A Voyage to Arcturus

Chapter 1. THE SÉANCE

On a March evening, at eight o’clock, Backhouse, the medium—a fast-

rising star in the psychic world—was ushered into the study at Prolands,

the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull. The room was illuminated only

by the light of a blazing fire. The host, eying him with indolent

curiosity, got up, and the usual conventional greetings were exchanged.

Having indicated an easy chair before the fire to his guest, the South

American merchant sank back again into his own. The electric light was

switched on. Faull’s prominent, clear-cut features, metallic-looking

skin, and general air of bored impassiveness, did not seem greatly to

impress the medium, who was accustomed to regard men from a special

angle. Backhouse, on the contrary, was a novelty to the merchant. As he

tranquilly studied him through half closed lids and the smoke of a

cigar, he wondered how this little, thickset person with the pointed

beard contrived to remain so fresh and sane in appearance, in view of

the morbid nature of his occupation.

“Do you smoke?” drawled Faull, by way of starting the conversation. “No?

Then will you take a drink?”

“Not at present, I thank you.”

A pause.

“Everything is satisfactory? The materialisation will take place?”

“I see no reason to doubt it.”

“That’s good, for I would not like my guests to be disappointed. I have

your check written out in my pocket.”

“Afterward will do quite well.”

“Nine o’clock was the time specified, I believe?”

“I fancy so.”

The conversation continued to flag. Faull sprawled in his chair, and

remained apathetic.

“Would you care to hear what arrangements I have made?”

“I am unaware that any are necessary, beyond chairs for your guests.”

“I mean the decoration of the siance room, the music, and so forth.”

Backhouse stared at his host. “But this is not a theatrical

performance.”

“That’s correct. Perhaps I ought to explain.... There will be ladies

present, and ladies, you know, are aesthetically inclined.”

“In that case I have no objection. I only hope they will enjoy the

performance to the end.”

He spoke rather dryly.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Faull. Flicking his cigar into the

fire, he got up and helped himself to whisky.

“Will you come and see the room?”

“Thank you, no. I prefer to have nothing to do with it till the time

arrives.”

“Then let’s go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing

room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am

unmarried.”

“I will be delighted,” said Backhouse coldly.

They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive

attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium

took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands,

and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely,

with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at

the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them.

“What amazes me,” she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful,

hollow conversation, “is, if you must know it, not so much the

manifestation itself—though that will surely be wonderful—as your

assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your

confidence.”

“I dream with open eyes,” he answered, looking around at the door, “and

others see my dreams. That is all.”

“But that’s beautiful,” responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather

absently, for the first guest had just entered.

It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial

humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry

into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes

were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old

man, he immediately settled himself in the most comfortable of many

comfortable chairs.

“So we are to see wonders tonight?”

“Fresh material for your autobiography,” remarked Faull.

“Ah, you should not have mentioned my unfortunate book. An old public

servant is merely amusing himself in his retirement, Mr. Backhouse. You

have no cause for alarm—I have studied in the school of discretion.”

“I am not alarmed. There can be no possible objection to your publishing

whatever you please.”

“You are most kind,” said the old man, with a cunning smile.

“Trent is not coming tonight,” remarked Mrs. Jameson, throwing a curious

little glance at her brother.

“I never thought he would. It’s not in his line.”

“Mrs. Trent, you must understand,” she went on, addressing the ex-

magistrate, “has placed us all under a debt of gratitude. She has

decorated the old lounge hall upstairs most beautifully, and has secured

the services of the sweetest little orchestra.”

“But this is Roman magnificence.”

“Backhouse thinks the spirits should be treated with more deference,”

laughed Faull.

“Surely, Mr. Backhouse—a poetic environment...”

“Pardon me. I am a simple man, and always prefer to reduce things to

elemental simplicity. I raise no opposition, but I express my opinion.

Nature is one thing, and art is another.”

“And I am not sure that I don’t agree with you,” said the ex-magistrate.

“An occasion like this ought to be simple, to guard against the

possibility of deception—if you will forgive my bluntness, Mr.

Backhouse.”

“We shall sit in full light,” replied Backhouse, “and every opportunity

will be given to all to inspect the room. I shall also ask you to submit

me to a personal examination.”

A rather embarrassed silence followed. It was broken by the arrival of

two more guests, who entered together. These were Prior, the prosperous

City coffee importer, and Lang, the stockjobber, well known in his own

circle as an amateur prestidigitator. Backhouse was slightly acquainted

with the latter. Prior, perfuming the room with the faint odour of wine

and tobacco smoke, tried to introduce an atmosphere of joviality into

the proceedings. Finding that no one seconded his efforts, however, he

shortly subsided and fell to examining the water colours on the walls.

Lang, tall, thin, and growing bald, said little, but stared at Backhouse

a good deal.

Coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes were now brought in. Everyone partook,

except Lang and the medium. At the same moment, Professor Halbart was

announced. He was the eminent psychologist, the author and lecturer on

crime, insanity, genius, and so forth, considered in their mental

aspects. His presence at such a gathering somewhat mystified the other

guests, but all felt as if the object of their meeting had immediately

acquired additional solemnity. He was small, meagre-looking, and mild in

manner, but was probably the most stubborn-brained of all that mixed

company. Completely ignoring the medium, he at once sat down beside

Kent-Smith, with whom he began to exchange remarks.

At a few minutes past the appointed hour Mrs. Trent entered,

unannounced. She was a woman of about twenty-eight. She had a white,

demure, saintlike face, smooth black hair, and lips so crimson and full

that they seemed to be bursting with blood. Her tall, graceful body was

most expensively attired. Kisses were exchanged between her and Mrs.

Jameson. She bowed to the rest of the assembly, and stole a half glance

and a smile at Faull. The latter gave her a queer look, and Backhouse,

who lost nothing, saw the concealed barbarian in the complacent gleam of

his eye. She refused the refreshment that was offered her, and Faull

proposed that, as everyone had now arrived, they should adjourn to the

lounge hall.

Mrs. Trent held up a slender palm. “Did you, or did you not, give me

carte blanche, Montague?”

“Of course I did,” said Faull, laughing. “But what’s the matter?”

“Perhaps I have been rather presumptuous. I don’t know. I have invited a

couple of friends to join us. No, no one knows them.... The two most

extraordinary individuals you ever saw. And mediums, I am sure.”

“It sounds very mysterious. Who are these conspirators?”

“At least tell us their names, you provoking girl,” put in Mrs. Jameson.

“One rejoices in the name of Maskull, and the other in that of

Nightspore. That’s nearly all that I know about them, so don’t overwhelm

me with any more questions.”

“But where did you pick them up? You must have picked them up

somewhere.”

“But this is a cross-examination. Have I sinned against convention? I

swear I will tell you not another word about them. They will be here

directly, and then I will deliver them to your tender mercy.”

“I don’t know them,” said Faull, “and nobody else seems to, but, of

course, we will all be very pleased to have them.... Shall we wait, or

what?”

“I said nine, and it’s past that now. It’s quite possible they may not

turn up after all.... Anyway, don’t wait.”

“I would prefer to start at once,” said Backhouse.

The lounge, a lofty room, forty feet long by twenty wide, had been

divided for the occasion into two equal parts by a heavy brocade curtain

drawn across the middle. The far end was thus concealed. The nearer half

had been converted into an auditorium by a crescent of armchairs. There

was no other furniture. A large fire was burning halfway along the wall,

between the chairbacks and the door. The room was brilliantly lighted by

electric bracket lamps. A sumptuous carpet covered the floor.

Having settled his guests in their seats, Faull stepped up to the

curtain and flung it aside. A replica, or nearly so, of the Drury Lane

presentation of the temple scene in The Magic Flute was then exposed to

view: the gloomy, massive architecture of the interior, the glowing sky

above it in the background, and, silhouetted against the latter, the

gigantic seated statue of the Pharaoh. A fantastically carved wooden

couch lay before the pedestal of the statue. Near the curtain, obliquely

placed to the auditorium, was a plain oak armchair, for the use of the

medium.

Many of those present felt privately that the setting was quite

inappropriate to the occasion and savoured rather unpleasantly of

ostentation. Backhouse in particular seemed put out. The usual

compliments, however, were showered on Mrs. Trent as the deviser of so

remarkable a theatre. Faull invited his friends to step forward and

examine the apartment as minutely as they might desire. Prior and Lang

were the only ones to accept. The former wandered about among the

pasteboard scenery, whistling to himself and occasionally tapping a part

of it with his knuckles. Lang, who was in his element, ignored the rest

of his party and commenced a patient, systematic search, on his own

account, for secret apparatus. Faull and Mrs. Trent stood in a corner of

the temple, talking together in low tones; while Mrs. Jameson,

pretending to hold Backhouse in conversation, watched them as only a

deeply interested woman knows how to watch.

Lang, to his own disgust, having failed to find anything of a suspicious

nature, the medium now requested that his own clothing should be

searched.

“All these precautions are quite needless and beside the matter in hand,

as you will immediately see for yourselves. My reputation demands,

however, that other people who are not present would not be able to say

afterward that trickery has been resorted to.”

To Lang again fell the ungrateful task of investigating pockets and

sleeves. Within a few minutes he expressed himself satisfied that

nothing mechanical was in Backhouse’s possession. The guests reseated

themselves. Faull ordered two more chairs to be brought for Mrs. Trent’s

friends, who, however, had not yet arrived. He then pressed an electric

bell, and took his own seat.

The signal was for the hidden orchestra to begin playing. A murmur of

surprise passed through the audience as, without previous warning, the

beautiful and solemn strains of Mozart’s “temple” music pulsated through

the air. The expectation of everyone was raised, while, beneath her

pallor and composure, it could be seen that Mrs. Trent was deeply moved.

It was evident that aesthetically she was by far the most important

person present. Faull watched her, with his face sunk on his chest,

sprawling as usual.

Backhouse stood up, with one hand on the back of his chair, and began

speaking. The music instantly sank to pianissimo, and remained so for as

long as he was on his legs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness a materialisation. That

means you will see something appear in space that was not previously

there. At first it will appear as a vaporous form, but finally it will

be a solid body, which anyone present may feel and handle—and, for

example, shake hands with. For this body will be in the human shape. It

will be a real man or woman—which, I can’t say—but a man or woman

without known antecedents. If, however, you demand from me an

explanation of the origin of this materialised form—where it comes from,

whence the atoms and molecules composing its tissues are derived—I am

unable to satisfy you. I am about to produce the phenomenon; if anyone

can explain it to me afterward, I shall be very grateful.... That is all

I have to say.”

He resumed his seat, half turning his back on the assembly, and paused

for a moment before beginning his task.

It was precisely at this minute that the manservant opened the door and

announced in a subdued but distinct voice: “Mr. Maskull, Mr.

Nightspore.”

Everyone turned round. Faull rose to welcome the late arrivals.

Backhouse also stood up, and stared hard at them.

The two strangers remained standing by the door, which was closed

quietly behind them. They seemed to be waiting for the mild sensation

caused by their appearance to subside before advancing into the room.

Maskull was a kind of giant, but of broader and more robust physique

than most giants. He wore a full beard. His features were thick and

heavy, coarsely modelled, like those of a wooden carving; but his eyes,

small and black, sparkled with the fires of intelligence and audacity.

His hair was short, black, and bristling. Nightspore was of middle

height, but so tough-looking that he appeared to be trained out of all

human frailties and susceptibilities. His hairless face seemed consumed

by an intense spiritual hunger, and his eyes were wild and distant. Both

men were dressed in tweeds.

Before any words were spoken, a loud and terrible crash of falling

masonry caused the assembled party to start up from their chairs in

consternation. It sounded as if the entire upper part of the building

had collapsed. Faull sprang to the door, and called to the servant to

say what was happening. The man had to be questioned twice before he

gathered what was required of him. He said he had heard nothing. In

obedience to his master’s order, he went upstairs. Nothing, however, was

amiss there, neither had the maids heard anything.

In the meantime Backhouse, who almost alone of those assembled had

preserved his sangfroid, went straight up to Nightspore, who stood

gnawing his nails.

“Perhaps you can explain it, sir?”

“It was supernatural,” said Nightspore, in a harsh, muffled voice,

turning away from his questioner.

“I guessed so. It is a familiar phenomenon, but I have never heard it so

loud.”

He then went among the guests, reassuring them. By degrees they settled

down, but it was observable that their former easy and good-humoured

interest in the proceedings was now changed to strained watchfulness.

Maskull and Nightspore took the places allotted to them. Mrs. Trent kept

stealing uneasy glances at them. Throughout the entire incident,

Mozart’s hymn continued to be played. The orchestra also had heard

nothing.

Backhouse now entered on his task. It was one that began to be familiar

to him, and he had no anxiety about the result. It was not possible to

effect the materialisation by mere concentration of will, or the

exercise of any faculty; otherwise many people could have done what he

had engaged himself to do. His nature was phenomenal—the dividing wall

between himself and the spiritual world was broken in many places.

Through the gaps in his mind the inhabitants of the invisible, when he

summoned them, passed for a moment timidly and awfully into the solid,

coloured universe.... He could not say how it was brought about.... The

experience was a rough one for the body, and many such struggles would

lead to insanity and early death. That is why Backhouse was stern and

abrupt in his manner. The coarse, clumsy suspicion of some of the

witnesses, the frivolous aestheticism of others, were equally obnoxious

to his grim, bursting heart; but he was obliged to live, and, to pay his

way, must put up with these impertinences.

He sat down facing the wooden couch. His eyes remained open but seemed

to look inward. His cheeks paled, and he became noticeably thinner. The

spectators almost forgot to breathe. The more sensitive among them began

to feel, or imagine, strange presences all around them. Maskull’s eyes

glittered with anticipation, and his brows went up and down, but

Nightspore appeared bored.

After a long ten minutes the pedestal of the statue was seen to become

slightly blurred, as though an intervening mist were rising from the

ground. This slowly developed into a visible cloud, coiling hither and

thither, and constantly changing shape. The professor half rose, and

held his glasses with one hand further forward on the bridge of his

nose.

By slow stages the cloud acquired the dimensions and approximate outline

of an adult human body, although all was still vague and blurred. It

hovered lightly in the air, a foot or so above the couch. Backhouse

looked haggard and ghastly. Mrs. Jameson quietly fainted in her chair,

but she was unnoticed, and presently revived. The apparition now settled

down upon the couch, and at the moment of doing so seemed suddenly to

grow dark, solid, and manlike. Many of the guests were as pale as the

medium himself, but Faull preserved his stoical apathy, and glanced once

or twice at Mrs. Trent. She was staring straight at the couch, and was

twisting a little lace handkerchief through the different fingers of her

hand. The music went on playing.

The figure was by this time unmistakably that of a man lying down. The

face focused itself into distinctness. The body was draped in a sort of

shroud, but the features were those of a young man. One smooth hand fell

over, nearly touching the floor, white and motionless. The weaker

spirits of the company stared at the vision in sick horror; the rest

were grave and perplexed. The seeming man was dead, but somehow it did

not appear like a death succeeding life, but like a death preliminary to

life. All felt that he might sit up at any minute.

“Stop that music!” muttered Backhouse, tottering from his chair and

facing the party. Faull touched the bell. A few more bars sounded, and

then total silence ensued.

“Anyone who wants to may approach the couch,” said Backhouse with

difficulty.

Lang at once advanced, and stared awestruck at the supernatural youth.

“You are at liberty to touch,” said the medium.

But Lang did not venture to, nor did any of the others, who one by one

stole up to the couch—until it came to Faull’s turn. He looked straight

at Mrs. Trent, who seemed frightened and disgusted at the spectacle

before her, and then not only touched the apparition but suddenly

grasped the drooping hand in his own and gave it a powerful squeeze.

Mrs. Trent gave a low scream. The ghostly visitor opened his eyes,

looked at Faull strangely, and sat up on the couch. A cryptic smile

started playing over his mouth. Faull looked at his hand; a feeling of

intense pleasure passed through his body.

Maskull caught Mrs. Jameson in his arms; she was attacked by another

spell of faintness. Mrs. Trent ran forward, and led her out of the room.

Neither of them returned.

The phantom body now stood upright, looking about him, still with his

peculiar smile. Prior suddenly felt sick, and went out. The other men

more or less hung together, for the sake of human society, but

Nightspore paced up and down, like a man weary and impatient, while

Maskull attempted to interrogate the youth. The apparition watched him

with a baffling expression, but did not answer. Backhouse was sitting

apart, his face buried in his hands.

It was at this moment that the door was burst open violently, and a

stranger, unannounced, half leaped, half strode a few yards into the

room, and then stopped. None of Faull’s friends had ever seen him

before. He was a thick, shortish man, with surprising muscular

development and a head far too large in proportion to his body. His

beardless yellow face indicated, as a first impression, a mixture of

sagacity, brutality, and humour.

“Aha-i, gentlemen!” he called out loudly. His voice was piercing, and

oddly disagreeable to the ear. “So we have a little visitor here.”

Nightspore turned his back, but everyone else stared at the intruder in

astonishment. He took another few steps forward, which brought him to

the edge of the theatre.

“May I ask, sir, how I come to have the honour of being your host?”

asked Faull sullenly. He thought that the evening was not proceeding as

smoothly as he had anticipated.

The newcomer looked at him for a second, and then broke into a great,

roaring guffaw. He thumped Faull on the back playfully—but the play was

rather rough, for the victim was sent staggering against the wall before

he could recover his balance.

“Good evening, my host!”

“And good evening to you too, my lad!” he went on, addressing the

supernatural youth, who was now beginning to wander about the room, in

apparent unconsciousness of his surroundings. “I have seen someone very

like you before, I think.”

There was no response.

The intruder thrust his head almost up to the phantom’s face. “You have

no right here, as you know.”

The shape looked back at him with a smile full of significance, which,

however, no one could understand.

“Be careful what you are doing,” said Backhouse quickly.

“What’s the matter, spirit usher?”

“I don’t know who you are, but if you use physical violence toward that,

as you seem inclined to do, the consequences may prove very unpleasant.”

“And without pleasure our evening would be spoiled, wouldn’t it, my

little mercenary friend?”

Humour vanished from his face, like sunlight from a landscape, leaving

it hard and rocky. Before anyone realised what he was doing, he

encircled the soft, white neck of the materialised shape with his hairy

hands and, with a double turn, twisted it completely round. A faint,

unearthly shriek sounded, and the body fell in a heap to the floor. Its

face was uppermost. The guests were unutterably shocked to observe that

its expression had changed from the mysterious but fascinating smile to

a vulgar, sordid, bestial grin, which cast a cold shadow of moral

nastiness into every heart. The transformation was accompanied by a

sickening stench of the graveyard.

The features faded rapidly away, the body lost its consistence, passing

from the solid to the shadowy condition, and, before two minutes had

elapsed, the spirit-form had entirely disappeared.

The short stranger turned and confronted the party, with a long, loud

laugh, like nothing in nature.

The professor talked excitedly to Kent-Smith in low tones. Faull

beckoned Backhouse behind a wing of scenery, and handed him his check

without a word. The medium put it in his pocket, buttoned his coat, and

walked out of the room. Lang followed him, in order to get a drink.

The stranger poked his face up into Maskull’s.

“Well, giant, what do you think of it all? Wouldn’t you like to see the

land where this sort of fruit grows wild?”

“What sort of fruit?”

“That specimen goblin.”

Maskull waved him away with his huge hand. “Who are you, and how did you

come here?”

“Call up your friend. Perhaps he may recognise me.” Nightspore had moved

a chair to the fire, and was watching the embers with a set, fanatical

expression.

“Let Krag come to me, if he wants me,” he said, in his strange voice.

“You see, he does know me,” uttered Krag, with a humorous look. Walking

over to Nightspore, he put a hand on the back of his chair.

“Still the same old gnawing hunger?”

“What is doing these days?” demanded Nightspore disdainfully, without

altering his attitude.

“Surtur has gone, and we are to follow him.”

“How do you two come to know each other, and of whom are you speaking?”

asked Maskull, looking from one to the other in perplexity.

“Krag has something for us. Let us go outside,” replied Nightspore. He

got up, and glanced over his shoulder. Maskull, following the direction

of his eye, observed that the few remaining men were watching their

little group attentively.

Chapter 2. IN THE STREET

The three men gathered in the street outside the house. The night was

slightly frosty, but particularly clear, with an east wind blowing. The

multitude of blazing stars caused the sky to appear like a vast scroll

of hieroglyphic symbols. Maskull felt oddly excited; he had a sense that

something extraordinary was about to happen. “What brought you to this

house tonight, Krag, and what made you do what you did? How are we

understand that apparition?”

“That must have been Crystalman’s expression on its face,” muttered

Nightspore.

“We have discussed that, haven’t we, Maskull? Maskull is anxious to

behold that rare fruit in its native wilds.”

Maskull looked at Krag carefully, trying to analyse his own feelings

toward him. He was distinctly repelled by the man’s personality, yet

side by side with this aversion a savage, living energy seemed to spring

up in his heart that in some strange fashion was attributable to Krag.

“Why do you insist on this simile?” he asked.

“Because it is apropos. Nightspore’s quite right. That was Crystalman’s

face, and we are going to Crystalman’s country.”

“And where is this mysterious country?”

“Tormance.”

“That’s a quaint name. But where is it?”

Krag grinned, showing his yellow teeth in the light of the street lamp.

“It is the residential suburb of Arcturus.”

“What is he talking about, Nightspore?... Do you mean the star of that

name?” he went on, to Krag.

“Which you have in front of you at this very minute,” said Krag,

pointing a thick finger toward the brightest star in the south-eastern

sky. “There you see Arcturus, and Tormance is its one inhabited planet.”

Maskull looked at the heavy, gleaming star, and again at Krag. Then he

pulled out a pipe, and began to fill it.

“You must have cultivated a new form of humour, Krag.”

“I am glad if I can amuse you, Maskull, if only for a few days.”

“I meant to ask you—how do you know my name?”

“It would be odd if I didn’t, seeing that I only came here on your

account. As a matter of fact, Nightspore and I are old friends.”

Maskull paused with his suspended match. “You came here on my account?”

“Surely. On your account and Nightspore’s. We three are to be fellow

travellers.”

Maskull now lit his pipe and puffed away coolly for a few moments.

“I’m sorry, Krag, but I must assume you are mad.”

Krag threw his head back, and gave a scraping laugh. “Am I mad,

Nightspore?”

“Has Surtur gone to Tormance?” ejaculated Nightspore in a strangled

voice, fixing his eyes on Krag’s face.

“Yes, and he requires that we follow him at once.”

Maskull’s heart began to beat strangely. It all sounded to him like a

dream conversation.

“And since how long, Krag, have I been required to do things by a total

stranger.... Besides, who is this individual?”

“Krag’s chief,” said Nightspore, turning his head away.

“The riddle is too elaborate for me. I give up.”

“You are looking for mysteries,” said Krag, “so naturally you are

finding them. Try and simplify your ideas, my friend. The affair is

plain and serious.”

Maskull stared hard at him and smoked rapidly.

“Where have you come from now?” demanded Nightspore suddenly.

“From the old observatory at Starkness.... Have you heard of the famous

Starkness Observatory, Maskull?”

“No. Where is it?”

“On the north-east coast of Scotland. Curious discoveries are made there

from time to time.”

“As, for example, how to make voyages to the stars. So this Surtur turns

out to be an astronomer. And you too, presumably?”

Krag grinned again. “How long will it take you to wind up your affairs?

When can you be ready to start?”

“You are too considerate,” said Maskull, laughing outright. “I was

beginning to fear that I would be hauled away at once.... However, I

have neither wife, land, nor profession, so there’s nothing to wait

for.... What is the itinerary?”

“You are a fortunate man. A bold, daring heart, and no encumbrances.”

Krag’s features became suddenly grave and rigid. “Don’t be a fool, and

refuse a gift of luck. A gift declined is not offered a second time.”

“Krag,” replied Maskull simply, returning his pipe to his pocket. “I ask

you to put yourself in my place. Even if I were a man sick for

adventures, how could I listen seriously to such an insane proposition

as this? What do I know about you, or your past record? You may be a

practical joker, or you may have come out of a madhouse—I know nothing

about it. If you claim to be an exceptional man, and want my

cooperation, you must offer me exceptional proofs.”

“And what proofs would you consider adequate, Maskull?”

As he spoke he gripped Maskull’s arm. A sharp, chilling pain immediately

passed through the latter’s body and at the same moment his brain caught

fire. A light burst in upon him like the rising of the sun. He asked

himself for the first time if this fantastic conversation could by any

chance refer to real things.

“Listen, Krag,” he said slowly, while peculiar images and conceptions

started to travel in rich disorder through his mind. “You talk about a

certain journey. Well, if that journey were a possible one, and I were

given the chance of making it, I would be willing never to come back.

For twenty-four hours on that Arcturian planet, I would give my life.

That is my attitude toward that journey.... Now prove to me that you’re

not talking nonsense. Produce your credentials.”

Krag stared at him all the time he was speaking, his face gradually

resuming its jesting expression.

“Oh, you will get your twenty-four hours, and perhaps longer, but not

much longer. You’re an audacious fellow, Maskull, but this trip will

prove a little strenuous, even for you.... And so, like the unbelievers

of old, you want a sign from heaven?”

Maskull frowned. “But the whole thing is ridiculous. Our brains are

overexcited by what took place in there. Let us go home, and sleep it

off.”

Krag detained him with one hand, while groping in his breast pocket with

the other. He presently fished out what resembled a small folding lens.

The diameter of the glass did not exceed two inches.

“First take a peep at Arcturus through this, Maskull. It may serve as a

provisional sign. It’s the best I can do, unfortunately. I am not a

travelling magician.... Be very careful not to drop it. It’s somewhat

heavy.”

Maskull took the lens in his hand, struggled with it for a minute, and

then looked at Krag in amazement. The little object weighed at least

twenty pounds, though it was not much bigger than a crown piece.

“What stuff can this be, Krag?”

“Look through it, my good friend. That’s what I gave it to you for.”

Maskull held it up with difficulty, directed it toward the gleaming

Arcturus, and snatched as long and as steady a glance at the star as the

muscles of his arm would permit. What he saw was this. The star, which

to the naked eye appeared as a single yellow point of light, now became

clearly split into two bright but minute suns, the larger of which was

still yellow, while its smaller companion was a beautiful blue. But this

was not all. Apparently circulating around the yellow sun was a

comparatively small and hardly distinguishable satellite, which seemed

to shine, not by its own, but by reflected light.... Maskull lowered and

raised his arm repeatedly. The same spectacle revealed itself again and

again, but he was able to see nothing else. Then he passed back the lens

to Krag, without a word, and stood chewing his underlip.

