racking studies and speculations; beaten, cracked, broken; a colossus shattered by an idle gust of wind.

  “Sarpanit…Bright and Shining One…I have failed you…”

  “You have failed me,” breathed a voice at his side, speaking in the rippling, forgotten tongue of Agade. “Looked me full in the face and did not see me… Look again, Adôn! Adôn, for whom I once went into mourning, in another avatar…”

  The girl took the silver diadem from the altar, set it upon the abysmal blackness of her hair, patted her dusky coiffure, and smilingly regarded Landon. The piquant irregularity of her features was softening into a loveliness the like of which he had seen but once before: the cabaret girl he had a moment before cursed as his evil genius was before his very eyes merging her identity with that of the apparition which had once danced in the pavilion on the mound of Koyunjik. The girl and the vision were fusing into one, into a radiant and unbelievable beauty.

  “Bint el Kafir!” Landon stared incredulously as one who has thrust upon him in one swift moment all the confusion and doubt of a lifetime. “Infidel’s Daughter…and yet a moment ago…Sarpanit!”

  And before that unearthly radiance Landon sank to his knees, stricken with an overwhelming wonder; forgetful of all save the transfiguration, the immeasurable loveliness of the Infidel’s Daughter, whose low voice murmured incredible words.

  “You have seen, and now you believe. Ismeddin sought to save you from your fate by putting your computations in error, so that the stars to which you chanted your mummeries were not those that ruled my avatar. Yet he knew that by the force of your desire you might call me from across the Border; and thus, despite his deception, he was uneasy; and conspired with the cabaret girl, your guest, to tempt you from Sarpanit incarnate and tangible. But it made little difference what you said, what rites you performed or omitted, what stars were at the zenith or nadir. I am here, Adôn, as I promised…”

  Landon raised his eyes, then dropped them before the increasing splendor and glory of the Infidel’s Daughter.

  “It mattered little,” she continued, “for the force of your desire and the spell of your vision sufficed. I danced before you in your pavilion at Koyunjik, and sang to you of the Hundred and One Strange Kisses. And I whispered in your ear the missing name, the hidden name which even Ismeddin did not know…Kadishtu… Now do you believe?

  “Thus despite the mummeries you performed, despite the ziggurât you built, I came from across the Border and assumed mortal form. Therefore rise, and admire the full splendor of that which you yourself
created: for there are no gods save only those created by the fancy of man.”

  And Landon, godlike and exalted, rose to claim the first of the Hundred and One Strange Kisses.

  CHAPTER 5

  In accordance with their plan, the saffron-robed avengers gathered in the grove about the ziggurât, and in double column marched to the massive gate which, as they had expected, was locked and barred.

  One of the Knights drew from beneath his robe a small cylinder of acetylene; another had regulating valves, a torch, and hose; and finally, a small cylinder of compressed oxygen. These parts were swiftly assembled; then the striking of a match, and a broad flare of flame which diminished in size and increased in intensity as the oxygen was cut in: so that when it was adjusted, there was but a fine pencil of blue-white flame, an eighth of an inch long, but of dazzling, unearthly brilliance. The Knights averted their faces as one of their number advanced with the hissing tip of flame and applied it to one of the bars. A tiny spot on the metal became red-hot; and then, as the operator released the cutting jet, a shower of incandescent steel sprayed onto the paving; and in a few seconds the bar was cut clean as though sawed through. Again and again the torch was applied, until five bars were cut. And then the flame was cut off, leaving the darkness trebly black by contrast.

  The avengers paused, awestricken by the black depths beyond them.

  “Follow me!” commanded the Grand Master, stepping forward into the breach.

  One of the Knights flashed an electric torch. Another followed suit. Slim pencils of light revealed a staircase leading to the second stage of the ziggurât. Noiseless as shadows they picked their way up thickly carpeted steps.

  Not a word was whispered. The silence hung like an oppressing fog. And then the Knights, emerging on the second stage of the ziggurât, found themselves in a room pervaded with a pale, shimmering twilight, which revealed the ascent to the succeeding stage, flanked by grim, foreboding figures of winged bulls whose human heads, bearded and mitered, stared solemnly at the invaders.

  Out of the shadows leaped a white-bearded apparition: Ismeddin, seeing that flight was impossible, was determined to render a good account of himself. Twice he fired; and then his pistol jammed. His long-bladed kanijar rose and fell in the mêlée, until the tap of a blackjack swept away the old man’s senses in one paralyzing instant.

  The wounded were carried to the ground level; the remainder advanced, searching each apartment of the lower stages, working their way up, stage by stage, to the last, at whose great door they paused.

  Out of the silence came the rich tones of him they sought, lifting his voice in sonorous, foreign accents: and then the tinkle of bracelets, and a woman’s laughter.

  “We’ve got them both!” exulted the Grand Master. He tried the door; found it barred. “Bring on the torch!”

  Again that fierce flame flared wide, and then drew down to a pencil of dazzling blue whiteness. But this time in vain: for the massive door of the seventh stage was of plates and ponderous bars of bronze, against which no cutting torch can operate.

  Hammers, chisels, hatchets and bars of iron were drawn from beneath the saffron robes of the Knights: and likewise, in anticipation of their ultimate entry, they produced and laid to one side cords, whips, and small cans of oil.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Adôn,” murmured the Infidel’s Daughter as she withdrew from Landon’s embrace, “they have come to take the cabaret girl.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Listen…”

  A dull tapping; and then a voice from without muffled by the thickness of the massive door.

  “Let us in. We only want the girl.”

  “Come in and get her!” mocked Landon.

  “If we have to force this door, you’ll get what’s coming to her.”