“You take a glimpse too,” scraped Krag, proffering the glass to

Nightspore.

Nightspore turned his back and began to pace up and down. Krag laughed

sardonically, and returned the lens to his pocket. “Well, Maskull, are

you satisfied?”

“Arcturus, then, is a double sun. And is that third point the planet

Tormance?”

“Our future home, Maskull.”

Maskull continued to ponder. “You inquire if I am satisfied. I don’t

know, Krag. It’s miraculous, and that’s all I can say about it.... But

I’m satisfied of one thing. There must be very wonderful astronomers at

Starkness and if you invite me to your observatory I will surely come.”

“I do invite you. We set off from there.”

“And you, Nightspore?” demanded Maskull.

“The journey has to be made,” answered his friend in indistinct tones,

“though I don’t see what will come of it.”

Krag shot a penetrating glance at him. “More remarkable adventures than

this would need to be arranged before we could excite Nightspore.”

“Yet he is coming.”

“But not con amore. He is coming merely to bear you company.”

Maskull again sought the heavy, sombre star, gleaming in solitary might,

in the south-eastern heavens, and, as he gazed, his heart swelled with

grand and painful longings, for which, however, he was unable to account

to his own intellect. He felt that his destiny was in some way bound up

with this gigantic, far-distant sun. But still he did not dare to admit

to himself Krag’s seriousness.

He heard his parting remarks in deep abstraction, and only after the

lapse of several minutes, when, alone with Nightspore, did he realise

that they referred to such mundane matters as travelling routes and

times of trains.

“Does Krag travel north with us, Nightspore? I didn’t catch that.”

“No. We go on first, and he joins us at Starkness on the evening of the

day after tomorrow.”

Maskull remained thoughtful. “What am I to think of that man?”

“For your information,” replied Nightspore wearily, “I have never known

him to lie.”

Chapter 3. STARKNESS

A couple of days later, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Maskull and

Nightspore arrived at Starkness Observatory, having covered the seven

miles from Haillar Station on foot. The road, very wild and lonely, ran

for the greater part of the way near the edge of rather lofty cliffs,

within sight of the North Sea. The sun shone, but a brisk east wind was

blowing and the air was salt and cold. The dark green waves were flecked

with white. Throughout the walk, they were accompanied by the plaintive,

beautiful crying of the gulls.

The observatory presented itself to their eyes as a self-contained

little community, without neighbours, and perched on the extreme end of

the land. There were three buildings: a small, stone-built dwelling

house, a low workshop, and, about two hundred yards farther north, a

square tower of granite masonry, seventy feet in height.

The house and the shop were separated by an open yard, littered with

waste. A single stone wall surrounded both, except on the side facing

the sea, where the house itself formed a continuation of the cliff. No

one appeared. The windows were all closed, and Maskull could have sworn

that the whole establishment was shut up and deserted.

He passed through the open gate, followed by Nightspore, and knocked

vigorously at the front door. The knocker was thick with dust and had

obviously not been used for a long time. He put his ear to the door, but

could hear no movements inside the house. He then tried the handle; the

door was looked.

They walked around the house, looking for another entrance, but there

was only the one door.

“This isn’t promising,” growled Maskull. “There’s no one here..... Now

you try the shed, while I go over to that tower.”

Nightspore, who had not spoken half a dozen words since leaving the

train, complied in silence, and started off across the yard. Maskull

passed out of the gate again. When he arrived at the foot of the tower,

which stood some way back from the cliff, he found the door heavily

padlocked. Gazing up, he saw six windows, one above the other at equal

distances, all on the east face—that is, overlooking the sea. Realising

that no satisfaction was to be gained here, he came away again, still

more irritated than before. When he rejoined his friend, Nightspore

reported that the workshop was also locked.

“Did we, or did we not, receive an invitation?” demanded Maskull

energetically.

“The house is empty,” replied Nightspore, biting his nails. “Better

break a window.”

“I certainly don’t mean to camp out till Krag condescends to come.”

He picked up an old iron bolt from the yard and, retreating to a safe

distance, hurled it against a sash window on the ground floor. The lower

pane was completely shattered. Carefully avoiding the broken glass,

Maskull thrust his hand through the aperture and pushed back the frame

fastening. A minute later they had climbed through and were standing

inside the house.

The room, which was a kitchen, was in an indescribably filthy and

neglected condition. The furniture scarcely held together, broken

utensils and rubbish lay on the floor instead of on the dust heap,

everything was covered with a deep deposit of dust. The atmosphere was

so foul that Maskull judged that no fresh air had passed into the room

for several months. Insects were crawling on the walls.

They went into the other rooms on the lower floor—a scullery, a barely

furnished dining room, and a storing place for lumber. The same dirt,

mustiness, and neglect met their eyes. At least half a year must have

elapsed since these rooms were last touched, or even entered.

“Does your faith in Krag still hold?” asked Maskull. “I confess mine is

at vanishing point. If this affair isn’t one big practical joke, it has

every promise of being one. Krag never lived here in his life.”

“Come upstairs first,” said Nightspore.

The upstairs rooms proved to consist of a library and three bedrooms.

All the windows were tightly closed, and the air was insufferable. The

beds had been slept in, evidently a long time ago, and had never been

made since. The tumbled, discoloured bed linen actually preserved the

impressions of the sleepers. There was no doubt that these impressions

were ancient, for all sorts of floating dirt had accumulated on the

sheets and coverlets.

“Who could have slept here, do you think?” interrogated Maskull. “The

observatory staff?”

“More likely travellers like ourselves. They left suddenly.”

Maskull flung the windows wide open in every room he came to, and held

his breath until he had done so. Two of the bedrooms faced the sea; the

third, the library, the upward-sloping moorland. This library was now

the only room left unvisited, and unless they discovered signs of recent

occupation here Maskull made up his mind to regard the whole business as

a gigantic hoax.

But the library, like all the other rooms, was foul with stale air and

dust-laden. Maskull, having flung the window up and down, fell heavily

into an armchair and looked disgustedly at his friend.

“Now what is your opinion of Krag?”

Nightspore sat on the edge of the table which stood before the window.

“He may still have left a message for us.”

“What message? Why? Do you mean in this room?—I see no message.”

Nightspore’s eyes wandered about the room, finally seeming to linger

upon a glass-fronted wall cupboard, which contained a few old bottles on

one of the shelves and nothing else. Maskull glanced at him and at the

cupboard. Then, without a word, he got up to examine the bottles.

There were four altogether, one of which was larger than the rest. The

smaller ones were about eight inches long. All were torpedo-shaped, but

had flattened bottoms, which enabled them to stand upright. Two of the

smaller ones were empty and unstoppered, the others contained a

colourless liquid, and possessed queer-looking, nozzle-like stoppers

that were connected by a thin metal rod with a catch halfway down the

side of the bottle. They were labelled, but the labels were yellow with

age and the writing was nearly undecipherable. Maskull carried the

filled bottles with him to the table in front of the window, in order to

get better light. Nightspore moved away to make room for him.

He now made out on the larger bottle the words “Solar Back Rays”; and on

the other one, after some doubt, he thought that he could distinguish

something like “Arcturian Back Rays.”

He looked up, to stare curiously at his friend. “Have you been here

before, Nightspore?”

“I guessed Krag would leave a message.”

“Well, I don’t know—it may be a message, but it means nothing to us, or

at all events to me. What are ‘back rays’?”

“Light that goes back to its source,” muttered Nightspore.

“And what kind of light would that be?”

Nightspore seemed unwilling to answer, but, finding Maskull’s eyes still

fixed on him, he brought out: “Unless light pulled, as well as pushed,

how would flowers contrive to twist their heads around after the sun?”

“I don’t know. But the point is, what are these bottles for?”

While he was still talking, with his hand on the smaller bottle, the

other, which was lying on its side, accidentally rolled over in such a

manner that the metal caught against the table. He made a movement to

stop it, his hand was actually descending, when—the bottle suddenly

disappeared before his eyes. It had not rolled off the table, but had

really vanished—it was nowhere at all.

Maskull stared at the table. After a minute he raised his brows, and

turned to Nightspore with a smile. “The message grows more intricate.”

Nightspore looked bored. “The valve became unfastened. The contents have

escaped through the open window toward the sun, carrying the bottle with

them. But the bottle will be burned up by the earth’s atmosphere, and

the contents will dissipate, and will not reach the sun.”

Maskull listened attentively, and his smile faded. “Does anything

prevent us from experimenting with this other bottle?”

“Replace it in the cupboard,” said Nightspore. “Arcturus is still below

the horizon, and you would succeed only in wrecking the house.”

Maskull remained standing before the window, pensively gazing out at the

sunlit moors.

“Krag treats me like a child,” he remarked presently. “And perhaps I

really am a child.... My cynicism must seem most amusing to Krag. But

why does he leave me to find out all this by myself—for I don’t include

you, Nightspore.... But what time will Krag be here?”

“Not before dark, I expect,” his friend replied.

Chapter 4. THE VOICE

It was by this time past three o’clock. Feeling hungry, for they had

eaten nothing since early morning, Maskull went downstairs to forage,

but without much hope of finding anything in the shape of food. In a

safe in the kitchen he discovered a bag of mouldy oatmeal, which was

untouchable, a quantity of quite good tea in an airtight caddy, and an

unopened can of ox tongue. Best of all, in the dining-room cupboard he

came across an uncorked bottle of first-class Scotch whisky. He at once

made preparations for a scratch meal.

A pump in the yard ran clear after a good deal of hard working at it,

and he washed out and filled the antique kettle. For firewood, one of

the kitchen chairs was broken up with a chopper. The light, dusty wood

made a good blaze in the grate, the kettle was boiled, and cups were

procured and washed. Ten minutes later the friends were dining in the

library.

Nightspore ate and drank little, but Maskull sat down with good

appetite. There being no milk, whisky took the place of it; the nearly

black tea was mixed with an equal quantity of the spirit. Of this

concoction Maskull drank cup after cup, and long after the tongue had

disappeared he was still imbibing.

Nightspore looked at him queerly. “Do you intend to finish the bottle

before Krag comes?”

“Krag won’t want any, and one must do something. I feel restless.”

“Let us take a look at the country.”

The cup, which was on its way to Maskull’s lips, remained poised in the

air. “Have you anything in view, Nightspore?”

“Let us walk out to the Gap of Sorgie.”

“What’s that?”

“A showplace,” answered Nightspore, biting his lip.

Maskull finished off the cup, and rose to his feet. “Walking is better

than soaking at any time, and especially on a day like this.... How far

is it?”

“Three or four miles each way.”

“You probably mean something,” said Maskull, “for I’m beginning to

regard you as a second Krag. But if so, so much the better. I am growing

nervous, and need incidents.”

They left the house by the door, which they left ajar, and immediately

found themselves again on the moorland road that had brought them from

Haillar. This time they continued along it, past the tower.

Maskull, as they went by, regarded the erection with puzzled interest.

“What is that tower, Nightspore?”

“We sail from the platform on the top.”

“Tonight?”—throwing him a quick look.

“Yes.”

Maskull smiled, but his eyes were grave. “Then we are looking at the

gateway of Arcturus, and Krag is now travelling north to unlock it.”

“You no longer think it impossible, I fancy,” mumbled Nightspore.

After a mile or two, the road parted from the sea coast and swerved

sharply inland, across the hills. With Nightspore as guide, they left it

and took to the grass. A faint sheep path marked the way along the cliff

edge for some distance, but at the end of another mile it vanished. The

two men then had some rough walking up and down hillsides and across

deep gullies. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and twilight

imperceptibly came on. They soon reached a spot where further progress

appeared impossible. The buttress of a mountain descended at a steep

angle to the very edge of the cliff, forming an impassable slope of

slippery grass. Maskull halted, stroked his beard, and wondered what the

next step was to be.

“There’s a little scrambling here,” said Nightspore. “We are both used

to climbing, and there is not much in it.”

He indicated a narrow ledge, winding along the face of the precipice a

few yards beneath where they were standing. It averaged from fifteen to

thirty inches in width. Without waiting for Maskull’s consent to the

undertaking, he instantly swung himself down and started walking along

this ledge at a rapid pace. Maskull, seeing that there was no help for

it, followed him. The shelf did not extend for above a quarter of a

mile, but its passage was somewhat unnerving; there was a sheer drop to

the sea, four hundred feet below. In a few places they had to sidle

along without placing one foot before another. The sound of the breakers

came up to them in a low, threatening roar.

Upon rounding a corner, the ledge broadened out into a fair-sized

platform of rock and came to a sudden end. A narrow inlet of the sea

separated them from the continuation of the cliffs beyond.

“As we can’t get any further,” said Maskull, “I presume this is your Gap

of Sorgie?”

“Yes,” answered his friend, first dropping on his knees and then lying

at full length, face downward. He drew his head and shoulders over the

edge and began to stare straight down at the water.

“What is there interesting down there, Nightspore?”

Receiving no reply, however, he followed his friend’s example, and the

next minute was looking for himself. Nothing was to be seen; the gloom

had deepened, and the sea was nearly invisible. But, while he was

ineffectually gazing, he heard what sounded like the beating of a drum

on the narrow strip of shore below. It was very faint, but quite

distinct. The beats were in four-four time, with the third beat slightly

accented. He now continued to hear the noise all the time he was lying

there. The beats were in no way drowned by the far louder sound of the

surf, but seemed somehow to belong to a different world....

When they were on their feet again, he questioned Nightspore. “We came

here solely to hear that?”

Nightspore cast one of his odd looks at him. “It’s called locally ‘The

Drum Taps of Sorgie.’ You will not hear that name again, but perhaps you

will hear the sound again.”

“And if I do, what will it imply?” demanded Maskull in amazement.

“It bears its own message. Only try always to hear it more and more

distinctly.... Now it’s growing dark, and we must get back.”

Maskull pulled out his watch automatically, and looked at the time. It

was past six.... But he was thinking of Nightspore’s words, and not of

the time.

*****

Night had already fallen by the time they regained the tower. The black

sky was glorious with liquid stars. Arcturus was a little way above the

sea, directly opposite them, in the east. As they were passing the base

of the tower, Maskull observed with a sudden shock that the gate was

open. He caught hold of Nightspore’s arm violently. “Look! Krag is

back.”

“Yes, we must make haste to the house.”

“And why not the tower? He’s probably in there, since the gate is open.

I’m going up to look.”

Nightspore grunted, but made no opposition.

All was pitch-black inside the gate. Maskull struck a match, and the

flickering light disclosed the lower end of a circular flight of stone

steps. “Are you coming up?” he asked.

“No, I’ll wait here.”

Maskull immediately began the ascent. Hardly had he mounted half a dozen

steps, however, before he was compelled to pause, to gain breath. He

seemed to be carrying upstairs not one Maskull, but three. As he

proceeded, the sensation of crushing weight, so far from diminishing,

grew worse and worse. It was nearly physically impossible to go on; his

lungs could not take in enough oxygen, while his heart thumped like a

ship’s engine. Sweat coursed down his face. At the twentieth step he

completed the first revolution of the tower and came face to face with

the first window, which was set in a high embrasure.

Realising that he could go no higher, he struck another match, and

climbed into the embrasure, in order that he might at all events see

something from the tower. The flame died, and he stared through the

window at the stars. Then, to his astonishment, he discovered that it

was not a window at all but a lens.... The sky was not a wide expanse of

space containing a multitude of stars, but a blurred darkness, focused

only in one part, where two very bright stars, like small moons in size,

appeared in close conjunction; and near them a more minute planetary

object, as brilliant as Venus and with an observable disk. One of the

suns shone with a glaring white light; the other was a weird and awful

blue. Their light, though almost solar in intensity, did not illuminate

the interior of the tower.

Maskull knew at once that the system of spheres at which he was gazing

was what is known to astronomy as the star Arcturus.... He had seen the

sight before, through Krag’s glass, but then the scale had been smaller,

the colors of the twin suns had not appeared in their naked reality....

These colors seemed to him most marvellous, as if, in seeing them

through earth eyes, he was not seeing them correctly.... But it was at

Tormance that he stared the longest and the most earnestly. On that

mysterious and terrible earth, countless millions of miles distant, it

had been promised him that he would set foot, even though he might leave

his bones there. The strange creatures that he was to behold and touch

were already living, at this very moment.

A low, sighing whisper sounded in his ear, from not more than a yard

away. “Don’t you understand, Maskull, that you are only an instrument,

to be used and then broken? Nightspore is asleep now, but when he wakes

you must die. You will go, but he will return.”

Maskull hastily struck another match, with trembling fingers. No one was

in sight, and all was quiet as the tomb.

The voice did not sound again. After waiting a few minutes, he

redescended to the foot of the tower. On gaining the open air, his

sensation of weight was instantly removed, but he continued panting and

palpitating, like a man who has lifted a far too heavy load.

Nightspore’s dark form came forward. “Was Krag there?”

“If he was, I didn’t see him. But I heard someone speak.”

“Was it Krag?”

“It was not Krag—but a voice warned me against you.”

“Yes, you will hear these voices too,” said Nightspore enigmatically.

Chapter 5. THE NIGHT OF DEPARTURE

When they returned to the house, the windows were all in darkness and

the door was ajar, just as they had left it; Krag presumably was not

there. Maskull went all over the house, striking matches in every

room—at the end of the examination he was ready to swear that the man

they were expecting had not even stuck his nose inside the premises.

Groping their way into the library, they sat down in the total darkness

to wait, for nothing else remained to be done. Maskull lit his pipe, and

began to drink the remainder of the whisky. Through the open window

sounded in their ears the trainlike grinding of the sea at the foot of

the cliffs.

“Krag must be in the tower after all,” remarked Maskull, breaking the

silence.

“Yes, he is getting ready.”

“I hope he doesn’t expect us to join him there. It was beyond my

powers—but why, heaven knows. The stairs must have a magnetic pull of

some sort.”

“It is Tormantic gravity,” muttered Nightspore.

“I understand you—or, rather, I don’t—but it doesn’t matter.”

He went on smoking in silence, occasionally taking a mouthful of the

neat liquor. “Who is Surtur?” he demanded abruptly.

“We others are gropers and bunglers, but he is a master.”

Maskull digested this. “I fancy you are right, for though I know nothing

about him his mere name has an exciting effect on me.... Are you

personally acquainted with him?”

“I must be... I forget...” replied Nightspore in a choking voice.

Maskull looked up, surprised, but could make nothing out in the

blackness of the room.

“Do you know so many extraordinary men that you can forget some of

them?... Perhaps you can tell me this... will we meet him, where we are

going?”

“You will meet death, Maskull.... Ask me no more questions—I can’t

answer them.”

“Then let us go on waiting for Krag,” said Maskull coldly.

Ten minutes later the front door slammed, and a light, quick footstep

was heard running up the stairs. Maskull got up, with a beating heart.

Krag appeared on the threshold of the door, bearing in his hand a feebly

glimmering lantern. A hat was on his head, and he looked stern and

forbidding. After scrutinising the two friends for a moment or so, he

strode into the room and thrust the lantern on the table. Its light

hardly served to illuminate the walls.

“You have got here, then, Maskull?”

“So it seems—but I shan’t thank you for your hospitality, for it has

been conspicuous by its absence.”

Krag ignored the remark. “Are you ready to start?”

“By all means—when you are. It is not so entertaining here.”

Krag surveyed him critically. “I heard you stumbling about in the tower.

You couldn’t get up, it seems.”

“It looks like an obstacle, for Nightspore informs me that the start

takes place from the top.”

“But your other doubts are all removed?”

“So far, Krag, that I now possess an open mind. I am quite willing to

see what you can do.”

“Nothing more is asked.... But this tower business. You know that until

you are able to climb to the top you are unfit to stand the gravitation

of Tormance?”

“Then I repeat, it’s an awkward obstacle, for I certainly can’t get up.”

Krag hunted about in his pockets, and at length produced a clasp knife.

“Remove your coat, and roll up your shirt sleeve,” he directed.

“Do you propose to make an incision with that?”

“Yes, and don’t start difficulties, because the effect is certain, but

you can’t possibly understand it beforehand.”

“Still, a cut with a pocket-knife—” began Maskull, laughing.

“It will answer, Maskull,” interrupted Nightspore.

“Then bare your arm too, you aristocrat of the universe,” said Krag.

“Let us see what your blood is made of.”

Nightspore obeyed.

Krag pulled out the big blade of the knife, and made a careless and

almost savage slash at Maskull’s upper arm. The wound was deep, and

blood flowed freely.

“Do I bind it up?” asked Maskull, scowling with pain.

Krag spat on the wound. “Pull your shirt down, it won’t bleed any more.”

He then turned his attention to Nightspore, who endured his operation

with grim indifference. Krag threw the knife on the floor.

An awful agony, emanating from the wound, started to run through

Maskull’s body, and he began to doubt whether he would not have to

faint, but it subsided almost immediately, and then he felt nothing but

a gnawing ache in the injured arm, just strong enough to make life one

long discomfort.

“That’s finished,” said Krag. “Now you can follow me.”

Picking up the lantern, he walked toward the door. The others hastened

after him, to take advantage of the light, and a moment later their

footsteps, clattering down the uncarpeted stairs, resounded through the

deserted house. Krag waited till they were out, and then banged the

front door after them with such violence that the windows shook.

While they were walking swiftly across to the tower, Maskull caught his

arm. “I heard a voice up those stairs.”

“What did it say?”

“That I am to go, but Nightspore is to return.”

Krag smiled. “The journey is getting notorious,” he remarked, after a

pause. “There must be ill-wishers about.... Well, do you want to

return?”

“I don’t know what I want. But I thought the thing was curious enough to

be mentioned.”

“It is not a bad thing to hear voices,” said Krag, “but you mustn’t for

a minute imagine that all is wise that comes to you out of the night

world.”

When they had arrived at the open gateway of the tower, he immediately

set foot on the bottom step of the spiral staircase and ran nimbly up,

bearing the lantern. Maskull followed him with some trepidation, in view

of his previous painful experience on these stairs, but when, after the

first half-dozen steps, he discovered that he was still breathing

freely, his dread changed to relief and astonishment, and he could have

chattered like a girl.

At the lowest window Krag went straight ahead without stopping, but

Maskull clambered into the embrasure, in order to renew his acquaintance

with the miraculous spectacle of the Arcturian group. The lens had lost

its magic property. It had become a common sheet of glass, through which

the ordinary sky field appeared.

The climb continued, and at the second and third windows he again

mounted and stared out, but still the common sights presented

themselves. After that, he gave up and looked through no more windows.

Krag and Nightspore meanwhile had gone on ahead with the light, so that

he had to complete the ascent in darkness. When he was near the top, he

saw yellow light shining through the crack of a half-opened door. His

companions were standing just inside a small room, shut off from the

staircase by rough wooden planking; it was rudely furnished and

contained nothing of astronomical interest. The lantern was resting on a

table.

Maskull walked in and looked around him with curiosity. “Are we at the

top?”

“Except for the platform over our heads,” replied Krag.

“Why didn’t that lowest window magnify, as it did earlier in the

evening?”

“Oh, you missed your opportunity,” said Krag, grinning. “If you had

finished your climb then, you would have seen heart-expanding sights.

From the fifth window, for example, you would have seen Tormance like a

continent in relief; from the sixth you would have seen it like a

landscape.... But now there’s no need.”

“Why not—and what has need got to do with it?”

“Things are changed, my friend, since that wound of yours. For the same

reason that you have now been able to mount the stairs, there was no

necessity to stop and gape at illusions en route.”

“Very well,” said Maskull, not quite understanding what he meant. “But

is this Surtur’s den?”

“He has spent time here.”

“I wish you would describe this mysterious individual, Krag. We may not

get another chance.”

“What I said about the windows also applies to Surtur. There’s no need

to waste time over visualising him, because you are immediately going on

to the reality.”

“Then let us go.” He pressed his eyeballs wearily.

“Do we strip?” asked Nightspore.

“Naturally,” answered Krag, and he began to tear off his clothes with

slow, uncouth movements.

“Why?” demanded Maskull, following, however, the example of the other

two men.

Krag thumped his vast chest, which was covered with thick hairs, like an

ape’s. “Who knows what the Tormance fashions are like? We may sprout

limbs—I don’t say we shall.”

“A-ha!” exclaimed Maskull, pausing in the middle of his undressing.

Krag smote him on the back. “New pleasure organs possible, Maskull. You

like that?”

The three men stood as nature made them. Maskull’s spirits rose fast, as

the moment of departure drew near.

“A farewell drink to success!” cried Krag, seizing a bottle and breaking

its head off between his fingers. There were no glasses, but he poured

the amber-coloured wine into some cracked cups.

Perceiving that the others drank, Maskull tossed off his cupful. It was

as if he had swallowed a draught of liquid electricity.... Krag dropped

onto the floor and rolled around on his back, kicking his legs in the

air. He tried to drag Maskull down on top of him, and a little horseplay

went on between the two. Nightspore took no part in it, but walked to

and fro, like a hungry caged animal.

Suddenly, from out-of-doors, there came a single prolonged, piercing

wail, such as a banshee might be imagined to utter. It ceased abruptly,

and was not repeated.

“What’s that?” called out Maskull, disengaging himself impatiently from

Krag.

Krag rocked with laughter. “A Scottish spirit trying to reproduce the

bagpipes of its earth life—in honour of our departure.”

Nightspore turned to Krag. “Maskull will sleep throughout the journey?”

“And you too, if you wish, my altruistic friend. I am pilot, and you

passengers can amuse yourselves as you please.”

“Are we off at last?” asked Maskull.

“Yes, you are about to cross your Rubicon, Maskull. But what a

Rubicon!... Do you know that it takes light a hundred years or so to

arrive here from Arcturus? Yet we shall do it in nineteen hours.”

“Then you assert that Surtur is already there?”

“Surtur is where he is. He is a great traveller.”

“Won’t I see him?”

Krag went up to him and looked him in the eyes. “Don’t forget that you

have asked for it, and wanted it. Few people in Tormance will know more

about him than you do, but your memory will be your worst friend.”

*****

He led the way up a short iron ladder, mounting through a trap to the

flat roof above. When they were up, he switched on a small electric

torch.

Maskull beheld with awe the torpedo of crystal that was to convey them

through the whole breadth of visible space. It was forty feet long,

eight wide, and eight high; the tank containing the Arcturian back rays

was in front, the car behind. The nose of the torpedo was directed

toward the south-eastern sky. The whole machine rested upon a flat

platform, raised about four feet above the level of the roof, so as to

encounter no obstruction on starting its flight.

Krag flashed the light on to the door of the car, to enable them to

enter. Before doing so, Maskull gazed sternly once again at the

gigantic, far-distant star, which was to be their sun from now onward.

He frowned, shivered slightly, and got in beside Nightspore. Krag

clambered past them onto his pilot’s seat. He threw the flashlight

through the open door, which was then carefully closed, fastened, and

screwed up.

He pulled the starting lever. The torpedo glided gently from its

platform, and passed rather slowly away from the tower, seaward. Its

speed increased sensibly, though not excessively, until the approximate

limits of the earth’s atmosphere were reached. Krag then released the

speed valve, and the car sped on its way with a velocity more nearly

approaching that of thought than of light.

Maskull had no opportunity of examining through the crystal walls the

rapidly changing panorama of the heavens. An extreme drowsiness

oppressed him. He opened his eyes violently a dozen times, but on the

thirteenth attempt he failed. From that time forward he slept heavily.

The bored, hungry expression never left Nightspore’s face. The

alterations in the aspect of the sky seemed to possess not the least

interest for him.

Krag sat with his hand on the lever, watching with savage intentness his

phosphorescent charts and gauges.

Chapter 6. JOIWIND

IT WAS DENSE NIGHT when Maskull awoke from his profound sleep. A wind

was blowing against him, gentle but wall-like, such as he had never

experienced on earth. He remained sprawling on the ground, as he was

unable to lift his body because of its intense weight. A numbing pain,

which he could not identify with any region of his frame, acted from now

onward as a lower, sympathetic note to all his other sensations. It

gnawed away at him continuously; sometimes it embittered and irritated

him, at other times he forgot it.

He felt something hard on his forehead. Putting his hand up, he

discovered there a fleshy protuberance the size of a small plum, having

a cavity in the middle, of which he could not feel the bottom. Then he

also became aware of a large knob on each side of his neck, an inch

below the ear.

From the region of his heart, a tentacle had budded. It was as long as

his arm, but thin, like whipcord, and soft and flexible.

As soon as he thoroughly realised the significance of these new organs,

his heart began to pump. Whatever might, or might not, be their use,

they proved one thing—that he was in a new world.

One part of the sky began to get lighter than the rest. Maskull cried

out to his companions, but received no response. This frightened him. He

went on shouting out, at irregular intervals—equally alarmed at the

silence and at the sound of his own voice. Finally, as no answering hail

came, he thought it wiser not to make too much noise, and after that he

lay quiet, waiting in cold blood for what might happen.

In a short while he perceived dim shadows around him, but these were not

his friends.

A pale, milky vapour over the ground began to succeed the black night,

while in the upper sky rosy tints appeared. On earth, one would have

said that day was breaking. The brightness went on imperceptibly

increasing for a very long time.

Maskull then discovered that he was lying on sand. The colour of the

sand was scarlet. The obscure shadows he had seen were bushes, with

black stems and purple leaves. So far, nothing else was visible.

The day surged up. It was too misty for direct sunshine, but before long

the brilliance of the light was already greater than that of the midday

sun on earth. The heat, too, was intense, but Maskull welcomed it—it

relieved his pain and diminished his sense of crushing weight. The wind

had dropped with the rising of the sun.

He now tried to get onto his feet, but succeeded only in kneeling. He

was unable to see far. The mists had no more than partially dissolved,

and all that he could distinguish was a narrow circle of red sand dotted

with ten or twenty bushes.

He felt a soft, cool touch on the back of his neck. He started forward

in nervous fright and, in doing so, tumbled over onto the sand. Looking

up over his shoulder quickly, he was astounded to see a woman standing

beside him.

She was clothed in a single flowing, pale green garment, rather

classically draped. According to earth standards she was not beautiful,

for, although her face was otherwise human, she was endowed—or

afflicted—with the additional disfiguring organs that Maskull had

discovered in himself. She also possessed the heart tentacle. But when

he sat up, and their eyes met and remained in sympathetic contact, he

seemed to see right into a soul that was the home of love, warmth,

kindness, tenderness, and intimacy. Such was the noble familiarity of

that gaze, that he thought he knew her. After that, he recognised all

the loveliness of her person. She was tall and slight. All her movements

were as graceful as music. Her skin was not of a dead, opaque colour,

like that of an earth beauty, but was opalescent; its hue was

continually changing, with every thought and emotion, but none of these

tints was vivid—all were delicate, half-toned, and poetic. She had very

long, loosely plaited, flaxen hair. The new organs, as soon as Maskull

had familiarised himself with them, imparted something to her face that

was unique and striking. He could not quite define it to himself, but

subtlety and inwardness seemed added. The organs did not contradict the

love of her eyes or the angelic purity of her features, but nevertheless

sounded a deeper note—a note that saved her from mere girlishness.

Her gaze was so friendly and unembarrassed that Maskull felt scarcely

any humiliation at sitting at her feet, naked and helpless. She realised

his plight, and put into his hands a garment that she had been carrying

over her arm. It was similar to the one she was wearing, but of a

darker, more masculine colour.

“Do you think you can put it on by yourself?”

He was distinctly conscious of these words, yet her voice had not

sounded.

He forced himself up to his feet, and she helped him to master the

complications of the drapery.

“Poor man—how you are suffering!” she said, in the same inaudible

language. This time he discovered that the sense of what she said was

received by his brain through the organ on his forehead.

“Where am I? Is this Tormance?” he asked. As he spoke, he staggered.

She caught him, and helped him to sit down. “Yes. You are with friends.”

Then she regarded him with a smile, and began speaking aloud, in

English. Her voice somehow reminded him of an April day, it was so

fresh, nervous, and girlish. “I can now understand your language. It was

strange at first. In the future I’ll speak to you with my mouth.”

“This is extraordinary! What is this organ?” he asked, touching his

forehead.

“It is named the ‘breve.’ By means of it we read one another’s thoughts.

Still, speech is better, for then the heart can be read too.”

He smiled. “They say that speech is given us to deceive others.”

“One can deceive with thought, too. But I’m thinking of the best, not

the worst.”

“Have you seen my friends?”

She scrutinised him quietly, before answering. “Did you not come alone?”

“I came with two other men, in a machine. I must have lost consciousness

on arrival, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“That’s very strange! No, I haven’t seen them. They can’t be here, or we

would have known it. My husband and I—”

“What is your name, and your husband’s name?”

“Mine is Joiwind—my husband’s is Panawe. We live a very long way from

here; still, it came to us both last night that you were lying here

insensible. We almost quarrelled about which of us should come to you,

but in the end I won.” Here she laughed. “I won, because I am the

stronger-hearted of the two; he is the purer in perception.”

“Thanks, Joiwind!” said Maskull simply.

The colors chased each other rapidly beneath her skin. “Oh, why do you

say that? What pleasure is greater than loving-kindness? I rejoiced at

the opportunity.... But now we must exchange blood.”

“What is this?” he demanded, rather puzzled.

“It must be so. Your blood is far too thick and heavy for our world.

Until you have an infusion of mine, you will never get up.”

Maskull flushed. “I feel like a complete ignoramus here.... Won’t it

hurt you?”

“If your blood pains you, I suppose it will pain me. But we will share

the pain.”

“This is a new kind of hospitality to me,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” asked Joiwind, half smiling, half

agitated.

“I can’t answer for any of my actions in this world. I scarcely know

where I am.... Why, yes—of course I would, Joiwind.”

While they were talking it had become full day. The mists had rolled

away from the ground, and only the upper atmosphere remained fog-

charged. The desert of scarlet sand stretched in all directions, except

one, where there was a sort of little oasis—some low hills, clothed

sparsely with little purple trees from base to summit. It was about a

quarter of a mile distant.

Joiwind had brought with her a small flint knife. Without any trace of

nervousness, she made a careful, deep incision on her upper arm. Maskull

expostulated.

“Really, this part of it is nothing,” she said, laughing. “And if it

were—a sacrifice that is no sacrifice—what merit is there in that?...

Come now—your arm!”

The blood was streaming down her arm. It was not red blood, but a milky,

opalescent fluid.

“Not that one!” said Maskull, shrinking. “I have already been cut

there.” He submitted the other, and his blood poured forth.

Joiwind delicately and skilfully placed the mouths of the two wounds

together, and then kept her arm pressed tightly against Maskull’s for a

long time. He felt a stream of pleasure entering his body through the

incision. His old lightness and vigour began to return to him. After

about five minutes a duel of kindness started between them; he wanted to

remove his arm, and she to continue. At last he had his way, but it was

none too soon—she stood there pale and dispirited.

She looked at him with a more serious expression than before, as if

strange depths had opened up before her eyes.

“What is your name?”

“Maskull.”

“Where have you come from, with this awful blood?”

“From a world called Earth.... The blood is clearly unsuitable for this

world, Joiwind, but after all, that was only to be expected. I am sorry

I let you have your way.”

“Oh, don’t say that! There was nothing else to be done. We must all help

one another. Yet, somehow—forgive me—I feel polluted.”

“And well you may, for it’s a fearful thing for a girl to accept in her

own veins the blood of a strange man from a strange planet. If I had not

been so dazed and weak I would never have allowed it.”

“But I would have insisted. Are we not all brothers and sisters? Why did

you come here, Maskull?”

He was conscious of a slight degree of embarrassment. “Will you think it

foolish if I say I hardly know?—I came with those two men. Perhaps I was

attracted by curiosity, or perhaps it was the love of adventure.”

“Perhaps,” said Joiwind. “I wonder... These friends of yours must be

terrible men. Why did they come?”

“That I can tell you. They came to follow Surtur.”

Her face grew troubled. “I don’t understand it. One of them at least

must be a bad man, and yet if he is following Surtur—or Shaping, as he

is called here—he can’t be really bad.”

“What do you know of Surtur?” asked Maskull in astonishment.

Joiwind remained silent for a time, studying his face. His brain moved

restlessly, as though it were being probed from outside. “I see.... and

yet I don’t see,” she said at last. “It is very difficult.... Your God

is a dreadful Being—bodyless, unfriendly, invisible. Here we don’t

worship a God like that. Tell me, has any man set eyes on your God?”

“What does all this mean, Joiwind? Why speak of God?”

“I want to know.”

“In ancient times, when the earth was young and grand, a few holy men

are reputed to have walked and spoken with God, but those days are

past.”

“Our world is still young,” said Joiwind. “Shaping goes among us and

converses with us. He is real and active—a friend and lover. Shaping

made us, and he loves his work.”

“Have you met him?” demanded Maskull, hardly believing his ears.

“No. I have done nothing to deserve it yet. Some day I may have an

opportunity to sacrifice myself, and then I may be rewarded by meeting

and talking with Shaping.”

“I have certainly come to another world. But why do you say he is the

same as Surtur?”

“Yes, he is the same. We women call him Shaping, and so do most men, but

a few name him Surtur.”

Maskull bit his nail. “Have you ever heard of Crystalman?”

“That is Shaping once again. You see, he has many names—which shows how

much he occupies our minds. Crystalman is a name of affection.”

“It’s odd,” said Maskull. “I came here with quite different ideas about

Crystalman.”

Joiwind shook her hair. “In that grove of trees over there stands a

desert shrine of his. Let us go and pray there, and then we’ll go on our

way to Poolingdred. That is my home. It’s a long way off, and we must

get there before Blodsombre.”

“Now, what is Blodsombre?”

“For about four hours in the middle of the day Branchspell’s rays are so

hot that no one can endure them. We call it Blodsombre.”

“Is Branchspell another name for Arcturus?”

Joiwind threw off her seriousness and laughed. “Naturally we don’t take

our names from you, Maskull. I don’t think our names are very poetic,

but they follow nature.”

She took his arm affectionately, and directed their walk towards the

tree-covered hills. As they went along, the sun broke through the upper

mists and a terrible gust of scorching heat, like a blast from a

furnace, struck Maskull’s head. He involuntarily looked up, but lowered

his eyes again like lightning. All that he saw in that instant was a

glaring ball of electric white, three times the apparent diameter of the

sun. For a few minutes he was quite blind.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “If it’s like this in early morning you must be

right enough about Blodsombre.” When he had somewhat recovered himself

he asked, “How long are the days here, Joiwind?”

Again he felt his brain being probed.

“At this time of the year, for every hour’s daylight that you have in

summer, we have two.”

“The heat is terrific—and yet somehow I don’t feel so distressed by it

as I would have expected.”

“I feel it more than usual. It’s not difficult to account for it; you

have some of my blood, and I have some of yours.”

“Yes, every time I realise that, I—Tell me, Joiwind, will my blood

alter, if I stay here long enough?—I mean, will it lose its redness and

thickness, and become pure and thin and light-coloured, like yours?”

“Why not? If you live as we live, you will assuredly grow like us.”

“Do you mean food and drink?”

“We eat no food, and drink only water.”

“And on that you manage to sustain life?”

“Well, Maskull, our water is good water,” replied Joiwind, smiling.

As soon as he could see again he stared around at the landscape. The

enormous scarlet desert extended everywhere to the horizon, excepting

where it was broken by the oasis. It was roofed by a cloudless, deep

blue, almost violet, sky. The circle of the horizon was far larger than

on earth. On the skyline, at right angles to the direction in which they

were walking, appeared a chain of mountains, apparently about forty

miles distant. One, which was higher than the rest, was shaped like a

cup. Maskull would have felt inclined to believe he was travelling in

dreamland, but for the intensity of the light, which made everything

vividly real.

Joiwind pointed to the cup-shaped mountain. “That’s Poolingdred.”

“You didn’t come from there!” he exclaimed, quite startled.

“Yes, I did indeed. And that is where we have to go to now.”

“With the single object of finding me?”

“Why, yes.”

The colour mounted to his face. “Then you are the bravest and noblest of

all girls,” he said quietly, after a pause. “Without exception. Why,

this is a journey for an athlete!”

She pressed his arm, while a score of unpaintable, delicate hues stained

her cheeks in rapid transition. “Please don’t say any more about it,

Maskull. It makes me feel unpleasant.”

“Very well. But can we possibly get there before midday?”

“Oh, yes. And you mustn’t be frightened at the distance. We think

nothing of long distances here—we have so much to think about and feel.

Time goes all too quickly.”

During their conversation they had drawn near the base of the hills,

which sloped gently, and were not above fifty feet in height. Maskull

now began to see strange specimens of vegetable life. What looked like a

small patch of purple grass, above five feet square, was moving across

the sand in their direction. When it came near enough he perceived that

it was not grass; there were no blades, but only purple roots. The roots

were revolving, for each small plant in the whole patch, like the spokes

of a rimless wheel. They were alternately plunged in the sand, and

withdrawn from it, and by this means the plant proceeded forward. Some

uncanny, semi-intelligent instinct was keeping all the plants together,

moving at one pace, in one direction, like a flock of migrating birds in

flight.

Another remarkable plant was a large, feathery ball, resembling a

dandelion fruit, which they encountered sailing through the air. Joiwind

caught it with an exceedingly graceful movement of her arm, and showed

it to Maskull. It had roots and presumably lived in the air and fed on

the chemical constituents of the atmosphere. But what was peculiar about

it was its colour. It was an entirely new colour—not a new shade or

combination, but a new primary colour, as vivid as blue, red, or yellow,

but quite different. When he inquired, she told him that it was known as

“ulfire.” Presently he met with a second new colour. This she designated

“jale.” The sense impressions caused in Maskull by these two additional

primary colors can only be vaguely hinted at by analogy. Just as blue is

delicate and mysterious, yellow clear and unsubtle, and red sanguine and

passionate, so he felt ulfire to be wild and painful, and jale

dreamlike, feverish, and voluptuous.

The hills were composed of a rich, dark mould. Small trees, of weird

shapes, all differing from each other, but all purple-coloured, covered

the slopes and top. Maskull and Joiwind climbed up and through. Some

hard fruit, bright blue in colour, of the size of a large apple, and

shaped like an egg, was lying in profusion underneath the trees.

“Is the fruit here poisonous, or why don’t you eat it?” asked Maskull.

She looked at him tranquilly. “We don’t eat living things. The thought

is horrible to us.”

“I have nothing to say against that, theoretically. But do you really

sustain your bodies on water?”

“Supposing you could find nothing else to live on, Maskull—would you eat

other men?”

“I would not.”

“Neither will we eat plants and animals, which are our fellow creatures.

So nothing is left to us but water, and as one can really live on

anything, water does very well.”

Maskull picked up one of the fruits and handled it curiously. As he did

so another of his newly acquired sense organs came into action. He found

that the fleshy knobs beneath his ears were in some novel fashion

acquainting him with the inward properties of the fruit. He could not

only see, feel, and smell it, but could detect its intrinsic nature.

This nature was hard, persistent and melancholy.

Joiwind answered the questions he had not asked.

“Those organs are called ‘poigns.’ Their use is to enable us to

understand and sympathise with all living creatures.”

“What advantage do you derive from that, Joiwind?”

“The advantage of not being cruel and selfish, dear Maskull.”

He threw the fruit away and flushed again.

Joiwind looked into his swarthy, bearded face without embarrassment and

slowly smiled. “Have I said too much? Have I been too familiar? Do you

know why you think so? It’s because you are still impure. By and by you

will listen to all language without shame.”

Before he realised what she was about to do, she threw her tentacle

round his neck, like another arm. He offered no resistance to its cool

pressure. The contact of her soft flesh with his own was so moist and

sensitive that it resembled another kind of kiss. He saw who it was that

embraced him—a pale, beautiful girl. Yet, oddly enough, he experienced

neither voluptuousness nor sexual pride. The love expressed by the

caress was rich, glowing, and personal, but there was not the least

trace of sex in it—and so he received it.

She removed her tentacle, placed her two arms on his shoulders and

penetrated with her eyes right into his very soul.

“Yes, I wish to be pure,” he muttered. “Without that what can I ever be

but a weak, squirming devil?”

Joiwind released him. “This we call the ‘magn,’” she said, indicating

her tentacle. “By means of it what we love already we love more, and

what we don’t love at all we begin to love.”

“A godlike organ!”

“It is the one we guard most jealously,” said Joiwind.

The shade of the trees afforded a timely screen from the now almost

insufferable rays of Branchspell, which was climbing steadily upward to

the zenith. On descending the other side of the little hills, Maskull

looked anxiously for traces of Nightspore and Krag, but without result.

After staring about him for a few minutes he shrugged his shoulders; but

suspicions had already begun to gather in his mind.

A small, natural amphitheatre lay at their feet, completely circled by

the tree-clad heights. The centre was of red sand. In the very middle

shot up a tall, stately tree, with a black trunk and branches, and

transparent, crystal leaves. At the foot of this tree was a natural,

circular well, containing dark green water.

When they had reached the bottom, Joiwind took him straight over to the

well.

Maskull gazed at it intently. “Is this the shrine you talked about?”

“Yes. It is called Shaping’s Well. The man or woman who wishes to invoke

Shaping must take up some of the gnawl water, and drink it.”

“Pray for me,” said Maskull. “Your unspotted prayer will carry more

weight.”

“What do you wish for?”

“For purity,” answered Maskull, in a troubled voice.

Joiwind made a cup of her hand, and drank a little of the water. She

held it up to Maskull’s mouth. “You must drink too.” He obeyed. She then

stood erect, closed her eyes, and, in a voice like the soft murmurings

of spring, prayed aloud.

“Shaping, my father, I am hoping you can hear me. A strange man has come

to us weighed down with heavy blood. He wishes to be pure. Let him know

the meaning of love, let him live for others. Don’t spare him pain, dear

Shaping, but let him seek his own pain. Breathe into him a noble soul.”

Maskull listened with tears in his heart.

As Joiwind finished speaking, a blurred mist came over his eyes, and,

half buried in the scarlet sand, appeared a large circle of dazzlingly

white pillars. For some minutes they flickered to and fro between

distinctness and indistinctness, like an object being focused. Then they

faded out of sight again.

“Is that a sign from Shaping?” asked Maskull, in a low, awed tone.

“Perhaps it is. It is a time mirage.”

“What can that be, Joiwind?”

“You see, dear Maskull, the temple does not yet exist but it will do so,

because it must. What you and I are now doing in simplicity, wise men

will do hereafter in full knowledge.”

“It is right for man to pray,” said Maskull. “Good and evil in the world

don’t originate from nothing. God and Devil must exist. And we should

pray to the one, and fight the other.”

“Yes, we must fight Krag.”

“What name did you say?” asked Maskull in amazement.

“Krag—the author of evil and misery—whom you call Devil.”

He immediately concealed his thoughts. To prevent Joiwind from learning

his relationship to this being, he made his mind a blank.

“Why do you hide your mind from me?” she demanded, looking at him

strangely and changing colour.

“In this bright, pure, radiant world, evil seems so remote, one can

scarcely grasp its meaning.” But he lied.

Joiwind continued gazing at him, straight out of her clean soul. “The

world is good and pure, but many men are corrupt. Panawe, my husband,

has travelled, and he has told me things I would almost rather have not

heard. One person he met believed the universe to be, from top to

bottom, a conjurer’s cave.”

“I should like to meet your husband.”

“Well, we are going home now.”

Maskull was on the point of inquiring whether she had any children, but

was afraid of offending her, and checked himself.

She read the mental question. “What need is there? Is not the whole

world full of lovely children? Why should I want selfish possessions?”

An extraordinary creature flew past, uttering a plaintive cry of five

distinct notes. It was not a bird, but had a balloon-shaped body,

paddled by five webbed feet. It disappeared among the trees.

Joiwind pointed to it, as it went by. “I love that beast, grotesque as

it is—perhaps all the more for its grotesqueness. But if I had children

of my own, would I still love it? Which is best—to love two or three, or

to love all?”

“Every woman can’t be like you, Joiwind, but it is good to have a few

like you. Wouldn’t it be as well,” he went on, “since we’ve got to walk

through that sun-baked wilderness, to make turbans for our heads out of

some of those long leaves?”

She smiled rather pathetically. “You will think me foolish, but every

tearing off of a leaf would be a wound in my heart. We have only to

throw our robes over our heads.”

“No doubt that will answer the same purpose, but tell me—weren’t these

very robes once part of a living creature?”

“Oh, no—no, they are the webs of a certain animal, but they have never

been in themselves alive.”

“You reduce life to extreme simplicity,” remarked Maskull meditatively,

“but it is very beautiful.”

Climbing back over the hills, they now without further ceremony began

their march across the desert.

They walked side by side. Joiwind directed their course straight toward

Poolingdred. From the position of the sun, Maskull judged their way to

lie due north. The sand was soft and powdery, very tiring to his naked

feet. The red glare dazed his eyes, and made him semi-blind. He was hot,

parched, and tormented with the craving to drink; his undertone of pain

emerged into full consciousness.

“I see my friends nowhere, and it is very queer.”

“Yes, it is queer—if it is accidental,” said Joiwind, with a peculiar

intonation.

“Exactly!” agreed Maskull. “If they had met with a mishap, their bodies

would still be there. It begins to look like a piece of bad work to me.

They must have gone on, and left me.... Well, I am here, and I must make

the best of it. I will trouble no more about them.”

“I don’t wish to speak ill of anyone,” said Joiwind, “but my instinct

tells me that you are better away from those men. They did not come here

for your sake, but for their own.”

They walked on for a long time. Maskull was beginning to feel faint. She

twined her magn lovingly around his waist, and a strong current of

confidence and well-being instantly coursed through his veins.

“Thanks, Joiwind! But am I not weakening you?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a quick, thrilling glance. “But not much—and it

gives me great happiness.”

Presently they met a fantastic little creature, the size of a new-born

lamb, waltzing along on three legs. Each leg in turn moved to the front,

and so the little monstrosity proceeded by means of a series of complete

rotations. It was vividly coloured, as though it had been dipped into

pots of bright blue and yellow paint. It looked up with small, shining

eyes, as they passed.

Joiwind nodded and smiled to it. “That’s a personal friend of mine,

Maskull. Whenever I come this way, I see it. It’s always waltzing, and

always in a hurry, but it never seems to get anywhere.”

“It seems to me that life is so self-sufficient here that there is no

need for anyone to get anywhere. What I don’t quite understand is how

you manage to pass your days without ennui.”

“That’s a strange word. It means, does it not, craving for excitement?”

“Something of the kind,” said Maskull.

“That must be a disease brought on by rich food.”

“But are you never dull?”

“How could we be? Our blood is quick and light and free, our flesh is

clean and unclogged, inside and out.... Before long I hope you will

understand what sort of question you have asked.”

Farther on they encountered a strange phenomenon. In the heart of the

desert a fountain rose perpendicularly fifty feet into the air, with a

cool and pleasant hissing sound. It differed, however, from a fountain

in this respect—that the water of which it was composed did not return

to the ground but was absorbed by the atmosphere at the summit. It was

in fact a tall, graceful column of dark green fluid, with a capital of

coiling and twisting vapours.

When they came closer, Maskull perceived that this water column was the

continuation and termination of a flowing brook, which came down from

the direction of the mountains. The explanation of the phenomenon was

evidently that the water at this spot found chemical affinities in the

upper air, and consequently forsook the ground.

“Now let us drink,” said Joiwind.

She threw herself unaffectedly at full length on the sand, face

downward, by the side of the brook, and Maskull was not long in

following her example. She refused to quench her thirst until she had

seen him drink. He found the water heavy, but bubbling with gas. He

drank copiously. It affected his palate in a new way—with the purity and

cleanness of water was combined the exhilaration of a sparkling wine,

raising his spirits—but somehow the intoxication brought out his better

nature, and not his lower.

“We call it ‘gnawl water’,” said Joiwind. “This is not quite pure, as

you can see by the colour. At Poolingdred it is crystal clear. But we

would be ungrateful if we complained. After this you’ll find we’ll get

along much better.”

Maskull now began to realise his environment, as it were for the first

time. All his sense organs started to show him beauties and wonders that

he had not hitherto suspected. The uniform glaring scarlet of the sands

became separated into a score of clearly distinguished shades of red.

The sky was similarly split up into different blues. The radiant heat of

Branchspell he found to affect every part of his body with unequal

intensities. His ears awakened; the atmosphere was full of murmurs, the

sands hummed, even the sun’s rays had a sound of their own—a kind of

faint Aeolian harp. Subtle, puzzling perfumes assailed his nostrils. His

palate lingered over the memory of the gnawl water. All the pores of his

skin were tickled and soothed by hitherto unperceived currents of air.