  “Try and force it!” And then, to the girl: “There is no other exit. Still—” And his eye paused, regarding an ancient, bull-headed mace that hung on the wall. “I’ll give them a surprise.”

  He advanced toward the ponderous door.

  “Don’t!” protested the Infidel’s Daughter.

  “Single-handed—”

  “No. In this ziggurât you called me from the shadows. Away from here I can have no existence. The mortal frame of her who sought shelter with you has been consumed in the fire of your vision, so that she is not; nor was she ever. You, you can leave; single-handed, fight your way out. But me you must leave behind, if you leave at all.”

  “Fight my way out, and leave you behind?”

  “Yes. For they can not harm or even touch me. The cabaret girl, yes; but not Bint el Kafir, not Sarpanit who has crossed the Border.”

  The besiegers were making no headway, no impression on the massive door which a hundred men with battering rams could not force.

  “Nor can they pass that door until your vision has been fulfilled to the uttermost—”

  “What further, Kadishtu?” wondered Landon, drunk with the splendor from across the Border.

  “Thus far I have not overstepped human bounds; nor did I intend to until the end of this avatar, a long time from this first evening. For you are a man after my own heart, Adôn, and no mortal woman could love you as I do: so that I would have withheld the Hundred and First Kiss until the Lords of the Sign recalled me, for no mortal may live to tell of its mystery. But those meddling fools—” She evaded his embrace, then continued, “But think well, Adôn. You can fight your way to freedom and escape. Me they will not find, for now I am not, save in your mind alone. The one they think they seek, the cabaret girl, has ceased to exist: for she served but to bring me to you. Therefore save yourself. And go your way, knowing what you have done. Knowing also that there is nothing before you: for you can not a second time call me from across the Border. If you wish…take your vision to its uttermost, and be consumed entirely, even as was Naram-sin of Agade, whom you saw asleep in my villa on Djeb el Kafir…or go your way, to live long and emptily, without having tasted the fullness of your destiny. That door will hold until you open it to scatter those fools before you…or until like Naram-sin you have been calcined in the mystery of the Hundred and First Kiss… Choose, Adôn!”

  Forgotten were the vengeful Knights who vainly battered the massive brazen door; forgotten was all peril, all the past and its multitudinous turmoils and imbroglios; forgotten all save the wonder and radiance of the Infidel’s Daughter, Sarpanit whom he had called from across the Border, the Bright and Shining One whose smoldering eyes transfixed him, whose serpentine arms invited him, whose low, rippling voice murmured of incredible bliss and wonder beyond human endurance.

  Landon dropped the heavy mace and turned from the brazen door.

  “I have chosen.”

  The Lord of the Sign flamed fiercely as a bead of flame threaded on a silver wire…

  * * * *

  Even bronze has its limits. So that, failing by sheer force, the Knights finally succeeded with mallets and chisels. As the great door yielded, they wondered at the silence within, and at the overpowering, deadly sweetness that enveloped them, a dizzying, intoxicating, maddening sweetness that made their senses whirl and falter in confusion.

  The Knights in their amazement forgot the girl they sought, and stared at the exalted, godlike features of the sleeper, that fierce outlaw whose hard eyes and haughty air had so long baffled them. On the shoulder of his purple robe they saw a strand of blue-black hair. On his forehead was a rosy imprint, as of the kiss of heavily rouged lips.

  “Come to life!” growled the Grand Master with nervous gruffness. Then, remembering his mission: “Where is she?”

  He shook the sleeper by the shoulder.

  “Lord Christ!” he shrieked; “nothing but skin and bones!”

  “Nothing but skin and bones!” echoed a mocking, deathly bitter voice from the shadows of the far corner of the shrine. The Infidel’s Daughte
r, wraithlike, shadowy as a wisp of smoke, confronted them. “Fools! Meddlers!” continued that passionless, cold voice: “To save him from your stupidity which would have killed his soul too many years in advance of his body, I took the life of him who evoked me from the shadows and gave me human form. So take what is left of him…skin and bones!”

  Her laugh was like the touch of a frosty blade…like the whisperings of an evil spirit.

  The Grand Master was the first to reach the door. He tripped on his saffron robe, fell headlong down the stairs. And before sunrise he died, babbling of skin and bones, and of a girl and her poisonous, evil laugh.

  As the sun rose, Ismeddin, whose tough skull had survived the blow that had stunned him, emerged from behind the winged bull where the invaders had tossed him.

  The old man knew better than to touch the form of his master, or to disturb the curiously wrought silver diadem that lay in the hollow of Landon’s shoulder.

  “He found her in spite of me…and perhaps he will forgive my treason…” And then, with profound obeisance, “Es salaam aleika, saidi!”

  THE WORD OF BENTLEY

  Originally published Weird Tales, May 1933.

  The morning had been foggy. And now the whole world was one vast fog to John Bentley. The mist was becoming thicker, writhing and twisting, rolling in great banks to overwhelm him. He could just distinguish the faces of the train crew, whose strong hands had extricated him from the wreckage of his car. With a final effort he had waved them aside, so that they desisted from their attempt to move him. John Bentley’s iron soul dominated those about him, even as it tottered perilously close to the Border. He knew that his daughter, Janet, kneeling at his side, would not step into the mists with him. For this he was glad, and glad also that an annuity that he had purchased in his day of power would provide for Janet and her mother.

  But Bentley had one problem, and little time in which to solve it. He stared grimly into the fog that gathered, ever denser and yet more dense. He sought in his remaining moments to devise some way of keeping his word to Jim Woodford. To march alone into that engulfing grayness was nothing to Bentley, for he was weary, that morning early in 1930, and had been mortally weary ever since those fatal last days of 1929, when with a few other valorous, foolhardy souls he had sought to stem the rushing destruction that was overwhelming the market.