His poigns explored actively the inward nature of everything in his

immediate vicinity. His magn touched Joiwind, and drew from her person a

stream of love and joy. And lastly by means of his breve he exchanged

thoughts with her in silence. This mighty sense symphony stirred him to

the depths, and throughout the walk of that endless morning he felt no

more fatigue.

When it was drawing near to Blodsombre, they approached the sedgy margin

of a dark green lake, which lay underneath Poolingdred.

Panawe was sitting on a dark rock, waiting for them.

Chapter 7. PANAWE

The husband got up to meet his wife and their guest. He was clothed in

white. He had a beardless face, with breve and poigns. His skin, on face

and body alike, was so white, fresh, and soft, that it scarcely looked

skin at all—it rather resembled a new kind of pure, snowy flesh,

extending right down to his bones. It had nothing in common with the

artificially whitened skin of an over-civilised woman. Its whiteness and

delicacy aroused no voluptuous thoughts; it was obviously the

manifestation of a cold and almost cruel chastity of nature. His hair,

which fell to the nape of his neck, also was white; but again, from

vigour, not decay. His eyes were black, quiet and fathomless. He was

still a young man, but so stern were his features that he had the

appearance of a lawgiver, and this in spite of their great beauty and

harmony.

His magn and Joiwind’s intertwined for a single moment and Maskull saw

his face soften with love, while she looked exultant. She put him in her

husband’s arms with gentle force, and stood back, gazing and smiling.

Maskull felt rather embarrassed at being embraced by a man, but

submitted to it; a sense of cool, pleasant languor passed through him in

the act.

“The stranger is red-blooded, then?”

He was startled by Panawe’s speaking in English, and the voice too was

extraordinary. It was absolutely tranquil, but its tranquillity seemed

in a curious fashion to be an illusion, proceeding from a rapidity of

thoughts and feelings so great that their motion could not be detected.

How this could be, he did not know.

“How do you come to speak in a tongue you have never heard before?”

demanded Maskull.

“Thought is a rich, complex thing. I can’t say if I am really speaking

your tongue by instinct, or if you yourself are translating my thoughts

into your tongue as I utter them.”

“Already you see that Panawe is wiser than I am,” said Joiwind gaily.

“What is your name?” asked the husband.

“Maskull.”

“That name must have a meaning—but again, thought is a strange thing. I

connect that name with something—but with what?”

“Try to discover,” said Joiwind.

“Has there been a man in your world who stole something from the Maker

of the universe, in order to ennoble his fellow creatures?”

“There is such a myth. The hero’s name was Prometheus.”

“Well, you seem to be identified in my mind with that action—but what it

all means I can’t say, Maskull.”

“Accept it as a good omen, for Panawe never lies, and never speaks

thoughtlessly.”

“There must be some confusion. These are heights beyond me,” said

Maskull calmly, but looking rather contemplative.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the planet of a distant sun, called Earth.”

“What for?”

“I was tired of vulgarity,” returned Maskull laconically. He

intentionally avoided mentioning his fellow voyagers, in order that

Krag’s name should not come to light.

“That’s an honourable motive,” said Panawe. “And what’s more, it may be

true, though you spoke it as a prevarication.”

“As far as it goes, it’s quite true,” said Maskull, staring at him with

annoyance and surprise.

The swampy lake extended for about half a mile from where they were

standing to the lower buttresses of the mountain. Feathery purple reeds

showed themselves here and there through the shallows. The water was

dark green. Maskull did not see how they were going to cross it.

Joiwind caught his arm. “Perhaps you don’t know that the lake will bear

us?”

Panawe walked onto the water; it was so heavy that it carried his

weight. Joiwind followed with Maskull. He instantly started to slip

about—nevertheless the motion was amusing, and he learned so fast, by

watching and imitating Panawe, that he was soon able to balance himself

without assistance. After that he found the sport excellent.

For the same reason that women excel in dancing, Joiwind’s half falls

and recoveries were far more graceful and sure than those of either of

the men. Her slight, draped form—dipping, bending, rising, swaying,

twisting, upon the surface of the dark water—this was a picture Maskull

could not keep his eyes away from.

The lake grew deeper. The gnawl water became green-black. The crags,

gullies, and precipices of the shore could now be distinguished in

detail. A waterfall was visible, descending several hundred feet. The

surface of the lake grew disturbed—so much so that Maskull had

difficulty in keeping his balance. He therefore threw himself down and

started swimming on the face of the water. Joiwind turned her head, and

laughed so joyously that all her teeth flashed in the sunlight.

They landed in a few more minutes on a promontory of black rock. The

water on Maskull’s garment and body evaporated very quickly. He gazed

upward at the towering mountain, but at that moment some strange

movements on the part of Panawe attracted his attention. His face was

working convulsively, and he began to stagger about. Then he put his

hand to his mouth and took from it what looked like a bright-coloured

pebble. He looked at it carefully for some seconds. Joiwind also looked,

over his shoulder, with quickly changing colors. After this inspection,

Panawe let the object—whatever it was—fall to the ground, and took no

more interest in it.

“May I look?” asked Maskull; and, without waiting for permission, he

picked it up. It was a delicately beautiful egg-shaped crystal of pale

green.

“Where did this come from?” he asked queerly.

Panawe turned away, but Joiwind answered for him. “It came out of my

husband.”

“That’s what I thought, but I couldn’t believe it. But what is it?”

“I don’t know that it has either name or use. It is merely an

overflowing of beauty.”

“Beauty?”

Joiwind smiled. “If you were to regard nature as the husband, and Panawe

as the wife, Maskull, perhaps everything would be explained.”

Maskull reflected.

“On Earth,” he said after a minute, “men like Panawe are called artists,

poets, and musicians. Beauty overflows into them too, and out of them

again. The only distinction is that their productions are more human and

intelligible.”

“Nothing comes from it but vanity,” said Panawe, and, taking the crystal

out of Maskull’s hand, he threw it into the lake.

The precipice they now had to climb was several hundred feet in height.

Maskull was more anxious for Joiwind than for himself. She was evidently

tiring, but she refused all help, and was in fact still the nimbler of

the two. She made a mocking face at him. Panawe seemed lost in quiet

thoughts. The rock was sound, and did not crumble under their weight.

The heat of Branchspell, however, was by this time almost killing, the

radiance was shocking in its white intensity, and Maskull’s pain

steadily grew worse.

When they got to the top, a plateau of dark rock appeared, bare of

vegetation, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see.

It was of a nearly uniform width of five hundred yards, from the edge of

the cliffs to the lower slopes of the chain of hills inland. The hills

varied in height. The cup-shaped Poolingdred was approximately a

thousand feet above them. The upper part of it was covered with a kind

of glittering vegetation which he could not comprehend.

Joiwind put her hand on Maskull’s shoulder, and pointed upward. “Here

you have the highest peak in the whole land—that is, until you come to

the Ifdawn Marest.”

On hearing that strange name, he experienced a momentary unaccountable

sensation of wild vigour and restlessness—but it passed away.

Without losing time, Panawe led the way up the mountainside. The lower

half was of bare rock, not difficult to climb. Halfway up, however, it

grew steeper, and they began to meet bushes and small trees. The growth

became thicker as they continued to ascend, and when they neared the

summit, tall forest trees appeared.

These bushes and trees had pale, glassy trunks and branches, but the

small twigs and the leaves were translucent and crystal. They cast no

shadows from above, but still the shade was cool. Both leaves and

branches were fantastically shaped. What surprised Maskull the most,

however, was the fact that, as far as he could see, scarcely any two

plants belonged to the same species.

“Won’t you help Maskull out of his difficulty?” said Joiwind, pulling

her husband’s arm.

He smiled. “If he’ll forgive me for again trespassing in his brain. But

the difficulty is small. Life on a new planet, Maskull, is necessarily

energetic and lawless, and not sedate and imitative. Nature is still

fluid—not yet rigid—and matter is plastic. The will forks and sports

incessantly, and thus no two creatures are alike.”

“Well, I understand all that,” replied Maskull, after listening

attentively. “But what I don’t grasp is this—if living creatures here

sport so energetically, how does it come about that human beings wear

much the same shape as in my world?”

“I’ll explain that too,” said Panawe. “All creatures that resemble

Shaping must of necessity resemble one another.”

“Then sporting is the blind will to become like Shaping?”

“Exactly.”

“It is most wonderful,” said Maskull. “Then the brotherhood of man is

not a fable invented by idealists, but a solid fact.”

Joiwind looked at him, and changed colour. Panawe relapsed into

sternness.

Maskull became interested in a new phenomenon. The jale-coloured

blossoms of a crystal bush were emitting mental waves, which with his

breve he could clearly distinguish. They cried out silently, “To me! To

me!” While he looked, a flying worm guided itself through the air to one

of these blossoms and began to suck its nectar. The floral cry

immediately ceased.

They now gained the crest of the mountain, and looked down beyond. A

lake occupied its crater-like cavity. A fringe of trees partly

intercepted the view, but Maskull was able to perceive that this

mountain lake was nearly circular and perhaps a quarter of a mile

across. Its shore stood a hundred feet below them.

Observing that his hosts did not propose to descend, he begged them to

wait for him, and scrambled down to the surface. When he got there, he

found the water perfectly motionless and of a colourless transparency.

He walked onto it, lay down at full length, and peered into the depths.

It was weirdly clear: he could see down for an indefinite distance,

without arriving at any bottom. Some dark, shadowy objects, almost out

of reach of his eyes, were moving about. Then a sound, very faint and

mysterious, seemed to come up through the gnawl water from an immense

depth. It was like the rhythm of a drum. There were four beats of equal

length, but the accent was on the third. It went on for a considerable

time, and then ceased.

The sound appeared to him to belong to a different world from that in

which he was travelling. The latter was mystical, dreamlike, and

unbelievable—the drumming was like a very dim undertone of reality. It

resembled the ticking of a clock in a room full of voices, only

occasionally possible to be picked up by the ear.

He rejoined Panawe and Joiwind, but said nothing to them about his

experience. They all walked round the rim of the crater, and gazed down

on the opposite side. Precipices similar to those that had overlooked

the desert here formed the boundary of a vast moorland plain, whose

dimensions could not be measured by the eye. It was solid land, yet he

could not make out its prevailing colour. It was as if made of

transparent glass, but it did not glitter in the sunlight. No objects in

it could be distinguished, except a rolling river in the far distance,

and, farther off still, on the horizon, a line of dark mountains, of

strange shapes. Instead of being rounded, conical, or hogbacked, these

heights were carved by nature into the semblance of castle battlements,

but with extremely deep indentations.

The sky immediately above the mountains was of a vivid, intense blue. It

contrasted in a most marvellous way with the blue of the rest of the

heavens. It seemed more luminous and radiant, and was in fact like the

afterglow of a gorgeous blue sunset.

Maskull kept on looking. The more he gazed, the more restless and noble

became his feelings.

“What is that light?”

Panawe was sterner than usual, while his wife clung to his arm. “It is

Alppain—our second sun,” he replied. “Those hills are the Ifdawn

Marest.... Now let us get to our shelter.”

“Is it imagination, or am I really being affected—tormented by that

light?”

“No, it’s not imagination—it’s real. How can it be otherwise when two

suns, of different natures, are drawing you at the same time? Luckily

you are not looking at Alppain itself. It’s invisible here. You would

need to go at least as far as Ifdawn, to set eyes on it.”

“Why do you say ‘luckily’?”

“Because the agony caused by those opposing forces would perhaps be more

than you could bear.... But I don’t know.”

For the short distance that remained of their walk, Maskull was very

thoughtful and uneasy. He understood nothing. Whatever object his eye

chanced to rest on changed immediately into a puzzle. The silence and

stillness of the mountain peak seemed brooding, mysterious, and waiting.

Panawe gave him a friendly, anxious look, and without further delay led

the way down a little track, which traversed the side of the mountain

and terminated in the mouth of a cave.

This cave was the home of Panawe and Joiwind. It was dark inside. The

host took a shell and, filling it with liquid from a well, carelessly

sprinkled the sandy floor of the interior. A greenish, phosphorescent

light gradually spread to the furthest limits of the cavern, and

continued to illuminate it for the whole time they were there. There was

no furniture. Some dried, fernlike leaves served for couches.

The moment she got in, Joiwind fell down in exhaustion. Her husband

tended her with calm concern. He bathed her face, put drink to her lips,

energised her with his magn, and finally laid her down to sleep. At the

sight of the noble woman thus suffering on his account, Maskull was

distressed.

Panawe, however, endeavoured to reassure him. “It’s quite true this has

been a very long, hard double journey, but for the future it will

lighten all her other journeys for her.... Such is the nature of

sacrifice.”

“I can’t conceive how I have walked so far in a morning,” said Maskull,

“and she has been twice the distance.”

“Love flows in her veins, instead of blood, and that’s why she is so

strong.”

“You know she gave me some of it?”

“Otherwise you couldn’t even have started.”

“I shall never forget that.”

The languorous heat of the day outside, the bright mouth of the cavern,

the cool seclusion of the interior, with its pale green glow, invited

Maskull to sleep. But curiosity got the better of his lassitude.

“Will it disturb her if we talk?”

“No.”

“But how do you feel?”

“I require little sleep. In any case, it’s more important that you

should hear something about your new life. It’s not all as innocent and

idyllic as this. If you intend to go through, you ought to be instructed

about the dangers.”

“Oh, I guessed as much. But how shall we arrange—shall I put questions,

or will you tell me what you think is most essential?”

Panawe motioned to Maskull to sit down on a pile of ferns, and at the

same time reclined himself, leaning on one arm, with outstretched legs.

“I will tell some incidents of my life. You will begin to learn from

them what sort of place you have come to.”

“I shall be grateful,” said Maskull, preparing himself to listen.

Panawe paused for a moment or two, and then started his narrative in

tranquil, measured, yet sympathetic tones.

PANAWE’S STORY

“My earliest recollection is of being taken, when three years old

(that’s equivalent to fifteen of your years, but we develop more slowly

here), by my father and mother, to see Broodviol, the wisest man in

Tormance. He dwelt in the great Wombflash Forest. We walked through

trees for three days, sleeping at night. The trees grew taller as we

went along, until the tops were out of sight. The trunks were of a dark

red colour and the leaves were of pale ulfire. My father kept stopping

to think. If left uninterrupted, he would remain for half a day in deep

abstraction. My mother came out of Poolingdred, and was of a different

stamp. She was beautiful, generous, and charming—but also active. She

kept urging him on. This led to many disputes between them, which made

me miserable. On the fourth day we passed through a part of the forest

which bordered on the Sinking Sea. This sea is full of pouches of water

that will not bear a man’s weight, and as these light parts don’t differ

in appearance from the rest, it is dangerous to cross. My father pointed

out a dim outline on the horizon, and told me it was Swaylone’s Island.

Men sometimes go there, but none ever return. In the evening of the same

day we found Broodviol standing in a deep, miry pit in the forest,

surrounded on all sides by trees three hundred feet high. He was a big

gnarled, rugged, wrinkled, sturdy old man. His age at that time was a

hundred and twenty of our years, or nearly six hundred of yours. His

body was trilateral: he had three legs, three arms, and six eyes, placed

at equal distances all around his head. This gave him an aspect of great

watchfulness and sagacity. He was standing in a sort of trance. I

afterward heard this saying of his: ‘To lie is to sleep, to sit is to

dream, to stand is to think.’ My father caught the infection, and fell

into meditation, but my mother roused them both thoroughly. Broodviol

scowled at her savagely, and demanded what she required. Then I too

learned for the first time the object of our journey. I was a

prodigy—that is to say, I was without sex. My parents were troubled over

this, and wished to consult the wisest of men.

“Old Broodviol smoothed his face, and said, ‘This perhaps will not be so

difficult. I will explain the marvel. Every man and woman among us is a

walking murderer. If a male, he has struggled with and killed the female

who was born in the same body with him—if a female, she has killed the

male. But in this child the struggle is still continuing.’

“‘How shall we end it?’ asked my mother.

“‘Let the child direct its will to the scene of the combat, and it will

be of whichever sex it pleases.’

“‘You want, of course, to be a man, don’t you?’ said my mother to me

earnestly.

“‘Then I shall be slaying your daughter, and that would be a crime.’

“Something in my tone attracted Broodviol’s notice.

“‘That was spoken, not selfishly, but magnanimously. Therefore the male

must have spoken it, and you need not trouble further. Before you arrive

home, the child will be a boy.’

“My father walked away out of sight. My mother bent very low before

Broodviol for about ten minutes, and he remained all that time looking

kindly at her.

“I heard that shortly afterward Alppain came into that land for a few

hours daily. Broodviol grew melancholy, and died.

“His prophecy came true—before we reached home, I knew the meaning of

shame. But I have often pondered over his words since, in later years,

when trying to understand my own nature; and I have come to the

conclusion that, wisest of men as he was, he still did not see quite

straight on this occasion. Between me and my twin sister, enclosed in

one body, there never was any struggle, but instinctive reverence for

life withheld both of us from fighting for existence. Hers was the

stronger temperament, and she sacrificed herself—though not

consciously—for me.

“As soon as I comprehended this, I made a vow never to eat or destroy

anything that contained life—and I have kept it ever since.

“While I was still hardly a grown man, my father died. My mother’s death

followed immediately, and I hated the associations of the land. I

therefore made up my mind to travel into my mother’s country, where, as

she had often told me, nature was most sacred and solitary.

“One hot morning I came to Shaping’s Causeway. It is so called either

because Shaping once crossed it, or because of its stupendous character.

It is a natural embankment, twenty miles long, which links the mountains

bordering my homeland with the Ifdawn Marest. The valley lies below at a

depth varying from eight to ten thousand feet—a terrible precipice on

either side. The knife edge of the ridge is generally not much over a

foot wide. The causeway goes due north and south. The valley on my right

hand was plunged in shadow—that on my left was sparkling with sunlight

and dew. I walked fearfully along this precarious path for some miles.

Far to the east the valley was closed by a lofty tableland, connecting

the two chains of mountains, but overtopping even the most towering

pinnacles. This is called the Sant Levels. I was never there, but I have

heard two curious facts concerning the inhabitants. The first is that

they have no women; the second, that though they are addicted to

travelling in other parts they never acquire habits of the peoples with

whom they reside.

“Presently I turned giddy, and lay at full length for a great while,

clutching the two edges of the path with both hands, and staring at the

ground I was lying on with wide-open eyes. When that passed I felt like

a different man and grew conceited and gay. About halfway across I saw

someone approaching me a long way off. This put fear into my heart

again, for I did not see how we could very well pass. However, I went

slowly on, and presently we drew near enough together for me to

recognise the walker. It was Slofork, the so-called sorcerer. I had

never met him before, but I knew him by his peculiarities of person. He

was of a bright gamboge colour and possessed a very long, proboscis-like

nose, which appeared to be a useful organ, but did not add to his

beauty, as I knew beauty. He was dubbed ‘sorcerer’ from his wondrous

skill in budding limbs and organs. The tale is told that one evening he

slowly sawed his leg off with a blunt stone and then lay for two days in

agony while his new leg was sprouting. He was not reputed to be a

consistently wise man, but he had periodical flashes of penetration and

audacity that none could equal.

“We sat down and faced one another, about two yards apart.

“‘Which of us walks over the other?’ asked Slofork. His manner was as

calm as the day itself, but, to my young nature, terrible with hidden

terrors. I smiled at him, but did not wish for this humiliation. We

continued sitting thus, in a friendly way, for many minutes.

“‘What is greater than Pleasure?’ he asked suddenly.

“I was at an age when one wishes to be thought equal to any emergency,

so, concealing my surprise, I applied myself to the conversation, as if

it were for that purpose we had met.

“‘Pain,’ I replied, ‘for pain drives out pleasure.’

“‘What is greater than Pain?’

“I reflected. ‘Love. Because we will accept our loved one’s share of

pain.’

“‘But what is greater than Love?’ he persisted.

“‘Nothing, Slofork.’

“‘And what is Nothing?’

“‘That you must tell me.’

“‘Tell you I will. This is Shaping’s world. He that is a good child

here, knows pleasure, pain, and love, and gets his rewards. But there’s

another world—not Shaping’s—and there all this is unknown, and another

order of things reigns. That world we call Nothing—but it is not

Nothing, but Something.’

“There was a pause.

“‘I have heard,’ said I, ‘that you are good at growing and ungrowing

organs?’

“‘That’s not enough for me. Every organ tells me the same story. I want

to hear different stories.’

“‘Is it true, what men say, that your wisdom flows and ebbs in pulses?’

“‘Quite true,’ replied Slofork. ‘But those you had it from did not add

that they have always mistaken the flow for the ebb.’

“‘My experience is,’ said I sententiously, ‘that wisdom is misery.’

“‘Perhaps it is, young man, but you have never learned that, and never

will. For you the world will continue to wear a noble, awful face. You

will never rise above mysticism.... But be happy in your own way.’

“Before I realised what he was doing, he jumped tranquilly from the

path, down into the empty void. He crashed with ever-increasing momentum

toward the valley below. I screeched, flung myself down on the ground,

and shut my eyes.

“Often have I wondered which of my ill-considered, juvenile remarks it

was that caused this sudden resolution on his part to commit suicide.

Whichever it might be, since then I have made it a rigid law never to

speak for my own pleasure, but only to help others.

“I came eventually to the Marest. I threaded its mazes in terror for

four days. I was frightened of death, but still more terrified at the

possibility of losing my sacred attitude toward life. When I was nearly

through, and was beginning to congratulate myself, I stumbled across the

third extraordinary personage of my experience—the grim Muremaker. It

was under horrible circumstances. On an afternoon, cloudy and stormy, I

saw, suspended in the air without visible support, a living man. He was

hanging in an upright position in front of a cliff—a yawning gulf, a

thousand feet deep, lay beneath his feet. I climbed as near as I could,

and looked on. He saw me, and made a wry grimace, like one who wishes to

turn his humiliation into humour. The spectacle so astounded me that I

could not even grasp what had happened.

“‘I am Muremaker,’ he cried in a scraping voice which shocked my ears.

‘All my life I have sorbed others—now I am sorbed. Nuclamp and I fell

out over a woman. Now Nuclamp holds me up like this. While the strength

of his will lasts I shall remain suspended; but when he gets tired—and

it can’t be long now—I drop into those depths.’

“Had it been another man, I would have tried to save him, but this ogre-

like being was too well known to me as one who passed his whole

existence in tormenting, murdering, and absorbing others, for the sake

of his own delight. I hurried away, and did not pause again that day.

“In Poolingdred I met Joiwind. We walked and talked together for a

month, and by that time we found that we loved each other too well to

part.”

Panawe stopped speaking.

“That is a fascinating story,” remarked Maskull. “Now I begin to know my

way around better. But one thing puzzles me.”

“What’s that?”

“How it happens that men here are ignorant of tools and arts, and have

no civilisation, and yet contrive to be social in their habits and wise

in their thoughts.”

“Do you imagine, then, that love and wisdom spring from tools? But I see

how it arises. In your world you have fewer sense organs, and to make up

for the deficiency you have been obliged to call in the assistance of

stones and metals. That’s by no means a sign of superiority.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Maskull, “but I see I have a great deal to

unlearn.”

They talked together a little longer, and then gradually fell asleep.

Joiwind opened her eyes, smiled, and slumbered again.

Chapter 8. THE LUSION PLAIN

Maskull awoke before the others. He got up, stretched himself, and

walked out into the sunlight. Branchspell was already declining. He

climbed to the top of the crater edge and looked away toward Ifdawn. The

afterglow of Alppain had by now completely disappeared. The mountains

stood up wild and grand.

They impressed him like a simple musical theme, the notes of which are

widely separated in the scale; a spirit of rashness, daring, and

adventure seemed to call to him from them. It was at that moment that

the determination flashed into his heart to walk to the Marest and

explore its dangers.

He returned to the cavern to say good-by to his hosts.

Joiwind looked at him with her brave and honest eyes. “Is this

selfishness, Maskull?” she asked, “or are you drawn by something

stronger than yourself?”

“We must be reasonable,” he answered, smiling. “I can’t settle down in

Poolingdred before I have found out something about this surprising new

planet of yours. Remember what a long way I have come.... But very

likely I shall come back here.”

“Will you make me a promise?”

Maskull hesitated. “Ask nothing difficult, for I hardly know my powers

yet.”

“It is not hard, and I wish it. Promise this—never to raise your hand

against a living creature, either to strike, pluck, or eat, without

first recollecting its mother, who suffered for it.”

“Perhaps I won’t promise that,” said Maskull slowly, “but I’ll undertake

something more tangible. I will never lift my hand against a living

creature without first recollecting you, Joiwind.”

She turned a little pale. “Now if Panawe knew that Panawe existed, he

might be jealous.”

Panawe put his hand on her gently. “You would not talk like that in

Shaping’s presence,” he said.

“No. Forgive me! I’m not quite myself. Perhaps it is Maskull’s blood in

my veins.... Now let us bid him adieu. Let us pray that he will do only

honourable deeds, wherever he may be.”

“I’ll set Maskull on his way,” said Panawe.

“There’s no need,” replied Maskull. “The way is plain.”

“But talking shortens the road.”

Maskull turned to go.

Joiwind pulled him around toward her softly. “You won’t think badly of

other women on my account?”

“You are a blessed spirit,” answered he.

She trod quietly to the inner extremity of the cave and stood there

thinking. Panawe and Maskull emerged into the open air. Halfway down the

cliff face a little spring was encountered. Its water was colourless,

transparent, but gaseous. As soon as Maskull had satisfied his thirst he

felt himself different. His surroundings were so real to him in their

vividness and colour, so unreal in their phantom-like mystery, that he

scrambled downhill like one in a winter’s dream.

When they reached the plain he saw in front of them an interminable

forest of tall trees, the shapes of which were extraordinarily foreign

looking. The leaves were crystalline and, looking upward, it was as if

he were gazing through a roof of glass. The moment they got underneath

the trees the light rays of the sun continued to come through—white,

savage, and blazing—but they were gelded of heat. Then it was not hard

to imagine that they were wandering through cool, bright elfin glades.

Through the forest, beginning at their very feet an avenue, perfectly

straight and not very wide, went forward as far as the eye could see.

Maskull wanted to talk to his travelling companion, but was somehow

unable to find words. Panawe glanced at him with an inscrutable

smile—stern, yet enchanting and half feminine. He then broke the

silence, but, strangely enough, Maskull could not make out whether he

was singing or speaking. From his lips issued a slow musical recitative,

exactly like a bewitching adagio from a low toned stringed

instrument—but there was a difference. Instead of the repetition and

variation of one or two short themes, as in music, Panawe’s theme was

prolonged—it never came to an end, but rather resembled a conversation

in rhythm and melody. And, at the same time, it was no recitative, for

it was not declamatory. It was a long, quiet stream of lovely emotion.

Maskull listened entranced, yet agitated. The song, if it might be

termed song, seemed to be always just on the point of becoming clear and

intelligible—not with the intelligibility of words, but in the way one

sympathises with another’s moods and feelings; and Maskull felt that

something important was about to be uttered, which would explain all

that had gone before. But it was invariably postponed, he never

understood—and yet somehow he did understand.

Late in the afternoon they came to a clearing, and there Panawe ceased

his recitative. He slowed his pace and stopped, in the fashion of a man

who wishes to convey that he intends to go no farther.

“What is the name of this country?” asked Maskull.

“It is the Lusion Plain.”

“Was that music in the nature of a temptation—do you wish me not to go

on?”

“Your work lies before you, and not behind you.”

“What was it, then? What work do you allude to?”

“It must have seemed like something to you, Maskull.”

“It seemed like Shaping music to me.”

The instant he had absently uttered these words, Maskull wondered why he

had done so, as they now appeared meaningless to him.

Panawe, however, showed no surprise. “Shaping you will find everywhere.”

“Am I dreaming, or awake?”

“You are awake.”

Maskull fell into deep thought. “So be it,” he said, rousing himself.

“Now I will go on. But where must I sleep tonight?”

“You will reach a broad river. On that you can travel to the foot of the

Marest tomorrow; but tonight you had better sleep where the forest and

river meet.”

“Adieu, then, Panawe! But do you wish to say anything more to me?”

“Only this, Maskull—wherever you go, help to make the world beautiful,

and not ugly.”

“That’s more than any of us can undertake. I am a simple man, and have

no ambitions in the way of beautifying life—But tell Joiwind I will try

to keep myself pure.”

They parted rather coldly. Maskull stood erect where they had stopped,

and watched Panawe out of sight. He sighed more than once.

He became aware that something was about to happen. The air was

breathless. The late-afternoon sunshine, unobstructed, wrapped his frame

in voluptuous heat. A solitary cloud, immensely high, raced through the

sky overhead.

A single trumpet note sounded in the far distance from somewhere behind

him. It gave him an impression of being several miles away at first; but

then it slowly swelled, and came nearer and nearer at the same time that

it increased in volume. Still the same note sounded, but now it was as

if blown by a giant trumpeter immediately over his head. Then it

gradually diminished in force, and travelled away in front of him. It

ended very faintly and distantly.

He felt himself alone with Nature. A sacred stillness came over his

heart. Past and future were forgotten. The forest, the sun, the day did

not exist for him. He was unconscious of himself—he had no thoughts and

no feelings. Yet never had Life had such an altitude for him.

A man stood, with crossed arms, right in his path. He was so clothed

that his limbs were exposed, while his body was covered. He was young

rather than old. Maskull observed that his countenance possessed none of

the special organs of Tormance, to which he had not even yet become

reconciled. He was smooth-faced. His whole person seemed to radiate an

excess of life, like the trembling of air on a hot day. His eyes had

such force that Maskull could not meet them.

He addressed Maskull by name, in an extraordinary voice. It had a double

tone. The primary one sounded far away; the second was an undertone,

like a sympathetic tanging string.

Maskull felt a rising joy, as he continued standing in the presence of

this individual. He believed that something good was happening to him.

He found it physically difficult to bring any words out. “Why do you

stop me?”

“Maskull, look well at me. Who am I?”

“I think you are Shaping.”

“I am Surtur.”

Maskull again attempted to meet his eyes, but felt as if he were being

stabbed.

“You know that this is my world. Why do you think I have brought you

here? I wish you to serve me.”

Maskull could no longer speak.

“Those who joke at my world,” continued the vision, “those who make a

mock of its stern, eternal rhythm, its beauty and sublimity, which are

not skin-deep, but proceed from fathomless roots—they shall not escape.”

“I do not mock it.”

“Ask me your questions, and I will answer them.”

“I have nothing.”

“It is necessary for you to serve me, Maskull. Do you not understand?

You are my servant and helper.”

“I shall not fail.”

“This is for my sake, and not for yours.”

These last words had no sooner left Surtur’s mouth than Maskull saw him

spring suddenly upward and outward. Looking up at the vault of the sky,

he saw the whole expanse of vision filled by Surtur’s form—not as a

concrete man, but as a vast, concave cloud image, looking down and

frowning at him. Then the spectacle vanished, as a light goes out.

Maskull stood inactive, with a thumping heart. Now he again heard the

solitary trumpet note. The sound began this time faintly in the far

distance in front of him, travelled slowly toward him with regularly

increasing intensity, passed overhead at its loudest, and then grew more

and more quiet, wonderful, and solemn, as it fell away in the rear,

until the note was merged in the deathlike silence of the forest. It

appeared to Maskull like the closing of a marvellous and important

chapter.

Simultaneously with the fading away of the sound, the heavens seemed to

open up with the rapidity of lightning into a blue vault of immeasurable

height. He breathed a great breath, stretched all his limbs, and looked

around him with a slow smile.

After a while he resumed his journey. His brain was all dark and

confused, but one idea was already beginning to stand out from the

rest—huge, shapeless, and grand, like the growing image in the soul of a

creative artist: the staggering thought that he was a man of destiny.

The more he reflected upon all that had occurred since his arrival in

this new world—and even before leaving Earth—the clearer and more

indisputable it became, that he could not be here for his own purposes,

but must be here for an end. But what that end was, he could not

imagine.

Through the forest he saw Branchspell at last sinking in the west. It

looked a stupendous ball of red fire—now he could realise at his ease

what a sun it was! The avenue took an abrupt turn to the left and began

to descend steeply.

A wide, rolling river of clear and dark water was visible in front of

him, no great way off. It flowed from north to south. The forest path

led him straight to its banks. Maskull stood there, and regarded the

lapping, gurgling waters pensively. On the opposite bank, the forest

continued. Miles to the south, Poolingdred could just be distinguished.

On the northern skyline the Ifdawn Mountains loomed up—high, wild,

beautiful, and dangerous. They were not a dozen miles away.

Like the first mutterings of a thunderstorm, the first faint breaths of

cool wind, Maskull felt the stirrings of passion in his heart. In spite

of his bodily fatigue, he wished to test his strength against something.

This craving he identified with the crags of the Marest. They seemed to

have the same magical attraction for his will as the lodestone for iron.

He kept biting his nails, as he turned his eyes in that

direction—wondering if it would not be possible to conquer the heights

that evening. But when he glanced back again at Poolingdred, he

remembered Joiwind and Panawe, and grew more tranquil. He decided to

make his bed at this spot, and to set off as soon after daybreak as he

should awake.

He drank at the river, washed himself, and lay down on the bank to

sleep. By this time, so far had his idea progressed, that he cared

nothing for the possible dangers of the night—he confided in his star.

Branchspell set, the day faded, night with its terrible weight came on,

and through it all Maskull slept. Long before midnight, however, he was

awakened by a crimson glow in the sky. He opened his eyes, and wondered

where he was. He felt heaviness and pain. The red glow was a terrestrial

phenomenon; it came from among the trees. He got up and went toward the

source of the light.

Away from the river, not a hundred feet off, he nearly stumbled across

the form of a sleeping woman. The object which emitted the crimson rays

was lying on the ground, several yards away from her. It was like a

small jewel, throwing off sparks of red light. He barely threw a glance

at that, however.

The woman was clothed in the large skin of an animal. She had big,

smooth, shapely limbs, rather muscular than fat. Her magn was not a thin

tentacle, but a third arm, terminating in a hand. Her face, which was

upturned, was wild, powerful, and exceedingly handsome. But he saw with

surprise that in place of a breve on her forehead, she possessed another

eye. All three were closed. The colour of her skin in the crimson glow

he could not distinguish.

He touched her gently with his hand. She awoke calmly and looked up at

him without stirring a muscle. All three eyes stared at him; but the two

lower ones were dull and vacant—mere carriers of vision. The middle,

upper one alone expressed her inner nature. Its haughty, unflinching

glare had yet something seductive and alluring in it. Maskull felt a

challenge in that look of lordly, feminine will, and his manner

instinctively stiffened.

She sat up.

“Can you speak my language?” he asked. “I wouldn’t put such a question,

but others have been able to.”

“Why should you imagine that I can’t read your mind? Is it so extremely

complex?”

She spoke in a rich, lingering, musical voice, which delighted him to

listen to.

“No, but you have no breve.”

“Well, but haven’t I a sorb, which is better?” And she pointed to the

eye on her brow.

“What is your name?”

“Oceaxe.”

“And where do you come from?”

“Ifdawn.”

These contemptuous replies began to irritate him, and yet the mere sound

of her voice was fascinating.

“I am going there tomorrow,” he remarked.

She laughed, as if against her will, but made no comment.

“My name is Maskull,” he went on. “I am a stranger—from another world.”

“So I should judge, from your absurd appearance.”

“Perhaps it would be as well to say at once,” said Maskull bluntly, “are

we, or are we not, to be friends?”

She yawned and stretched her arms, without rising. “Why should we be

friends? If I thought you were a man, I might accept you as a lover.”

“You must look elsewhere for that.”

“So be it, Maskull! Now go away, and leave me in peace.”

She dropped her head again to the ground, but did not at once close her

eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he interrogated.

“Oh, we Ifdawn folk occasionally come here to sleep, for there often

enough it is a night for us which has no next morning.”

“Being such a terrible place, and seeing that I am a total stranger, it

would be merely courteous if you were to warn me what I have to expect

in the way of dangers.”

“I am perfectly and utterly indifferent to what becomes of you,”

retorted Oceaxe.

“Are you returning in the morning?” persisted Maskull.

“If I wish.”

“Then we will go together.”

She got up again on her elbow. “Instead of making plans for other

people, I would do a very necessary thing.”

“Pray, tell me.”

“Well, there’s no reason why I should, but I will. I would try to

convert my women’s organs into men’s organs. It is a man’s country.”

“Speak more plainly.”

“Oh, it’s plain enough. If you attempt to pass through Ifdawn without a

sorb, you are simply committing suicide. And that magn too is worse than

useless.”

“You probably know what you are talking about, Oceaxe. But what do you

advise me to do?”

She negligently pointed to the light-emitting stone lying on the ground.

“There is the solution. If you hold that drude to your organs for a good

while, perhaps it will start the change, and perhaps nature will do the

rest during the night. I promise nothing.”

Oceaxe now really turned her back on Maskull.

He considered for a few minutes, and then walked over to where the stone

was lying, and took it in his hand. It was a pebble the size of a hen’s

egg, radiant with crimson light, as though red-hot, and throwing out a

continuous shower of small, blood-red sparks.

Finally deciding that Oceaxe’s advice was good, he applied the drude

first to his magn, and then to his breve. He experienced a cauterising

sensation—a feeling of healing pain.

Chapter 9. OCEAXE

Maskull’s second day on Tormance dawned. Branchspell was already above

the horizon when he awoke. He was instantly aware that his organs had

changed during the night. His fleshy breve was altered into an eyelike

sorb; his magn had swelled and developed into a third arm, springing

from the breast. The arm gave him at once a sense of greater physical

security, but with the sorb he was obliged to experiment, before he

could grasp its function.

As he lay there in the white sunlight, opening and shutting each of his

three eyes in turn, he found that the two lower ones served his

understanding, the upper one his will. That is to say, with the lower

eyes he saw things in clear detail, but without personal interest; with

the sorb he saw nothing as self-existent—everything appeared as an

object of importance or non-importance to his own needs.

Rather puzzled as to how this would turn out, he got up and looked about

him. He had slept out of sight of Oceaxe. He was anxious to learn if she

were still on the spot, but before going to ascertain he made up his

mind to bathe in the river.

It was a glorious morning. The hot white sun already began to glare, but

its heat was tempered by a strong wind, which whistled through the

trees. A host of fantastic clouds filled the sky. They looked like

animals, and were always changing shape. The ground, as well as the

leaves and branches of the forest trees, still held traces of heavy dew

or rain during the night. A poignantly sweet smell of nature entered his

nostrils. His pain was quiescent, and his spirits were high.

Before he bathed, he viewed the mountains of the Ifdawn Marest. In the

morning sunlight they stood out pictorially. He guessed that they were

from five to six thousand feet high. The lofty, irregular, castellated

line seemed like the walls of a magic city. The cliffs fronting him were

composed of gaudy rocks—vermilion, emerald, yellow, ulfire, and black.

As he gazed at them, his heart began to beat like a slow, heavy drum,

and he thrilled all over—indescribable hopes, aspirations, and emotions

came over him. It was more than the conquest of a new world which he

felt—it was something different....

He bathed and drank, and as he was reclothing himself, Oceaxe strolled

indolently up.

He could now perceive the colour of her skin—it was a vivid, yet

delicate mixture of carmine, white, and jale. The effect was startlingly

unearthly. With these new colors she looked like a genuine

representative of a strange planet. Her frame also had something curious

about it. The curves were womanly, the bones were characteristically

female—yet all seemed somehow to express a daring, masculine underlying

will. The commanding eye on her forehead set the same puzzle in plainer

language. Its bold, domineering egotism was shot with undergleams of sex

and softness.

She came to the river’s edge and reviewed him from top to toe. “Now you

are built more like a man,” she said, in her lovely, lingering voice.

“You see, the experiment was successful,” he answered, smiling gaily.

Oceaxe continued looking him over. “Did some woman give you that

ridiculous robe?”

“A woman did give it to me”—dropping his smile—“but I saw nothing

ridiculous in the gift at the time, and I don’t now.”

“I think I’d look better in it.”

As she drawled the words, she began stripping off the skin, which suited

her form so well, and motioned to him to exchange garments. He obeyed,

rather shamefacedly, for he realised that the proposed exchange was in

fact more appropriate to his sex. He found the skin a freer dress.

Oceaxe in her drapery appeared more dangerously feminine to him.

“I don’t want you to receive gifts at all from other women,” she

remarked slowly.

“Why not? What can I be to you?”

“I have been thinking about you during the night.” Her voice was

retarded, scornful, viola-like. She sat down on the trunk of a fallen

tree, and looked away.

“In what way?”

She returned no answer to his question, but began to pull off pieces of

the bark.

“Last night you were so contemptuous.”

“Last night is not today. Do you always walk through the world with your

head over your shoulder?”

It was now Maskull’s turn to be silent.

“Still, if you have male instincts, as I suppose you have, you can’t go

on resisting me forever.”

“But this is preposterous,” said Maskull, opening his eyes wide.

“Granted that you are a beautiful woman—we can’t be quite so primeval.”

Oceaxe sighed, and rose to her feet. “It doesn’t matter. I can wait.”

“From that I gather that you intend to make the journey in my society. I

have no objection—in fact I shall be glad—but only on condition that you

drop this language.”

“Yet you do think me beautiful?”

“Why shouldn’t I think so, if it is the fact? I fail to see what that

has to do with my feelings. Bring it to an end, Oceaxe. You will find

plenty of men to admire—and love you.”

At that she blazed up. “Does love pick and choose, you fool? Do you

imagine I am so hard put to it that I have to hunt for lovers? Is not

Crimtyphon waiting for me at this very moment?”

“Very well. I am sorry to have hurt your feelings. Now carry the

temptation no farther—for it is a temptation, where a lovely woman is

concerned. I am not my own master.”

“I’m not proposing anything so very hateful, am I? Why do you humiliate

me so?”

Maskull put his hands behind his back. “I repeat, I am not my own

master.”

“Then who is your master?”

“Yesterday I saw Surtur, and from today I am serving him.”

“Did you speak with him?” she asked curiously.

“I did.”

“Tell me what he said.”

“No, I can’t—I won’t. But whatever he said, his beauty was more

tormenting than yours, Oceaxe, and that’s why I can look at you in cold

blood.”

“Did Surtur forbid you to be a man?”

Maskull frowned. “Is love such a manly sport, then? I should have

thought it effeminate.”

“It doesn’t matter. You won’t always be so boyish. But don’t try my

patience too far.”

“Let us talk about something else—and, above all, let us get on our

road.”

She suddenly broke into a laugh, so rich, sweet, and enchanting, that he

grew half inflamed, and half wished to catch her body in his arms. “Oh,

Maskull, Maskull—what a fool you are!”

“In what way am I a fool?” he demanded, scowling—not at her words, but

at his own weakness.

“Isn’t the whole world the handiwork of innumerable pairs of lovers? And

yet you think yourself above all that. You try to fly away from nature,

but where will you find a hole to hide yourself in?”

“Besides beauty, I now credit you with a second quality: persistence.”

“Read me well, and then it is natural law that you’ll think twice and

three times before throwing me away.... And now, before we go, we had

better eat.”

“Eat?” said Maskull thoughtfully.

“Don’t you eat? Is food in the same category as love?”

“What food is it?”

“Fish from the river.”

Maskull recollected his promise to Joiwind. At the same time, he felt

hungry.

“Is there nothing milder?”

She pulled her mouth scornfully. “You came through Poolingdred, didn’t

you? All the people there are the same. They think life is to be looked

at, and not lived. Now that you are visiting Ifdawn, you will have to

change your notions.”

“Go catch your fish,” he returned, pulling down his brows.

The broad, clear waters flowed past them with swelling undulations, from

the direction of the mountains. Oceaxe knelt down on the bank, and

peered into the depths. Presently her look became tense and

concentrated; she dipped her hand in and pulled out some sort of little

monster. It was more like a reptile than a fish, with its scaly plates

and teeth. She threw it on the ground, and it started crawling about.

Suddenly she darted all her will into her sorb. The creature leaped into

the air, and fell down dead.

She picked up a sharp-edged slate, and with it removed the scales and

entrails. During this operation, her hands and garment became stained

with the light scarlet blood.

“Find the drude, Maskull,” she said, with a lazy smile. “You had it last

night.”

He searched for it. It was hard to locate, for its rays had grown dull

and feeble in the sunlight, but at last he found it. Oceaxe placed it in

the interior of the monster, and left the body lying on the ground.

“While it’s cooking, I’ll wash some of this blood away, which frightens

you so much. Have you never seen blood before?”

Maskull gazed at her in perplexity. The old paradox came back—the

contrasting sexual characteristics in her person. Her bold, masterful,

masculine egotism of manner seemed quite incongruous with the

fascinating and disturbing femininity of her voice. A startling idea

flashed into his mind.

“In your country I’m told there is an act of will called ‘absorbing.’

What is that?”

She held her red, dripping hands away from her draperies, and uttered a

delicious, clashing laugh. “You think I am half a man?”

“Answer my question.”

“I’m a woman through and through, Maskull—to the marrowbone. But that’s

not to say I have never absorbed males.”

“And that means...”

“New strings for my harp, Maskull. A wider range of passions, a stormier

heart...”

“For you, yes—But for them?...”

“I don’t know. The victims don’t describe their experiences. Probably

unhappiness of some sort—if they still know anything.”

“This is a fearful business!” he exclaimed, regarding her gloomily. “One

would think Ifdawn a land of devils.”

Oceaxe gave a beautiful sneer as she took a step toward the river.

“Better men than you—better in every sense of the word—are walking about

with foreign wills inside them. You may be as moral as you like,

Maskull, but the fact remains, animals were made to be eaten, and simple

natures were made to be absorbed.”

“And human rights count for nothing!”

She had bent over the river’s edge, to wash her arms and hands, but

glanced up over her shoulder to answer his remark. “They do count. But

we only regard a man as human for just as long as he’s able to hold his

own with others.”

The flesh was soon cooked, and they breakfasted in silence. Maskull cast

heavy, doubtful glances from time to time toward his companion. Whether

it was due to the strange quality of the food, or to his long

abstention, he did not know, but the meal tasted nauseous, and even

cannibalistic. He ate little, and the moment he got up he felt defiled.

“Let me bury this drude, where I can find it some other time,” said

Oceaxe. “On the next occasion, though, I shall have no Maskull with me,

to shock.... Now we have to take to the river.”

They stepped off the land onto the water. It flowed against them with a

sluggish current, but the opposition, instead of hindering them, had the

contrary effect—it caused them to exert themselves, and they moved

faster. They climbed the river in this way for several miles. The

exercise gradually improved the circulation of Maskull’s blood, and he

began to look at things in a far more cheerful way. The hot sunshine,

the diminished wind, the marvellous cloud scenery, the quiet, crystal

forests—all was soothing and delightful. They approached nearer and

nearer to the gaily painted heights of Ifdawn.

There was something enigmatic to him in those bright walls. He was

attracted by them, yet felt a sort of awe. They looked real, but at the

same time very supernatural. If one could see the portrait of a ghost,

painted with a hard, firm outline, in substantial colors, the feelings

produced by such a sight would be exactly similar to Maskull’s

impressions as he studied the Ifdawn precipices.

He broke the long silence. “Those mountains have most extraordinary

shapes. All the lines are straight and perpendicular—no slopes or

curves.”

She walked backward on the water, in order to face him. “That’s typical

of Ifdawn. Nature is all hammer blows with us. Nothing soft and

gradual.”

“I hear you, but I don’t understand you.”

“All over the Marest you’ll find patches of ground plunging down or

rushing up. Trees grow fast. Women and men don’t think twice before

acting. One may call Ifdawn a place of quick decisions.”

Maskull was impressed. “A fresh, wild, primitive land.”

“How is it where you come from?” asked Oceaxe.

“Oh, mine is a decrepit world, where nature takes a hundred years to

move a foot of solid land. Men and animals go about in flocks.

Originality is a lost habit.”

“Are there women there?”

“As with you, and not very differently formed.”

“Do they love?”

He laughed. “So much so that it has changed the dress, speech, and

thoughts of the whole sex.”

“Probably they are more beautiful than I?”

“No, I think not,” said Maskull.

There was another rather long silence, as they travelled unsteadily

onward.

“What is your business in Ifdawn?” demanded Oceaxe suddenly.

He hesitated over his answer. “Can you grasp that it’s possible to have

an aim right in front of one, so big that one can’t see it as a whole?”

She stole a long, inquisitive look at him, “What sort of aim?”

“A moral aim.”

“Are you proposing to set the world right?”

“I propose nothing—I am waiting.”

“Don’t wait too long, for time doesn’t wait—especially in Ifdawn.”

“Something will happen,” said Maskull.

Oceaxe threw a subtle smile. “So you have no special destination in the

Marest?”

“No, and if you’ll permit me, I will come home with you.”

“Singular man!” she said, with a short, thrilling laugh. “That’s what I

have been offering all the time. Of course you will come home with me.

As for Crimtyphon...”

“You mentioned that name before. Who is he?”

“Oh! My lover, or, as you would say, my husband.”

“This doesn’t improve matters,” said Maskull.

“It leaves them exactly where they were. We merely have to remove him.”

“We are certainly misunderstanding each other,” said Maskull, quite

startled. “Do you by any chance imagine that I am making a compact with

you?”

“You will do nothing against your will. But you have promised to come

home with me.”

“Tell me, how do you remove husbands in Ifdawn?”

“Either you or I must kill him.”

He eyed her for a full minute. “Now we are passing from folly to

insanity.”

“Not at all,” replied Oceaxe. “It is the too-sad truth. And when you

have seen Crimtyphon, you will realise it.”

“I’m aware I am on a strange planet,” said Maskull slowly, “where all

sorts of unheard of things may happen, and where the very laws of

morality may be different. Still as far as I am concerned, murder is

murder, and I’ll have no more to do with a woman who wants to make use

of me, to get rid of her husband.”

“You think me wicked?” demanded Oceaxe steadily.

“Or mad.”

“Then you had better leave me, Maskull—only—”

“Only what?”

“You wish to be consistent, don’t you? Leave all other mad and wicked

people as well. Then you’ll find it easier to reform the rest.”

Maskull frowned, but said nothing.

“Well?” demanded Oceaxe, with a half smile.

“I’ll come with you, and I’ll see Crimtyphon—if only to warn him.”

Oceaxe broke into a cascade of rich, feminine laughter, but whether at

the image conjured up by Maskull’s last words, or from some other cause,

he did not know. The conversation dropped.

At a distance of a couple of miles from the now towering cliffs, the

river made a sharp, right-angled turn to the west, and was no longer of

use to them on their journey. Maskull stared up doubtfully.

“It’s a stiff climb for a hot morning.”

“Let’s rest here a little,” said she, indicating a smooth flat island of

black rock, standing up just out of the water in the middle of the

river.

They accordingly went to it, and Maskull sat down. Oceaxe, however,

standing graceful and erect, turned her face toward the cliffs opposite,

and uttered a piercing and peculiar call.

“What is that for?” She did not answer. After waiting a minute, she

repeated the call. Maskull now saw a large bird detach itself from the

top of one of the precipices, and sail slowly down toward them. It was

followed by two others. The flight of these birds was exceedingly slow

and clumsy.

“What are they?” he asked.

She still returned no answer, but smiled rather peculiarly and sat down

beside him. Before many minutes he was able to distinguish the shapes

and colors of the flying monsters. They were not birds, but creatures

with long, snakelike bodies, and ten reptilian legs apiece, terminating

in fins which acted as wings. The bodies were of bright blue, the legs

and fins were yellow. They were flying, without haste, but in a somewhat

ominous fashion, straight toward them. He could make out a long, thin

spike projecting from each of the heads.

“They are shrowks,” explained Oceaxe at last. “If you want to know their

intention, I’ll tell you. To make a meal of us. First of all their

spikes will pierce us, and then their mouths, which are really suckers,

will drain us dry of blood—pretty thoroughly too; there are no half

measures with shrowks. They are toothless beasts, so don’t eat flesh.”

“As you show such admirable sangfroid,” said Maskull dryly, “I take it

there’s no particular danger.”

Nevertheless he instinctively tried to get on to his feet and failed. A

new form of paralysis was chaining him to the ground.

“Are you trying to get up?” asked Oceaxe smoothly.

“Well, yes, but those cursed reptiles seem to be nailing me down to the

rock with their wills. May I ask if you had any special object in view

in waking them up?”

“I assure you the danger is quite real, Maskull. Instead of talking and

asking questions, you had much better see what you can do with your

will.”

“I seem to have no will, unfortunately.”

Oceaxe was seized with a paroxysm of laughter, but it was still rich and

beautiful. “It’s obvious you aren’t a very heroic protector, Maskull. It

seems I must play the man, and you the woman. I expected better things

of your big body. Why, my husband would send those creatures dancing all

around the sky, by way of a joke, before disposing of them. Now watch

me. Two of the three I’ll kill; the third we will ride home on. Which

one shall we keep?”

The shrowks continued their slow, wobbling flight toward them. Their

bodies were of huge size. They produced in Maskull the same sensation of

loathing as insects did. He instinctively understood that as they hunted

with their wills, there was no necessity for them to possess a swift

motion.

“Choose which you please,” he said shortly. “They are equally

objectionable to me.”

“Then I’ll choose the leader, as it is presumably the most energetic

animal. Watch now.”

She stood upright, and her sorb suddenly blazed with fire. Maskull felt

something snap inside his brain. His limbs were free once more. The two

monsters in the rear staggered and darted head foremost toward the

earth, one after the other. He watched them crash on the ground, and

then lie motionless. The leader still came toward them, but he fancied

that its flight was altered in character; it was no longer menacing, but

tame and unwilling.

Oceaxe guided it with her will to the mainland shore opposite their

island rock. Its vast bulk lay there extended, awaiting her pleasure.

They immediately crossed the water.

Maskull viewed the shrowk at close quarters. It was about thirty feet

long. Its bright-coloured skin was shining, slippery, and leathery; a

mane of black hair covered its long neck. Its face was awesome and

unnatural, with its carnivorous eyes, frightful stiletto, and blood-

sucking cavity. There were true fins on its back and tail.

“Have you a good seat?” asked Oceaxe, patting the creature’s flank. “As

I have to steer, let me jump on first.”

She pulled up her gown, then climbed up and sat astride the animal’s

back, just behind the mane, which she clutched. Between her and the fin

there was just room for Maskull. He grasped the two flanks with his

outer hands; his third, new arm pressed against Oceaxe’s back, and for

additional security he was compelled to encircle her waist with it.

Directly he did so, he realised that he had been tricked, and that this

ride had been planned for one purpose only—to inflame his desires.

The third arm possessed a function of its own, of which hitherto he had

been ignorant. It was a developed magn. But the stream of love which was

communicated to it was no longer pure and noble—it was boiling,

passionate, and torturing. He gritted his teeth, and kept quiet, but

Oceaxe had not plotted the adventure to remain unconscious of his

feelings. She looked around, with a golden, triumphant smile. “The ride

will last some time, so hold on well!” Her voice was soft like a flute,

but rather malicious.

Maskull grinned, and said nothing. He dared not remove his arm.

The shrowk straddled on to its legs. It jerked itself forward, and rose

slowly and uncouthly in the air. They began to paddle upward toward the

painted cliffs. The motion was swaying, rocking, and sickening; the

contact of the brute’s slimy skin was disgusting. All this, however, was

merely background to Maskull, as he sat there with closed eyes, holding

on to Oceaxe. In the front and centre of his consciousness was the

knowledge that he was gripping a fair woman, and that her flesh was

responding to his touch like a lovely harp.

They climbed up and up. He opened his eyes, and ventured to look around

him. By this time they were already level with the top of the outer

rampart of precipices. There now came in sight a wild archipelago of

islands, with jagged outlines, emerging from a sea of air. The islands

were mountain summits; or, more accurately speaking, the country was a

high tableland, fissured everywhere by narrow and apparently bottomless

cracks. These cracks were in some cases like canals, in others like

lakes, in others merely holes in the ground, closed in all round. The

perpendicular sides of the islands—that is, the upper, visible parts of

the innumerable cliff faces—were of bare rock, gaudily coloured; but the

level surfaces were a tangle of wild plant life. The taller trees alone

were distinguishable from the shrowk’s back. They were of different

shapes, and did not look ancient; they were slender and swaying but did

not appear very graceful; they looked tough, wiry, and savage.

As Maskull continued to explore the landscape, he forgot Oceaxe and his

passion. Other strange feelings came to the front. The morning was gay

and bright. The sun scorched down, quickly-changing clouds sailed across

the sky, the earth was vivid, wild, and lonely. Yet he experienced no

aesthetic sensations—he felt nothing but an intense longing for action

and possession. When he looked at anything, he immediately wanted to

deal with it. The atmosphere of the land seemed not free, but sticky;

attraction and repulsion were its constituents. Apart from this wish to

play a personal part in what was going on around and beneath him, the

scenery had no significance for him.

So preoccupied was he, that his arm partly released its clasp. Oceaxe

turned around to gaze at him. Whether or not she was satisfied with what

she saw, she uttered a low laugh, like a peculiar chord.

“Cold again so quickly, Maskull?”

“What do you want?” he asked absently, still looking over the side.

“It’s extraordinary how drawn I feel to all this.”

“You wish to take a hand?”

“I wish to get down.”

“Oh, we have a good way to go yet.... So you really feel different?”

“Different from what? What are you talking about?” said Maskull, still

lost in abstraction.

Oceaxe laughed again. “It would be strange if we couldn’t make a man of

you, for the material is excellent.”

After that, she turned her back once more.

The air islands differed from water islands in another way. They were

not on a plane surface, but sloped upward, like a succession of broken

terraces, as the journey progressed. The shrowk had hitherto been flying

well above the ground; but now, when a new line of towering cliffs

confronted them, Oceaxe did not urge the beast upward, but caused it to

enter a narrow canyon, which intersected the mountains like a channel.

They were instantly plunged into deep shade. The canal was not above

thirty feet wide; the walls stretched upward on both sides for many

hundred feet. It was as cool as an ice chamber. When Maskull attempted

to plumb the chasm with his eyes, he saw nothing but black obscurity.

“What is at the bottom?” he asked.

“Death for you, if you go to look for it.”

“We know that. I mean, is there any kind of life down there?”

“Not that I have ever heard of,” said Oceaxe, “but of course all things

are possible.”

“I think very likely there is life,” he returned thoughtfully.

Her ironical laugh sounded out of the gloom. “Shall we go down and see?”

“You find that amusing?”

“No, not that. What I do find amusing is the big stranger with the

beard, who is so keenly interested in everything except himself.”

Maskull then laughed too. “I happen to be the only thing in Tormance

which is not a novelty for me.”

“Yes, but I am a novelty for you.”

The channel went zigzagging its way through the belly of the mountain,

and all the time they were gradually rising.

“At least I have heard nothing like your voice before,” said Maskull,

who, since he had no longer anything to look at, was at last ready for

conversation.

“What’s the matter with my voice?”

“It’s all that I can distinguish of you now; that’s why I mentioned it.”

“Isn’t it clear—don’t I speak distinctly?”

“Oh, it’s clear enough, but—it’s inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?”

“I won’t explain further,” said Maskull, “but whether you are speaking

or laughing, your voice is by far the loveliest and strangest instrument

I have ever listened to. And yet I repeat, it is inappropriate.”

“You mean that my nature doesn’t correspond?”

He was just considering his reply, when their talk was abruptly broken

off by a huge and terrifying, but not very loud sound rising up from the

gulf directly underneath them. It was a low, grinding, roaring thunder.

“The ground is rising under us!” cried Oceaxe.

“Shall we escape?”

She made no answer, but urged the shrowk’s flight upward, at such a

steep gradient that they retained their seats with difficulty. The floor

of the canyon, upheaved by some mighty subterranean force, could be

heard, and almost felt, coming up after them, like a gigantic landslip

in the wrong direction. The cliffs cracked, and fragments began to fall.

A hundred awful noises filled the air, growing louder and louder each

second—splitting, hissing, cracking, grinding, booming, exploding,

roaring. When they had still fifty feet or so to go, to reach the top, a

sort of dark, indefinite sea of broken rocks and soil appeared under

their feet, ascending rapidly, with irresistible might, accompanied by

the most horrible noises. The canal was filled up for two hundred yards,

before and behind them. Millions of tons of solid matter seemed to be

raised. The shrowk in its ascent was caught by the uplifted debris.

Beast and riders experienced in that moment all the horrors of an

earthquake—they were rolled violently over, and thrown among the rocks

and dirt. All was thunder, instability, motion, confusion.

Before they had time to realise their position, they were in the

sunlight. The upheaval still continued. In another minute or two the

valley floor had formed a new mountain, a hundred feet or more higher

than the old. Then its movement ceased suddenly. Every noise stopped, as

if by magic; not a rock moved. Oceaxe and Maskull picked themselves up

and examined themselves for cuts and bruises. The shrowk lay on its

side, panting violently, and sweating with fright.

“That was a nasty affair,” said Maskull, flicking the dirt off his

person.

Oceaxe staunched a cut on her chin with a corner of her robe.

“It might have been far worse.... I mean, it’s bad enough to come up,

but it’s death to go down, and that happens just as often.”

“Whatever induces you to live in such a country?”

“I don’t know, Maskull. Habit, I suppose. I have often thought of moving

out of it.”

“A good deal must be forgiven you for having to spend your life in a

place like this, where one is obviously never safe from one minute to

another.”

“You will learn by degrees,” she answered, smiling.

She looked hard at the monster, and it got heavily to its feet.

“Get on again, Maskull!” she directed, climbing back to her perch. “We

haven’t too much time to waste.”

He obeyed. They resumed their interrupted flight, this time over the

mountains, and in full sunlight. Maskull settled down again to his

thoughts. The peculiar atmosphere of the country continued to soak into

his brain. His will became so restless and uneasy that merely to sit

there in inactivity was a torture. He could scarcely endure not to be

doing something.

“How secretive you are, Maskull!” said Oceaxe quietly, without turning

her head.

“What secrets—what do you mean?”

“Oh, I know perfectly well what’s passing inside you. Now I think it

wouldn’t be amiss to ask you—is friendship still enough?”

“Oh, don’t ask me anything,” growled Maskull. “I’ve far too many

problems in my head already. I only wish I could answer some of them.”

He stared stonily at the landscape. The beast was winging its way toward

a distant mountain, of singular shape. It was an enormous natural

quadrilateral pyramid, rising in great terraces and terminating in a

broad, flat top, on which what looked like green snow still lingered.

“What mountain is that?” he asked.

“Disscourn. The highest point in Ifdawn.”

“Are we going there?”

“Why should we go there? But if you were going on farther, it might be

worth your while to pay a visit to the top. It commands the whole land

as far as the Sinking Sea and Swaylone’s Island—and beyond. You can also

see Alppain from it.”

“That’s a sight I mean to see before I have finished.”

“Do you, Maskull?” She turned around and put her hand on his wrist.

“Stay with me, and one day we’ll go to Disscourn together.”

He grunted unintelligibly.

There were no signs of human existence in the country under their feet.

While Maskull was still grimly regarding it, a large tract of forest not

far ahead, bearing many trees and rocks, suddenly subsided with an awful

roar and crashed down into an invisible gulf. What was solid land one

minute became a clean-cut chasm the next. He jumped violently up with

the shock. “This is frightful.”

Oceaxe remained unmoved.

“Why, life here must be absolutely impossible,” he went on, when he had

somewhat recovered himself. “A man would need nerves of steel.... Is

there no means at all of foreseeing a catastrophe like this?”

“Oh, I suppose we wouldn’t be alive if there weren’t,” replied Oceaxe,

with composure. “We are more or less clever at it—but that doesn’t

prevent our often getting caught.”

“You had better teach me the signs.”

“We’ll have many things to go over together. And among them, I expect,

will be whether we are to stay in the land at all.... But first let us

get home.”

“How far is it now?”

“It is right in front of you,” said Oceaxe, pointing with her

forefinger. “You can see it.”

He followed the direction of the finger and, after a few questions, made

out the spot she was indicating. It was a broad peninsula, about two

miles distant. Three of its sides rose sheer out of a lake of air, the

bottom of which was invisible; its fourth was a bottleneck, joining it

to the mainland. It was overgrown with bright vegetation, distinct in

the brilliant atmosphere. A single tall tree, shooting up in the middle

of the peninsula, dwarfed everything else; it was wide and shady with

sea-green leaves.

“I wonder if Crimtyphon is there,” remarked Oceaxe. “Can I see two

figures, or am I mistaken?”

“I also see something,” said Maskull.

In twenty minutes they were directly above the peninsula, at a height of

about fifty feet. The shrowk slackened speed, and came to earth on the

mainland, exactly at the gateway of the isthmus. They both

descended—Maskull with aching thighs.

“What shall we do with the monster?” asked Oceaxe. Without waiting for a

suggestion, she patted its hideous face with her hand. “Fly away home! I

may want you some other time.”

It gave a stupid grunt, elevated itself on its legs again, and, after

half running, half flying for a few yards, rose awkwardly into the air,

and paddled away in the same direction from which they had come. They

watched it out of sight, and then Oceaxe started to cross the neck of

land, followed by Maskull.

Branchspell’s white rays beat down on them with pitiless force. The sky

had by degrees become cloudless, and the wind had dropped entirely. The

ground was a rich riot of vividly coloured ferns, shrubs, and grasses.

Through these could be seen here and there the golden chalky soil—and

occasionally a glittering, white metallic boulder. Everything looked

extraordinary and barbaric. Maskull was at last walking in the weird

Ifdawn Marest which had created such strange feelings in him when seen

from a distance.... And now he felt no wonder or curiosity at all, but

only desired to meet human beings—so intense had grown his will. He

longed to test his powers on his fellow creatures, and nothing else

seemed of the least importance to him.

On the peninsula all was coolness and delicate shade. It resembled a

large copse, about two acres in extent. In the heart of the tangle of

small trees and undergrowth was a partially cleared space—perhaps the

roots of the giant tree growing in the centre had killed off the smaller

fry all around it. By the side of the tree sparkled a little, bubbling

fountain, whose water was iron-red. The precipices on all sides,

overhung with thorns, flowers, and creepers, invested the enclosure with

an air of wild and charming seclusion—a mythological mountain god might

have dwelt here.

Maskull’s restless eye left everything, to fall on the two men who

formed the centre of the picture.

One was reclining, in the ancient Grecian fashion of banqueters on a

tall couch of mosses, sprinkled with flowers; he rested on one arm, and

was eating a kind of plum, with calm enjoyment. A pile of these plums

lay on the couch beside him. The over-spreading branches of the tree

completely sheltered him from the sun. His small, boyish form was clad

in a rough skin, leaving his limbs naked. Maskull could not tell from

his face whether he were a young boy or a grown man. The features were

smooth, soft, and childish, their expression was seraphically tranquil;

but his violet upper eye was sinister and adult. His skin was of the

colour of yellow ivory. His long, curling hair matched his sorb—it was

violet. The second man was standing erect before the other, a few feet

away from him. He was short and muscular, his face was broad, bearded,

and rather commonplace, but there was something terrible about his

appearance. The features were distorted by a deep-seated look of pain,

despair, and horror.

Oceaxe, without pausing, strolled lightly and lazily up to the outermost

shadows of the tree, some distance from the couch.

“We have met with an uplift,” she remarked carelessly, looking toward

the youth.

He eyed her, but said nothing.

“How is your plant man getting on?” Her tone was artificial but

extremely beautiful. While waiting for an answer, she sat down on the

ground, her legs gracefully thrust under her body, and pulled down the

skirt of her robe. Maskull remained standing just behind her, with

crossed arms.

There was silence for a minute.

“Why don’t you answer your mistress, Sature?” said the boy on the couch,

in a calm, treble voice.

The man addressed did not alter his expression, but replied in a

strangled tone, “I am getting on very well, Oceaxe. There are already

buds on my feet. Tomorrow I hope to take root.”

Maskull felt a rising storm inside him. He was perfectly aware that

although these words were uttered by Sature, they were being dictated by

the boy.

“What he says is quite true,” remarked the latter. “Tomorrow roots will

reach the ground, and in a few days they ought to be well established.

Then I shall set to work to convert his arms into branches, and his

fingers into leaves. It will take longer to transform his head into a

crown, but still I hope—in fact I can almost promise that within a month

you and I, Oceaxe, will be plucking and enjoying fruit from this new and

remarkable tree.”

“I love these natural experiments,” he concluded, putting out his hand

for another plum. “They thrill me.”

“This must be a joke,” said Maskull, taking a step forward.

The youth looked at him serenely. He made no reply, but Maskull felt as

if he were being thrust backward by an iron hand on his throat.

“The morning’s work is now concluded, Sature. Come here again after

Blodsombre. After tonight you will remain here permanently, I expect, so

you had better set to work to clear a patch of ground for your roots.

Never forget—however fresh and charming these plants appear to you now,

in the future they will be your deadliest rivals and enemies. Now you

may go.”

The man limped painfully away, across the isthmus, out of sight. Oceaxe

yawned.

Maskull pushed his way forward, as if against a wall. “Are you joking,

or are you a devil?”

“I am Crimtyphon. I never joke. For that epithet of yours, I will devise

a new punishment for you.”

The duel of wills commenced without ceremony. Oceaxe got up, stretched

her beautiful limbs, smiled, and prepared herself to witness the

struggle between her old lover and her new. Crimtyphon smiled too; he

reached out his hand for more fruit, but did not eat it. Maskull’s self-

control broke down and he dashed at the boy, choking with red fury—his

beard wagged and his face was crimson. When he realised with whom he had

to deal, Crimtyphon left off smiling, slipped off the couch, and threw a

terrible and malignant glare into his sorb. Maskull staggered. He

gathered together all the brute force of his will, and by sheer weight

continued his advance. The boy shrieked and ran behind the couch, trying

to get away.... His opposition suddenly collapsed. Maskull stumbled

forward, recovered himself, and then vaulted clear over the high pile of

mosses, to get at his antagonist. He fell on top of him with all his

bulk. Grasping his throat, he pulled his little head completely around,

so that the neck was broken. Crimtyphon immediately died.

The corpse lay underneath the tree with its face upturned. Maskull

viewed it attentively, and as he did so an expression of awe and wonder

came into his own countenance. In the moment of death Crimtyphon’s face

had undergone a startling and even shocking alteration. Its personal

character had wholly vanished, giving place to a vulgar, grinning mask

which expressed nothing.

He did not have to search his mind long, to remember where he had seen

the brother of that expression. It was identical with that on the face

of the apparition at the siance, after Krag had dealt with it.

Chapter 10. TYDOMIN

Oceaxe sat down carelessly on the couch of mosses, and began eating the

plums.

“You see, you had to kill him, Maskull,” she said, in a rather quizzical

voice.

He came away from the corpse and regarded her—still red, and still

breathing hard. “It’s no joking matter. You especially ought to keep

quiet.”

“Why?”

“Because he was your husband.”

“You think I ought to show grief—when I feel none?”

“Don’t pretend, woman!”

Oceaxe smiled. “From your manner one would think you were accusing me of

some crime.”

Maskull literally snorted at her words. “What, you live with filth—you

live in the arms of a morbid monstrosity and then—”

“Oh, now I grasp it,” she said, in a tone of perfect detachment.

“I’m glad.”

“Well, Maskull,” she proceeded, after a pause, “and who gave you the

right to rule my conduct? Am I not mistress of my own person?”

He looked at her with disgust, but said nothing. There was another long

interval of silence.

“I never loved him,” said Oceaxe at last, looking at the ground.

“That makes it all the worse.”

“What does all this mean—what do you want?”

“Nothing from you—absolutely nothing—thank heaven!”

She gave a hard laugh. “You come here with your foreign preconceptions

and expect us all to bow down to them.”

“What preconceptions?”

“Just because Crimtyphon’s sports are strange to you, you murder him—and

you would like to murder me.”

“Sports! That diabolical cruelty.”

“Oh, you’re sentimental!” said Oceaxe contemptuously. “Why do you need

to make such a fuss over that man? Life is life, all the world over, and

one form is as good as another. He was only to be made a tree, like a

million other trees. If they can endure the life, why can’t he?”

“And this is Ifdawn morality!”

Oceaxe began to grow angry. “It’s you who have peculiar ideas. You rave

about the beauty of flowers and trees—you think them divine. But when

it’s a question of taking on this divine, fresh, pure, enchanting

loveliness yourself, in your own person, it immediately becomes a cruel

and wicked degradation. Here we have a strange riddle, in my opinion.”

“Oceaxe, you’re a beautiful, heartless wild beast—nothing more. If you

weren’t a woman—”

“Well”—curling her lip—“let us hear what would happen if I weren’t a

woman?”

Maskull bit his nails.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t touch you—though there’s certainly not the

difference of a hair between you and your boy-husband. For this you may

thank my ‘foreign preconceptions.’... Farewell!”

He turned to go. Oceaxe’s eyes slanted at him through their long lashes.

“Where are you off to, Maskull?”

“That’s a matter of no importance, for wherever I go it must be a change

for the better. You walking whirlpools of crime!”

“Wait a minute. I only want to say this. Blodsombre is just starting,

and you had better stay here till the afternoon. We can quickly put that

body out of sight, and, as you seem to detest me so much, the place is

big enough—we needn’t talk, or even see each other.”

“I don’t wish to breathe the same air.”

“Singular man!” She was sitting erect and motionless, like a beautiful

statue. “And what of your wonderful interview with Surtur, and all the

undone things which you set out to do?”

“You aren’t the one I shall speak to about that. But”—he eyed her

meditatively—“while I’m still here you can tell me this. What’s the

meaning of the expression on that corpse’s face?”

“Is that another crime, Maskull? All dead people look like that. Ought

they not to?”

“I once heard it called ‘Crystalman’s face.’”

“Why not? We are all daughters and sons of Crystalman. It is doubtless

the family resemblance.”

“It has also been told me that Surtur and Crystalman are one and the

same.”

“You have wise and truthful acquaintances.”

“Then how could it have been Surtur whom I saw?” said Maskull, more to

himself than to her. “That apparition was something quite different.”

She dropped her mocking manner and, sliding imperceptibly toward him,

gently pulled his arm.

“You see—we have to talk. Sit down beside me, and ask me your questions.

I’m not excessively smart, but I’ll try to be of assistance.”

Maskull permitted himself to be dragged down with soft violence. She

bent toward him, as if confidentially, and contrived that her sweet,

cool, feminine breath should fan his cheek.

“Aren’t you here to alter the evil to the good, Maskull? Then what does

it matter who sent you?”

“What can you possibly know of good and evil?”

“Are you only instructing the initiated?”

“Who am I, to instruct anybody? However, you’re quite right. I wish to

do what I can—not because I am qualified, but because I am here.”

Oceaxe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re a giant, both in body and

soul. What you want to do, you can do.”

“Is that your honest opinion, or are you flattering me for your own

ends?”

She sighed. “Don’t you see how difficult you are making the

conversation? Let’s talk about your work, not about ourselves.”

Maskull suddenly noticed a strange blue light glowing in the northern

sky. It was from Alppain, but Alppain itself was behind the hills. While

he was observing it, a peculiar wave of self-denial, of a disquieting

nature, passed through him. He looked at Oceaxe, and it struck him for

the first time that he was being unnecessarily brutal to her. He had

forgotten that she was a woman, and defenceless.

“Won’t you stay?” she asked all of a sudden, quite openly and frankly.

“Yes, I think I’ll stay,” he replied slowly. “And another thing,

Oceaxe—if I’ve misjudged your character, pray forgive me. I’m a hasty,

passionate man.”

“There are enough easygoing men. Hard knocks are a good medicine for

vicious hearts. And you didn’t misjudge my character, as far as you

went—only, every woman has more than one character. Don’t you know

that?”

During the pause that followed, a snapping of twigs was heard, and both

looked around, startled. They saw a woman stepping slowly across the

neck that separated them from the mainland.

“Tydomin,” muttered Oceaxe, in a vexed, frightened voice. She

immediately moved away from Maskull and stood up.

The newcomer was of middle height, very slight and graceful. She was no

longer quite young. Her face wore the composure of a woman who knows her

way about the world. It was intensely pale, and under its quiescence

there just was a glimpse of something strange and dangerous. It was

curiously alluring, though not exactly beautiful. Her hair was

clustering and boyish, reaching only to the neck. It was of a strange

indigo colour. She was quaintly attired in a tunic and breeches, pieced

together from the square, blue-green plates of some reptile. Her small,

ivory-white breasts were exposed. Her sorb was black and sad—rather

contemplative.

Without once glancing up at Oceaxe and Maskull, she quietly glided

straight toward Crimtyphon’s corpse. When she arrived within a few feet

of it, she stopped and looked down, with arms folded.

Oceaxe drew Maskull a little away, and whispered, “It’s Crimtyphon’s

other wife, who lives under Disscourn. She’s a most dangerous woman. Be

careful what you say. If she asks you to do anything, refuse it

outright.”

“The poor soul looks harmless enough.”

“Yes, she does—but the poor soul is quite capable of swallowing up Krag

himself.... Now, play the man.”

The murmur of their voices seemed to attract Tydomin’s notice, for she

now slowly turned her eyes toward them.

“Who killed him?” she demanded.

Her voice was so soft, low, and refined, that Maskull hardly was able to

catch the words. The sounds, however, lingered in his ears, and

curiously enough seemed to grow stronger, instead of fainter.

Oceaxe whispered, “Don’t say a word, leave it all to me.” Then she swung

her body around to face Tydomin squarely, and said aloud, “I killed

him.”

Tydomin’s words by this time were ringing in Maskull’s head like an

actual physical sound. There was no question of being able to ignore

them; he had to make an open confession of his act, whatever the

consequences might be. Quietly taking Oceaxe by the shoulder and putting

her behind him, he said in a low, but perfectly distinct voice, “It was

I that killed Crimtyphon.”

Oceaxe looked both haughty and frightened. “Maskull says that so as to

shield me, as he thinks. I require no shield, Maskull. I killed him,

Tydomin.”

“I believe you, Oceaxe. You did murder him. Not with your own strength,

for you brought this man along for the purpose.”

Maskull took a couple of steps toward Tydomin. “It’s of little

consequence who killed him, for he’s better dead than alive, in my

opinion. Still, I did it. Oceaxe had no hand in the affair.”

Tydomin appeared not to hear him—she looked beyond him at Oceaxe

musingly. “When you murdered him, didn’t it occur to you that I would

come here, to find out?”

“I never once thought of you,” replied Oceaxe, with an angry laugh. “Do

you really imagine that I carry your image with me wherever I go?”

“If someone were to murder your lover here, what would you do?”

“Lying hypocrite!” Oceaxe spat out. “You never were in love with

Crimtyphon. You always hated me, and now you think it an excellent

opportunity to make it good... now that Crimtyphon’s gone.... For we

both know he would have made a footstool of you, if I had asked him. He

worshiped me, but he laughed at you. He thought you ugly.”

Tydomin flashed a quick, gentle smile at Maskull. “Is it necessary for

you to listen to all this?”

Without question, and feeling it the right thing to do, he walked away

out of earshot.

Tydomin approached Oceaxe. “Perhaps because my beauty fades and I’m no

longer young, I needed him all the more.”

Oceaxe gave a kind of snarl. “Well, he’s dead, and that’s the end of it.

What are you going to do now, Tydomin?”

The other woman smiled faintly and rather pathetically. “There’s nothing

left to do, except mourn the dead. You won’t grudge me that last

office?”

“Do you want to stay here?” demanded Oceaxe suspiciously.

“Yes, Oceaxe dear, I wish to be alone.”

“Then what is to become of us?”

“I thought that you and your lover—what is his name?”

“Maskull.”

“I thought that perhaps you two would go to Disscourn, and spend

Blodsombre at my home.”

Oceaxe called out aloud to Maskull, “Will you come with me now to

Disscourn?”

“If you wish,” returned Maskull.

“Go first, Oceaxe. I must question your friend about Crimtyphon’s death.

I won’t keep him.”

“Why don’t you question me, rather?” demanded Oceaxe, looking up

sharply.

Tydomin gave the shadow of a smile. “We know each other too well.”

“Play no tricks!” said Oceaxe, and she turned to go.

“Surely you must be dreaming,” said Tydomin. “That’s the way—unless you

want to walk over the cliffside.”

The path Oceaxe had chosen led across the isthmus. The direction which

Tydomin proposed for her was over the edge of the precipice, into empty

space.

“Shaping! I must be mad,” cried Oceaxe, with a laugh. And she obediently

followed the other’s finger.

She walked straight on toward the edge of the abyss, twenty paces away.

Maskull pulled his beard around, and wondered what she was doing.

Tydomin remained standing with outstretched finger, watching her.

Without hesitation, without slackening her step once, Oceaxe strolled

on—and when she had reached the extreme end of the land she still took

one more step.

Maskull saw her limbs wrench as she stumbled over the edge. Her body

disappeared, and as it did so an awful shriek sounded.

Disillusionment had come to her an instant too late. He tore himself out

of his stupor, rushed to the edge of the cliff, threw himself on the

ground recklessly, and looked over.... Oceaxe had vanished.

He continued staring wildly down for several minutes, and then began to

sob. Tydomin came up to him, and he got to his feet.

The blood kept rushing to his face and leaving it again. It was some

time before he could speak at all. Then he brought out the words with

difficulty. “You shall pay for this, Tydomin. But first I want to hear

why you did it.”

“Hadn’t I cause?” she asked, standing with downcast eyes.

“Was it pure fiendishness?”

“It was for Crimtyphon’s sake.”

“She had nothing to do with that death. I told you so.”

“You are loyal to her, and I’m loyal to him.”

“Loyal? You’ve made a terrible blunder. She wasn’t my mistress. I killed

Crimtyphon for quite another reason. She had absolutely no part in it.”

“Wasn’t she your lover?” asked Tydomin slowly.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” repeated Maskull. “I killed him

because he was a wild beast. She was as innocent of his death as you

are.”

Tydomin’s face took on a hard look. “So you are guilty of two deaths.”

There was a dreadful silence.

“Why couldn’t you believe me?” asked Maskull, who was pale and sweating

painfully.

“Who gave you the right to kill him?” demanded Tydomin sternly.

He said nothing, and perhaps did not hear her question.

She sighed two or three times and began to stir restlessly. “Since you

murdered him, you must help me bury him.”

“What’s to be done? This is a most fearful crime.”

“You are a most fearful man. Why did you come here, to do all this? What

are we to you?”

“Unfortunately you are right.”

Another pause ensued.

“It’s no use standing here,” said Tydomin. “Nothing can be done. You

must come with me.”

“Come with you? Where to?”

“To Disscourn. There’s a burning lake on the far side of it. He always

wished to be cast there after death. We can do that after Blodsombre—in

the meantime we must take him home.”

“You’re a callous, heartless woman. Why should he be buried when that

poor girl must remain unburied?”

“You know that’s out of the question,” replied Tydomin quietly.

Maskull’s eyes roamed about agitatedly, apparently seeing nothing.

“We must do something,” she continued. “I shall go. You can’t wish to

stay here alone?”

“No, I couldn’t stay here—and why should I want to? You want me to carry

the corpse?”

“He can’t carry himself, and you murdered him. Perhaps it will ease your

mind to carry it.”

“Ease my mind?” said Maskull, rather stupidly.

“There’s only one relief for remorse, and that’s voluntary pain.”

“And have you no remorse?” he asked, fixing her with a heavy eye.

“These crimes are yours, Maskull,” she said in a low but incisive voice.

They walked over to Crimtyphon’s body, and Maskull hoisted it on to his

shoulders. It weighed heavier than he had thought. Tydomin did not offer

to assist him to adjust the ghastly burden.

She crossed the isthmus, followed by Maskull. Their path lay through

sunshine and shadow. Branchspell was blazing in a cloudless sky, the

heat was insufferable—streams of sweat coursed down his face, and the

corpse seemed to grow heavier and heavier. Tydomin always walked in

front of him. His eyes were fastened in an unseeing stare on her white,

womanish calves; he looked neither to right nor left. His features grew

sullen. At the end of ten minutes he suddenly allowed his burden to slip

off his shoulders on to the ground, where it lay sprawled every which

way. He called out to Tydomin.

She quickly looked around.

“Come here. It has just occurred to me”—he laughed—“why should I be

carrying this corpse—and why should I be following you at all? What

surprises me is, why this has never struck me before.”

She at once came back to him. “I suppose you’re tired, Maskull. Let us

sit down. Perhaps you have come a long way this morning?”

“Oh, it’s not tiredness, but a sudden gleam of sense. Do you know of any

reason why I should be acting as your porter?” He laughed again, but

nevertheless sat down on the ground beside her.

Tydomin neither looked at him nor answered. Her head was half bent, so

as to face the northern sky, where the Alppain light was still glowing.

Maskull followed her gaze, and also watched the glow for a moment or two

in silence.

“Why don’t you speak?” he asked at last.

“What does that light suggest to you, Maskull?”

“I’m not speaking of that light.”

“Doesn’t it suggest anything at all?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. What does it matter?”

“Not sacrifice?”

Maskull grew sullen again. “Sacrifice of what? What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t it entered your head yet,” said Tydomin, looking straight in

front of her, and speaking in her delicate, hard manner, “that this

adventure of yours will scarcely come to an end until you have made some

sort of sacrifice?”

He returned no answer, and she said nothing more. In a few minutes’ time

Maskull got up of his own accord, and irreverently, and almost angrily,

threw Crimtyphon’s corpse over his shoulder again.

“How far do we have to go?” he asked in a surly tone.

“An hour’s walk.”

“Lead on.”

“Still, this isn’t the sacrifice I mean,” said Tydomin quietly, as she

went on in front.

Almost immediately they reached more difficult ground. They had to pass

from peak to peak, as from island to island. In some cases they were

able to stride or jump across, but in others they had to make use of

rude bridges of fallen timber. It appeared to be a frequented path.

Underneath were the black, impenetrable abysses—on the surface were the

glaring sunshine, the gay, painted rocks, the chaotic tangle of strange

plants. There were countless reptiles and insects. The latter were

thicker built than those of Earth—consequently still more disgusting,

and some of them were of enormous size. One monstrous insect, as large

as a horse, stood right in the centre of their path without budging. It

was armour-plated, had jaws like scimitars, and underneath its body was

a forest of legs. Tydomin gave one malignant look at it, and sent it

crashing into the gulf.

“What have I to offer, except my life?” Maskull suddenly broke out. “And

what good is that? It won’t bring that poor girl back into the world.”

“Sacrifice is not for utility. It’s a penalty which we pay.”

“I know that.”

“The point is whether you can go on enjoying life, after what has

happened.”

She waited for Maskull to come even with her.

“Perhaps you imagine I’m not man enough—you imagine that because I

allowed poor Oceaxe to die for me—”

“She did die for you,” said Tydomin, in a quiet, emphatic voice.

“That would be a second blunder of yours,” returned Maskull, just as

firmly. “I was not in love with Oceaxe, and I’m not in love with life.”

“Your life is not required.”

“Then I don’t understand what you want, or what you are speaking about.”

“It’s not for me to ask a sacrifice from you, Maskull. That would be

compliance on your part, but not sacrifice. You must wait until you feel

there’s nothing else for you to do.”

“It’s all very mysterious.”

The conversation was abruptly cut short by a prolonged and frightful

crashing, roaring sound, coming from a short distance ahead. It was

accompanied by a violent oscillation of the ground on which they stood.

They looked up, startled, just in time to witness the final

disappearance of a huge mass of forest land, not two hundred yards in

front of them. Several acres of trees, plants, rocks, and soil, with all

its teeming animal life, vanished before their eyes, like a magic story.

The new chasm was cut, as if by a knife. Beyond its farther edge the

Alppain glow burned blue just over the horizon.

“Now we shall have to make a detour,” said Tydomin, halting.

Maskull caught hold of her with his third hand. “Listen to me, while I

try to describe what I’m feeling. When I saw that landslip, everything I

have heard about the last destruction of the world came into my mind. It

seemed to me as if I were actually witnessing it, and that the world

were really falling to pieces. Then, where the land was, we now have

this empty, awful gulf—that’s to say, nothing—and it seems to me as if

our life will come to the same condition, where there was something

there will be nothing. But that terrible blue glare on the opposite side

is exactly like the eye of fate. It accuses us, and demands what we have

made of our life, which is no more. At the same time, it is grand and

joyful. The joy consists in this—that it is in our power to give freely

what will later on be taken from us by force.”

Tydomin watched him attentively. “Then your feeling is that your life is

worthless, and you make a present of it to the first one who asks?”

“No, it goes beyond that. I feel that the only thing worth living for is

to be so magnanimous that fate itself will be astonished at us.

Understand me. It isn’t cynicism, or bitterness, or despair, but

heroism.... It’s hard to explain.”

“Now you shall hear what sacrifice I offer you, Maskull. It’s a heavy

one, but that’s what you seem to wish.”

“That is so. In my present mood it can’t be too heavy.”

“Then, if you are in earnest, resign your body to me. Now that

Crimtyphon’s dead, I’m tired of being a woman.”

“I fail to comprehend.”

“Listen, then. I wish to start a new existence in your body. I wish to

be a male. I see it isn’t worth while being a woman. I mean to dedicate

my own body to Crimtyphon. I shall tie his body and mine together, and

give them a common funeral in the burning lake. That’s the sacrifice I

offer you. As I said, it’s a hard one.”

“So you do ask me to die. Though how you can make use of my body is

difficult to understand.”

“No, I don’t ask you to die. You will go on living.”

“How is it possible without a body?”

Tydomin gazed at him earnestly. “There are many such beings, even in

your world. There you call them spirits, apparitions, phantoms. They are

in reality living wills, deprived of material bodies, always longing to

act and enjoy, but quite unable to do so. Are you noble-minded enough to

accept such a state, do you think?”

“If it’s possible, I accept it,” replied Maskull quietly. “Not in spite

of its heaviness, but because of it. But how is it possible?”

“Undoubtedly there are very many things possible in our world of which

you have no conception. Now let us wait till we get home. I don’t hold

you to your word, for unless it’s a free sacrifice I will have nothing

to do with it.”

“I am not a man who speaks lightly. If you can perform this miracle, you

have my consent, once for all.”

“Then we’ll leave it like that for the present,” said Tydomin sadly.

They proceeded on their way. Owing to the subsidence, Tydomin seemed

rather doubtful at first as to the right road, but by making a long

divergence they eventually got around to the other side of the newly

formed chasm. A little later on, in a narrow copse crowning a miniature,

insulated peak, they fell in with a man. He was resting himself against

a tree, and looked tired, overheated, and despondent. He was young. His

beardless expression bore an expression of unusual sincerity, and in

other respects he seemed a hardy, hardworking youth, of an intellectual

type. His hair was thick, short, and flaxen. He possessed neither a sorb

nor a third arm—so presumably he was not a native of Ifdawn. His

forehead, however, was disfigured by what looked like a haphazard

assortment of eyes, eight in number, of different sizes and shapes. They

went in pairs, and whenever two were in use, it was indicated by a

peculiar shining—the rest remained dull, until their turn came. In

addition to the upper eyes he had the two lower ones, but they were

vacant and lifeless. This extraordinary battery of eyes, alternatively

alive and dead, gave the young man an appearance of almost alarming

mental activity. He was wearing nothing but a sort of skin kilt. Maskull

seemed somehow to recognise the face, though he had certainly never set

eyes on it before.

Tydomin suggested to him to set down the corpse, and both sat down to

rest in the shade.

“Question him, Maskull,” she said, rather carelessly, jerking her head

toward the stranger.

Maskull sighed and asked aloud, from his seat on the ground, “What’s

your name, and where do you come from?”

The man studied him for a few moments, first with one pair of eyes, then

with another, then with a third. He next turned his attention to

Tydomin, who occupied him a still longer time. He replied at last, in a

dry, manly, nervous voice. “I am Digrung. I have arrived here from

Matterplay.” His colour kept changing, and Maskull suddenly realised of

whom he reminded him. It was of Joiwind.

“Perhaps you’re going to Poolingdred, Digrung?” he inquired, interested.

“As a matter of fact I am—if I can find my way out of this accursed

country.”

“Possibly you are acquainted with Joiwind there?”

“She’s my sister. I’m on my way to see her now. Why, do you know her?”

“I met her yesterday.”

“What is your name, then?”

“Maskull.”

“I shall tell her I met you. This will be our first meeting for four

years. Is she well, and happy?”

“Both, as far as I could judge. You know Panawe?”

“Her husband—yes. But where do you come from? I’ve seen nothing like you

before.”

“From another world. Where is Matterplay?”

“It’s the first country one comes to beyond the Sinking Sea.”

“What is it like there—how do you amuse yourselves? The same old murders

and sudden deaths?”

“Are you ill?” asked Digrung. “Who is this woman, why are you following

at her heels like a slave? She looks insane to me. What’s that

corpse—why are you dragging it around the country with you?”

Tydomin smiled. “I’ve already heard it said about Matterplay, that if

one sows an answer there, a rich crop of questions immediately springs

up. But why do you make this unprovoked attack on me, Digrung?”

“I don’t attack you, woman, but I know you. I see into you, and I see

insanity. That wouldn’t matter, but I don’t like to see a man of

intelligence like Maskull caught in your filthy meshes.”

“I suppose even you clever Matterplay people sometimes misjudge

character. However, I don’t mind. Your opinion’s nothing to me, Digrung.

You’d better answer his questions, Maskull. Not for his own sake—but

your feminine friend is sure to be curious about your having been seen

carrying a dead man.”

Maskull’s underlip shot out. “Tell your sister nothing, Digrung. Don’t

mention my name at all. I don’t want her to know about this meeting of

ours.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wish it—isn’t that enough?”

Digrung looked impassive.

“Thoughts and words,” he said, “which don’t correspond with the real

events of the world are considered most shameful in Matterplay.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, only to keep silent.”

“To hide the truth is a special branch of lying. I can’t accede to your

wish. I must tell Joiwind everything, as far as I know it.”

Maskull got up, and Tydomin followed his example.

She touched Digrung on the arm and gave him a strange look. “The dead

man is my husband, and Maskull murdered him. Now you’ll understand why

he wishes you to hold your tongue.”

“I guessed there was some foul play,” said Digrung. “It doesn’t matter—I

can’t falsify facts. Joiwind must know.”

“You refuse to consider her feelings?” said Maskull, turning pale.

“Feelings which flourish on illusions, and sicken and die on realities,

aren’t worth considering. But Joiwind’s are not of that kind.”

“If you decline to do what I ask, at least return home without seeing

her; your sister will get very little pleasure out of the meeting when

she hears your news.”

“What are these strange relations between you?” demanded Digrung, eying

him with suddenly aroused suspicion.

Maskull stared back in a sort of bewilderment. “Good God! You don’t

doubt your own sister. That pure angel!”

Tydomin caught hold of him delicately. “I don’t know Joiwind, but,

whoever she is and whatever she’s like, I know this—she’s more fortunate

in her friend than in her brother. Now, if you really value her

happiness, Maskull, you will have to take some firm step or other.”

“I mean to. Digrung, I shall stop your journey.”

“If you intend a second murder, no doubt you are big enough.”

Maskull turned around to Tydomin and laughed. “I seem to be leaving a

wake of corpses behind me on this journey.”

“Why a corpse? There’s no need to kill him.”

“Thanks for that!” said Digrung dryly. “All the same, some crime is

about to burst. I feel it.”

“What must I do, then?” asked Maskull.

“It is not my business, and to tell the truth I am not very

interested.... If I were in your place, Maskull, I would not hesitate

long. Don’t you understand how to absorb these creatures, who set their

feeble, obstinate wills against yours?”

“That is a worse crime,” said Maskull.

“Who knows? He will live, but he will tell no tales.”

Digrung laughed, but changed colour. “I was right then. The monster has

sprung into the light of day.”

Maskull laid a hand on his shoulder. “You have the choice, and we are

not joking. Do as I ask.”

“You have fallen low, Maskull. But you are walking in a dream, and I

can’t talk to you. As for you, woman—sin must be like a pleasant bath to

you....”

“There are strange ties between Maskull and myself; but you are a

passer-by, a foreigner. I care nothing for you.”

“Nevertheless, I shall not be frightened out of my plans, which are

legitimate and right.”

“Do as you please,” said Tydomin. “If you come to grief, your thoughts

will hardly have corresponded with the real events of the world, which

is what you boast about. It is no affair of mine.”

“I shall go on, and not back!” exclaimed Digrung, with angry emphasis.

Tydomin threw a swift, evil smile at Maskull. “Bear witness that I have

tried to persuade this young man. Now you must come to a quick decision

in your own mind as to which is of the greatest importance, Digrung’s

happiness or Joiwind’s. Digrung won’t allow you to preserve them both.”

“It won’t take me long to decide, Digrung, I gave you a last chance to

change your mind.”

“As long as it’s in my power I shall go on, and warn my sister against

her criminal friends.”

Maskull again clutched at him, but this time with violence. Instructed

in his actions by some new and horrible instinct, he pressed the young

man tightly to his body with all three arms. A feeling of wild, sweet

delight immediately passed through him. Then for the first time he

comprehended the triumphant joys of “absorbing.” It satisfied the hunger

of the will, exactly as food satisfies the hunger of the body. Digrung

proved feeble—he made little opposition. His personality passed slowly

and evenly into Maskull’s. The latter became strong and gorged. The

victim gradually became paler and limper, until Maskull held a corpse in

his arms. He dropped the body, and stood trembling. He had committed his

second crime. He felt no immediate difference in his soul, but...

Tydomin shed a sad smile on him, like winter sunshine. He half expected

her to speak, but she said nothing. Instead, she made a sign to him to

pick up Crimtyphon’s corpse. As he obeyed, he wondered why Digrung’s

dead face did not wear the frightful Crystalman mask.

“Why hasn’t he altered?” he muttered to himself.

Tydomin heard him. She kicked Digrung lightly with her little foot. “He

isn’t dead—that’s why. The expression you mean is waiting for your

death.”

“Then is that my real character?”

She laughed softly. “You came here to carve a strange world, and now it

appears you are carved yourself. Oh, there’s no doubt about it, Maskull.

You needn’t stand there gaping. You belong to Shaping, like the rest of

us. You are not a king, or a god.”

“Since when have I belonged to him?”

“What does that matter? Perhaps since you first breathed the air of

Tormance, or perhaps since five minutes ago.”

Without waiting for his response, she set off through the copse, and

strode on to the next island. Maskull followed, physically distressed

and looking very grave.

The journey continued for half an hour longer, without incident. The

character of the scenery slowly changed. The mountaintops became loftier

and more widely separated from one another. The gaps were filled with

rolling, white clouds, which bathed the shores of the peaks like a

mysterious sea. To pass from island to island was hard work, the

intervening spaces were so wide—Tydomin, however, knew the way. The

intense light, the violet-blue sky, the patches of vivid landscape,

emerging from the white vapour-ocean, made a profound impression on

Maskull’s mind. The glow of Alppain was hidden by the huge mass of

Disscourn, which loomed up straight in front of them.

The green snow on the top of the gigantic pyramid had by now completely

melted away. The black, gold, and crimson of its mighty cliffs stood out

with terrific brilliance. They were directly beneath the bulk of the

mountain, which was not a mile away. It did not appear dangerous to

climb, but he was unaware on which side of it their destination lay.

It was split from top to bottom by numerous straight fissures. A few

pale-green waterfalls descended here and there, like narrow, motionless

threads. The face of the mountain was rugged and bare. It was strewn

with detached boulders, and great, jagged rocks projected everywhere

like iron teeth. Tydomin pointed to a small black hole near the base,

which might be a cave. “That is where I live.”

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an odd choice for a woman—and you are not unbeautiful, either.”

“A woman’s life is over at twenty-five,” she replied, sighing. “And I am

far older than that. Ten years ago it would have been I who lived

yonder, and not Oceaxe. Then all this wouldn’t have happened.”

*****

A quarter of an hour later they stood within the mouth of the cave. It

was ten feet high, and its interior was impenetrably black.

“Put down the body in the entrance, out of the sun,” directed Tydomin.

He did so.

She cast a keenly scrutinising glance at him. “Does your resolution

still hold, Maskull?”

“Why shouldn’t it hold? My brains are not feathers.”

“Follow me, then.”

They both stepped into the cave. At that very moment a sickening crash,

like heavy thunder just over their heads, set Maskull’s weakened heart

thumping violently. An avalanche of boulders, stones, and dust, swept

past the cave entrance from above. If their going in had been delayed by

a single minute, they would have been killed.

Tydomin did not even look up. She took his hand in hers, and started

walking with him into the darkness. The temperature became as cold as

ice. At the first bend the light from the outer world disappeared,

leaving them in absolute blackness. Maskull kept stumbling over the

uneven ground, but she kept tight hold of him, and hurried him along.

The tunnel seemed of interminable length. Presently, however, the

atmosphere changed—or such was his impression. He was somehow led to

imagine that they had come to a larger chamber. Here Tydomin stopped,

and then forced him down with quiet pressure. His groping hand

encountered stone and, by feeling it all over, he discovered that it was

a sort of stone slab, or couch, raised a foot or eighteen inches from

the ground. She told him to lie down.

“Has the time come?” asked Maskull.

“Yes.”

He lay there waiting in the darkness, ignorant of what was going to

happen. He felt her hand clasping his. Without perceiving any gradation,

he lost all consciousness of his body; he was no longer able to feel his

limbs or internal organs. His mind remained active and alert. Nothing

particular appeared to be taking place.

Then the chamber began to grow light, like very early morning. He could

see nothing, but the retina of his eyes was affected. He fancied that he

heard music, but while he was listening for it, it stopped. The light

grew stronger, the air grew warmer; he heard the confused sound of

distant voices.

Suddenly Tydomin gave his hand a powerful squeeze. He heard someone

scream faintly, and then the light leaped up, and he saw everything

clearly.

He was lying on a wooden couch, in a strangely decorated room, lighted

by electricity. His hand was being squeezed, not by Tydomin, but by a

man dressed in the garments of civilisation, with whose face he was

certainly familiar, but under what circumstances he could not recall.

Other people stood in the background—they too were vaguely known to him.

He sat up and began to smile, without any especial reason; and then

stood upright.

Everybody seemed to be watching him with anxiety and emotion—he wondered

why. Yet he felt that they were all acquaintances. Two in particular he

knew—the man at the farther end of the room, who paced restlessly

backward and forward, his face transfigured by stern, holy grandeur; and

that other big, bearded man—who was himself. Yes—he was looking at his

own double. But it was just as if a crime-riddled man of middle age were

suddenly confronted with his own photograph as an earnest, idealistic

youth.

His other self spoke to him. He heard the sounds, but did not comprehend

the sense. Then the door was abruptly flung open, and a short, brutish-

looking individual leaped in. He began to behave in an extraordinary

manner to everyone around him; and after that came straight up to

him—Maskull. He spoke some words, but they were incomprehensible. A

terrible expression came over the newcomer’s face, and he grasped his

neck with a pair of hairy hands. Maskull felt his bones bending and

breaking, excruciating pains passed through all the nerves of his body,

and he experienced a sense of impending death. He cried out, and sank

helplessly on the floor, in a heap. The chamber and the company

vanished—the light went out.

Once more he found himself in the blackness of the cave. He was this

time lying on the ground, but Tydomin was still with him, holding his

hand. He was in horrible bodily agony, but this was only a setting for

the despairing anguish that filled his mind.

Tydomin addressed him in tones of gentle reproach. “Why are you back so

soon? I’ve not had time yet. You must return.”

He caught hold of her, and pulled himself up to his feet. She gave a low

scream, as though in pain. “What does this mean—what are you doing,

Maskull?”

“Krag—” began Maskull, but the effort to produce his words choked him,

so that he was obliged to stop.

“Krag—what of Krag? Tell me quickly what has happened. Free my arm.”

He gripped her arm tighter.

“Yes, I’ve seen Krag. I’m awake.”

“Oh! You are awake, awake.”

“And you must die,” said Maskull, in an awful voice.

“But why? What has happened?...”

“You must die, and I must kill you. Because I am awake, and for no other

reason. You blood-stained dancing mistress!”

Tydomin breathed hard for a little time. Then she seemed suddenly to

regain her self-possession.

“You won’t offer me violence, surely, in this black cave?”

“No, the sun shall look on, for it is not a murder. But rest assured

that you must die—you must expiate your fearful crimes.”

“You have already said so, and I see you have the power. You have

escaped me. It is very curious. Well, then, Maskull, let us come

outside. I am not afraid. But kill me courteously, for I have also been

courteous to you. I make no other supplication.”

Chapter 11. ON DISSCOURN

BY THE TIME that they regained the mouth of the cavern, Blodsombre was

at its height. In front of them the scenery sloped downward—a long

succession of mountain islands in a sea of clouds. Behind them the

bright, stupendous crags of Disscourn loomed up for a thousand feet or

more. Maskull’s eyes were red, and his face looked stupid; he was still

holding the woman by the arm. She made no attempt to speak, or to get

away. She seemed perfectly gentle and composed.

After gazing at the country for a long time in silence, he turned toward

her. “Whereabouts is the fiery lake you spoke of?”

“It lies on the other side of the mountain. But why do you ask?”

“It is just as well if we have some way to walk. I shall grow calmer,

and that’s what I want. I wish you to understand that what is going to

happen is not a murder, but an execution.”

“It will taste the same,” said Tydomin.

“When I have gone out of this country, I don’t wish to feel that I have

left a demon behind me, wandering at large. That would not be fair to

others. So we will go to the lake, which promises an easy death for

you.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “We must wait till Blodsombre is over.”

“Is this a time for luxurious feelings? However hot it is now, we will

both be cool by evening. We must start at once.”

“Without doubt, you are the master, Maskull.... May I not carry

Crimtyphon?”

Maskull looked at her strangely.

“I grudge no man his funeral.”

She painfully hoisted the body on her narrow shoulders, and they stepped

out into the sunlight. The heat struck them like a blow on the head.

Maskull moved aside, to allow her to precede him, but no compassion

entered his heart. He brooded over the wrongs the woman had done him.

The way went along the south side of the great pyramid, near its base.

It was a rough road, clogged with boulders and crossed by cracks and

water gullies; they could see the water, but could not get at it. There

was no shade. Blisters formed on their skin, while all the water in

their blood seemed to dry up.

Maskull forgot his own tortures in his devil’s delight at Tydomin’s.

“Sing me a song!” he called out presently. “A characteristic one.”

She turned her head and gave him a long, peculiar look; then, without

any sort of expostulation, started singing. Her voice was low and weird.

The song was so extraordinary that he had to rub his eyes to ascertain

whether he was awake or dreaming. The slow surprises of the grotesque

melody began to agitate him in a horrible fashion; the words were pure

nonsense—or else their significance was too deep for him.

“Where, in the name of all unholy things, did you acquire that stuff,

woman?”

Tydomin shed a sickly smile, while the corpse swayed about with ghastly

jerks over her left shoulder. She held it in position with her two left

arms. “It’s a pity we could not have met as friends, Maskull. I could

have shown you a side of Tormance which now perhaps you will never see.

The wild, mad side. But now it’s too late, and it doesn’t matter.”

They turned the angle of the mountain, and started to traverse the

western base.

“Which is the quickest way out of this miserable land?” asked Maskull.

“It is easiest to go to Sant.”

“Will we see it from anywhere?”

“Yes, though it is a long way off.”

“Have you been there?”

“I am a woman, and interdicted.”

“True. I have heard something of the sort.”

“But don’t ask me any more questions,” said Tydomin, who was becoming

faint.

Maskull stopped at a little spring. He himself drank, and then made a

cup of his hand for the woman, so that she might not have to lay down

her burden. The gnawl water acted like magic—it seemed to replenish all

the cells of his body as though they had been thirsty sponge pores,

sucking up liquid. Tydomin recovered her self-possession.

About three-quarters of an hour later they worked around the second

corner, and entered into full view of the north aspect of Disscourn.

A hundred yards lower down the slope on which they were walking, the

mountain ended abruptly in a chasm. The air above it was filled with a

sort of green haze, which trembled violently like the atmosphere

immediately over a furnace.

“The lake is underneath,” said Tydomin.

Maskull looked curiously about him. Beyond the crater the country sloped

away in a continuous descent to the skyline. Behind them, a narrow path

channelled its way up through the rocks toward the towering summit of

the pyramid. Miles away, in the north-east quarter, a long, flat-topped

plateau raised its head far above all the surrounding country. It was

Sant—and there and then he made up his mind that that should be his

destination that day.

Tydomin meanwhile had walked straight to the gulf, and set down

Crimtyphon’s body on the edge. In a minute or two, Maskull joined her;

arrived at the brink, he immediately flung himself at full length on his

chest, to see what could be seen of the lake of fire. A gust of hot,

asphyxiating air smote his face and set him coughing, but he did not get

up until he had stared his fill at the huge sea of green, molten lava,

tossing and swirling at no great distance below, like a living will.

A faint sound of drumming came up. He listened intently, and as he did

so his heart quickened and the black cares rolled away from his soul.

All the world and its accidents seemed at that moment false, and without

meaning....

He climbed abstractedly to his feet. Tydomin was talking to her dead

husband. She was peering into the hideous face of ivory, and fondling

his violet hair. When she perceived Maskull, she hastily kissed the

withered lips, and got up from her knees. Lifting the corpse with all

three arms, she staggered with it to the extreme edge of the gulf and,

after an instant’s hesitation, allowed it to drop into the lava. It

disappeared immediately without sound; a metallic splash came up. That

was Crimtyphon’s funeral.

“Now I am ready, Maskull.”

He did not answer, but stared past her. Another figure was standing,

erect and mournful, not far behind her. It was Joiwind. Her face was

wan, and there was an accusing look in her eyes. Maskull knew that it

was a phantasm, and that the real Joiwind was miles away, at

Poolingdred.

“Turn around, Tydomin,” he said oddly, “and tell me what you see behind

you.”

“I don’t see anything,” she answered, looking around.

“But I see Joiwind.”

Just as he was speaking, the apparition vanished.

“Now I present you with your life, Tydomin. She wishes it.”

The woman fingered her chin thoughtfully.

“I little expected I should ever be beholden for my life to one of my

own sex—but so be it. What really happened to you in my cavern?”

“I really saw Krag.”

“Yes, some miracle must have taken place.” She suddenly shivered. “Come,

let us leave this horrible spot. I shall never come here again.”

“Yes,” said Maskull, “it stinks of death and dying. But where are we to

go—what are we to do? Take me to Sant. I must get away from this hellish

land.”

Tydomin remained standing, dull and hollow-eyed. Then she gave an

abrupt, bitter little laugh. “We make our journey together in singular

stages. Rather than be alone, I’ll come with you—but you know that if I

set foot in Sant they will kill me.”

“At least set me on the way. I wish to get there before night. Is it

possible?”

“If you are willing to take risks with nature. And why should you not

take risks today? Your luck holds. But someday or other it won’t

hold—your luck.”

“Let us start,” said Maskull. “The luck I’ve had so far is nothing to

brag about.”

Blodsombre was over when they set off; it was early afternoon, but the

heat seemed more stifling than ever. They made no more pretence at

conversation; both were buried in their own painful thoughts. The land

fell away from Disscourn in all other directions, but toward Sant there

was a gentle, persistent rise. Its dark, distant plateau continued to

dominate the landscape, and after walking for an hour they seemed none

the nearer to it. The air was stale and stagnant.

By and by, an upright object, apparently the work of man, attracted

Maskull’s notice. It was a slender tree stem, with the bark still on,

imbedded in the stony ground. From the upper end three branches sprang

out, pointing aloft at a sharp angle. They were stripped to twigs and

leaves and, getting closer, he saw that they had been artificially

fastened on, at equal distances from each other.

As he stared at the object, a strange, sudden flush of confident vanity

and self-sufficiency seemed to pass through him, but it was so momentary

that he could be sure of nothing.

“What may that be, Tydomin?”

“It is Hator’s Trifork.”

“And what is its purpose?”

“It’s a guide to Sant.”

“But who or what is Hator?”

“Hator was the founder of Sant—many thousands of years ago. He laid down

the principles they all live by, and that trifork is his symbol. When I

was a little child my father told me the legends, but I’ve forgotten

most of them.”

Maskull regarded it attentively.

“Does it affect you in any way?”

“And why should it do that?” she said, dropping her lip scornfully. “I

am only a woman, and these are masculine mysteries.”

“A sort of gladness came over me,” said Maskull, “but perhaps I am

mistaken.”

They passed on. The scenery gradually changed in character. The solid

parts of the land grew more continuous, the fissures became narrower and

more infrequent. There were now no more subsidences or upheavals. The

peculiar nature of the Ifdawn Marest appeared to be giving place to a

different order of things.

Later on, they encountered a flock of pale blue jellies floating in the

air. They were miniature animals. Tydomin caught one in her hand and

began to eat it, just as one eats a luscious pear plucked from a tree.

Maskull, who had fasted since early morning, was not slow in following

her example. A sort of electric vigour at once entered his limbs and

body, his muscles regained their elasticity, his heart began to beat

with hard, slow, strong throbs.

“Food and body seem to agree well in this world,” he remarked smiling.

She glanced toward him. “Perhaps the explanation is not in the food, but

in your body.”

“I brought my body with me.”

“You brought your soul with you, but that’s altering fast, too.”

In a copse they came across a short, wide tree, without leaves, but

possessing a multitude of thin, flexible branches, like the tentacles of

a cuttlefish. Some of these branches were moving rapidly. A furry

animal, somewhat resembling a wildcat, leaped about among them in the

most extraordinary way. But the next minute Maskull was shocked to

realise that the beast was not leaping at all, but was being thrown from

branch to branch by the volition of the tree, exactly as an imprisoned

mouse is thrown by a cat from paw to paw.

He watched the spectacle a while with morbid interest.

“That’s a gruesome reversal of rôles, Tydomin.”

“One can see you’re disgusted,” she replied, stifling a yawn. “But that

is because you are a slave to words. If you called that plant an animal,

you would find its occupation perfectly natural and pleasing. And why

should you not call it an animal?”

“I am quite aware that, as long as I remain in the Ifdawn Marest, I

shall go on listening to this sort of language.”

They trudged along for an hour or more without talking. The day became

overcast. A thin mist began to shroud the landscape, and the sun changed

into an immense ruddy disk which could be stared at without flinching. A

chill, damp wind blew against them. Presently it grew still darker, the

sun disappeared and, glancing first at his companion and then at

himself, Maskull noticed that their skin and clothing were coated by a

kind of green hoarfrost.

The land was now completely solid. About half a mile, in front of them,

against a background of dark fog, a moving forest of tall waterspouts

gyrated slowly and gracefully hither and thither. They were green and

self-luminous, and looked terrifying. Tydomin explained that they were

not waterspouts at all, but mobile columns of lightning.

“Then they are dangerous?”

“So we think,” she answered, watching them closely.

“Someone is wandering there who appears to have a different opinion.”

Among the spouts, and entirely encompassed by them, a man was walking

with a slow, calm, composed gait, his back turned toward Maskull and

Tydomin. There was something unusual in his appearance—his form looked

extraordinarily distinct, solid, and real.

“If there’s danger, he ought to be warned,” said Maskull.

“He who is always anxious to teach will learn nothing,” returned the

woman coolly. She restrained Maskull by a pressure of the arm, and

continued to watch.

The base of one of the columns touched the man. He remained unharmed,

but turned sharply around, as if for the first time made aware of the

proximity of these deadly waltzers. Then he raised himself to his full

height, and stretched both arms aloft above his head, like a diver. He

seemed to be addressing the columns.

While they looked on, the electric spouts discharged themselves, with a

series of loud explosions. The stranger stood alone, uninjured. He

dropped his arms. The next moment he caught sight of the two, and stood

still, waiting for them to come up. The pictorial clarity of his person

grew more and more noticeable as they approached; his body seemed to be

composed of some substance heavier and denser than solid matter.

Tydomin looked perplexed.

“He must be a Sant man. I have seen no one quite like him before. This

is a day of days for me.”

“He must be an individual of great importance,” murmured Maskull.

They now came up to him. He was tall, strong, and bearded, and was

clothed in a shirt and breeches of skin. Since turning his back to the

wind, the green deposit on his face and limbs had changed to streaming

moisture, through which his natural colour was visible; it was that of

pale iron. There was no third arm. His face was harsh and frowning, and

a projecting chin pushed the beard forward. On his forehead there were

two flat membranes, like rudimentary eyes, but no sorb. These membranes

were expressionless, but in some strange way seemed to add vigour to the

stern eyes underneath. When his glance rested on Maskull, the latter

felt as though his brain were being thoroughly travelled through. The

man was middle-aged.

His physical distinctness transcended nature. By contrast with him,

every object in the neighbourhood looked vague and blurred. Tydomin’s

person suddenly appeared faint, sketch-like, without significance, and

Maskull realised that it was no better with himself. A queer, quickening

fire began running through his veins.

He turned to the woman. “If this man is going to Sant, I shall bear him

company. We can now part. No doubt you will think it high time.”

“Let Tydomin come too.”

The words were delivered in a rough, foreign tongue, but were as

intelligible to Maskull as if spoken in English.

“You who know my name, also know my sex,” said Tydomin quietly. “It is

death for me to enter Sant.”

“That is the old law. I am the bearer of the new law.”

“Is it so—and will it be accepted?”

“The old skin is cracking, the new skin has been silently forming

underneath, the moment of sloughing has arrived.”

The storm gathered. The green snow drove against them, as they stood

talking, and it grew intensely cold. None noticed it.

“What is your name?” asked Maskull, with a beating heart.

“My name, Maskull, is Spadevil. You, a voyager across the dark ocean of

space, shall be my first witness and follower. You, Tydomin, a daughter

of the despised sex, shall be my second.”

“The new law? But what is it?”

“Until eye sees, of what use it is for ear to hear?.... Come, both of

you, to me!”

Tydomin went to him unhesitatingly. Spadevil pressed his hand on her

sorb and kept it there for a few minutes, while he closed his own eyes.

When he removed it, Maskull observed that the sorb was transformed into

twin membranes like Spadevil’s own.

Tydomin looked dazed. She glanced quietly about for a little while,

apparently testing her new faculty. Then the tears started to her eyes

and, snatching up Spadevil’s hand, she bent over and kissed it hurriedly

many times.

“My past has been bad,” she said. “Numbers have received harm from me,

and none good. I have killed—and worse. But now I can throw all that

away, and laugh. Nothing can now injure me. Oh, Maskull, you and I have

been fools together!”

“Don’t you repent your crimes?” asked Maskull.

“Leave the past alone,” said Spadevil, “it cannot be reshaped. The

future alone is ours. It starts fresh and clean from this very minute.

Why do you hesitate, Maskull? Are you afraid?”

“What is the name of those organs, and what is their function?”

“They are probes, and they are the gates opening into a new world.”

Maskull lingered no longer, but permitted Spadevil to cover his sorb.

While the iron hand was still pressing his forehead, the new law quietly

flowed into his consciousness, like a smooth-running stream of clean

water which had hitherto been dammed by his obstructive will. The law

was duty.

Chapter 12. SPADEVIL

Maskull found that his new organs had no independent function of their

own, but only intensified and altered his other senses. When he used his

eyes, ears, or nostrils, the same objects presented themselves to him,

but his judgment concerning them was different. Previously all external

things had existed for him; now he existed for them. According to

whether they served his purpose or were in harmony with his nature, or

otherwise, they had been pleasant or painful. Now these words “pleasure”

and “pain” simply had no meaning.

The other two watched him, while he was making himself acquainted with

his new mental outlook. He smiled at them.

“You were quite right, Tydomin,” he said, in a bold, cheerful voice. “We

have been fools. So near the light all the time, and we never guessed

it. Always buried in the past or future—systematically ignoring the

present—and now it turns out that apart from the present we have no life

at all.”

“Thank Spadevil for it,” she answered, more loudly than usual.

Maskull looked at the man’s dark, concrete form. “Spadevil, now I mean

to follow you to the end. I can do nothing less.”

The severe face showed no sign of gratification—not a muscle relaxed.

“Watch that you don’t lose your gift,” he said gruffly.

Tydomin spoke. “You promised that I should enter Sant with you.”

“Attach yourself to the truth, not to me. For I may die before you, but

the truth will accompany you to your death. However, now let us journey

together, all three of us.”

The words had not left his mouth before he put his face against the

fine, driving snow, and pressed onward toward his destination. He walked

with a long stride; Tydomin was obliged to half run in order to keep up

with him. The three travelled abreast; Spadevil in the middle. The fog

was so dense that it was impossible to see a hundred yards ahead. The

ground was covered by the green snow. The wind blew in gusts from the

Sant highlands and was piercingly cold.

“Spadevil, are you a man, or more than a man?” asked Maskull.

“He that is not more than a man is nothing.”

“Where have you now come from?”

“From brooding, Maskull. Out of no other mother can truth be born. I

have brooded, and rejected; and I have brooded again. Now, after many

months’ absence from Sant, the truth at last shines forth for me in its

simple splendour, like an upturned diamond.”

“I see its shining,” said Maskull. “But how much does it owe to ancient

Hator?”

“Knowledge has its seasons. The blossom was to Hator, the fruit is to

me. Hator also was a brooder—but now his followers do not brood. In Sant

all is icy selfishness, a living death. They hate pleasure, and this

hatred is the greatest pleasure to them.”

“But in what way have they fallen off from Hator’s doctrines?”

“For him, in his sullen purity of nature, all the world was a snare, a

limed twig. Knowing that pleasure was everywhere, a fierce, mocking

enemy, crouching and waiting at every corner of the road of life, in

order to kill with its sweet sting the naked grandeur of the soul, he

shielded himself behind pain. This also his followers do, but they do

not do it for the sake of the soul, but for the sake of vanity and

pride.”

“What is the Trifork?”

“The stem, Maskull, is hatred of pleasure. The first fork is

disentanglement from the sweetness of the world. The second fork is

power over those who still writhe in the nets of illusion. The third

fork is the healthy glow of one who steps into ice-cold water.”

“From what land did Hator come?”

“It is not said. He lived in Ifdawn for a while. There are many legends

told of him while there.”

“We have a long way to go,” said Tydomin. “Relate some of these legends,

Spadevil.”

The snow had ceased, the day brightened, Branchspell reappeared like a

phantom sun, but bitter blasts of wind still swept over the plain.

“In those days,” said Spadevil, “there existed in Ifdawn a mountain

island separated by wide spaces from the land around it. A handsome

girl, who knew sorcery, caused a bridge to be constructed across which

men and women might pass to it. Having by a false tale drawn Hator on to

this rock, she pushed at the bridge with her foot until it tumbled into

the depths below. ‘You and I, Hator, are now together, and there is no

means of separating. I wish to see how long the famous frost man can

withstand the breath, smiles and perfume of a girl.’ Hator said no word,

either then or all that day. He stood till sunset like a tree trunk, and

thought of other things. Then the girl grew passionate, and shook her

curls. She rose from where she was sitting she looked at him, and

touched his arm; but he did not see her. She looked at him, so that all

the soul was in her eyes; and then she fell down dead. Hator awoke from

his thoughts, and saw her lying, still warm, at his feet, a corpse. He

passed to the mainland; but how, it is not related.”

Tydomin shuddered. “You too have met your wicked woman, Spadevil; but

your method is a nobler one.”

“Don’t pity other women,” said Spadevil, “but love the right. Hator also

once conversed with Shaping.”

“With the Maker of the World?” said Maskull thoughtfully.

“With the Maker of Pleasure. It is told how Shaping defended his world,

and tried to force Hator to acknowledge loveliness and joy. But Hator,

answering all his marvellous speeches in a few concise, iron words,

showed how this joy and beauty was but another name for the bestiality

of souls wallowing in luxury and sloth. Shaping smiled, and said, ‘How

comes it that your wisdom is greater than that of the Master of wisdom?’

Hator said, ‘My wisdom does not come from you, nor from your world, but

from that other world, which you, Shaping, have vainly tried to

imitate.’ Shaping replied, ‘What, then, do you do in my world?’ Hator

said, ‘I am here falsely, and therefore I am subject to your false

pleasures. But I wrap myself in pain—not because it is good, but because

I wish to keep myself as far from you as possible. For pain is not

yours, neither does it belong to the other world, but it is the shadow

cast by your false pleasures.’ Shaping then said, ‘What is this faraway

other world of which you say “This is so—this is not so?” How happens it

that you alone of all my creatures have knowledge of it?’ But Hator spat

at his feet, and said, ‘You lie, Shaping. All have knowledge of it. You,

with your pretty toys, alone obscure it from our view.’ Shaping asked,

‘What, then, am I?’ Hator answered, ‘You are the dreamer of impossible

dreams.’ And then the story goes that Shaping departed, ill pleased with

what had been said.”

“What other world did Hator refer to?” asked Maskull.

“One where grandeur reigns, Maskull, just as pleasure reigns here.”

“Whether grandeur or pleasure, it makes no difference,” said Maskull.

“The individual spirit that lives and wishes to live is mean and

corrupt-natured.”

“Guard you your pride!” returned Spadevil. “Do not make law for the

universe and for all time, but for yourself and for this small, false

life of yours.”

“In what shape did death come to that hard, unconquerable man?” asked

Tydomin.

“He lived to be old, but went upright and free-limbed to his last hour.

When he saw that death could not be staved off longer he determined to

destroy himself. He gathered his friends around him; not from vanity,

but that they might see to what lengths the human soul can go in its

perpetual warfare with the voluptuous body. Standing erect, without

support, he died by withholding his breath.”

A silence followed, which lasted for perhaps an hour. Their minds

refused to acknowledge the icy winds, but the current of their thoughts

became frozen.

When Branchspell, however, shone out again, though with subdued power,

Maskull’s curiosity rose once more. “Your fellow countrymen, then,

Spadevil, are sick with self-love?”

“The men of other countries,” said Spadevil, “are the slaves of pleasure

and desire, knowing it. But the men of my country are the slaves of

pleasure and desire, not knowing it.”

“And yet that proud pleasure, which rejoices in self-torture, has

something noble in it.”

“He who studies himself at all is ignoble. Only by despising soul as

well as body can a man enter into true life.”

“On what grounds do they reject women?”

“Inasmuch as a woman has ideal love, and cannot live for herself. Love

for another is pleasure for the loved one, and therefore injurious to

him.”

“A forest of false ideas is waiting for your axe,” said Maskull. “But

will they allow it?”

“Spadevil knows, Maskull,” said Tydomin, “that be it today or be it

tomorrow, love can’t be kept out of a land, even by the disciples of

Hator.”

“Beware of love—beware of emotion!” exclaimed Spadevil. “Love is but

pleasure once removed. Think not of pleasing others, but of serving

them.”

“Forgive me, Spadevil, if I am still feminine.”

“Right has no sex. So long, Tydomin, as you remember that you are a

woman, so long you will not enter into divine apathy of soul.”

“But where there are no women, there are no children,” said Maskull.

“How came there to be all these generations of Hator men?”

“Life breeds passion, passion breeds suffering, suffering breeds the

yearning for relief from suffering. Men throng to Sant from all parts,

in order to have the scars of their souls healed.”

“In place of hatred of pleasure, which all can understand, what simple

formula do you offer?”

“Iron obedience to duty,” answered Spadevil.

“And if they ask ‘How far is this consistent with hatred of pleasure?’

what will your pronouncement be?”

“I do not answer them, but I answer you, Maskull, who ask the question.

Hatred is passion, and all passion springs from the dark fires of self.

Do not hate pleasure at all, but pass it by on one side, calm and

undisturbed.”

“What is the criterion of pleasure? How can we always recognise it, in

order to avoid it?”

“Rigidly follow duty, and such questions will not arise.”

Later in the afternoon, Tydomin timidly placed her fingers on Spadevil’s

arm.

“Fearful doubts are in my mind,” she said. “This expedition to Sant may

turn out badly. I have seen a vision of you, Spadevil, and myself lying

dead and covered in blood, but Maskull was not there.”

“We may drop the torch, but it will not be extinguished, and others will

raise it.”

“Show me a sign that you are not as other men—so that I may know that

our blood will not be wasted.”

Spadevil regarded her sternly. “I am not a magician. I don’t persuade

the senses, but the soul. Does your duty call you to Sant, Tydomin? Then

go there. Does it not call you to Sant? Then go no farther. Is not this

simple? What signs are necessary?”

“Did I not see you dispel those spouts of lightning? No common man could

have done that.”

“Who knows what any man can do? This man can do one thing, that man can

do another. But what all men can do is their duty; and to open their

eyes to this, I must go to Sant, and if necessary lay down my life. Will

you not still accompany me?”

“Yes,” said Tydomin, “I will follow you to the end. It is all the more

essential, because I keep on displeasing you with my remarks, and that

means I have not yet learned my lesson properly.”

“Do not be humble, for humility is only self-judgment, and while we are

thinking of self, we must be neglecting some action we could be planning

or shaping in our mind.”

Tydomin continued to be uneasy and preoccupied.

“Why was Maskull not in the picture?” she asked.

“You dwell on this foreboding because you imagine it is tragical. There

is nothing tragical in death, Tydomin, nor in life. There is only right

and wrong. What arises from right or wrong action does not matter. We

are not gods, constructing a world, but simple men and women, doing our

immediate duty. We may die in Sant—so you have seen it; but the truth

will go on living.”

“Spadevil, why do you choose Sant to start your work in?” asked Maskull.

“These men with fixed ideas seem to me the least likely of any to follow

a new light.”

“Where a bad tree thrives, a good tree will flourish. But where no tree

at all can be found, nothing will grow.”

“I understand you,” said Maskull. “Here perhaps we are going to

martyrdom, but elsewhere we should resemble men preaching to cattle.”

Shortly before sunset they arrived at the extremity of the upland plain,

above which towered the black cliffs of the Sant Levels. A dizzy,

artificially constructed staircase, of more than a thousand steps of

varying depth, twisting and forking in order to conform to the angles of

the precipices, led to the world overhead. In the place where they stood

they were sheltered from the cutting winds. Branchspell, radiantly

shining at last, but on the point of sinking, filled the cloudy sky with

violent, lurid colors, some of the combinations of which were new to

Maskull. The circle of the horizon was so gigantic, that had he been

suddenly carried back to Earth, he would by comparison have fancied

himself to be moving beneath the dome of some little, closed-in

cathedral. He realised that he was on a foreign planet. But he was not

stirred or uplifted by the knowledge; he was conscious only of moral

ideas. Looking backward, he saw the plain, which for several miles past

had been without vegetation, stretching back away to Disscourn. So

regular had been the ascent, and so great was the distance, that the

huge pyramid looked nothing more than a slight swelling on the face of

the earth.

Spadevil stopped, and gazed over the landscape in silence. In the

evening sunlight his form looked more dense, dark, and real than ever

before. His features were set hard in grimness.

He turned around to his companions. “What is the greatest wonder, in all

this wonderful scene?” he demanded.

“Acquaint us,” said Maskull.

“All that you see is born from pleasure, and moves on, from pleasure to

pleasure. Nowhere is right to be found. It is Shaping’s world.”

“There is another wonder,” said Tydomin, and she pointed her finger

toward the sky overhead.

A small cloud, so low down that it was perhaps not more than five

hundred feet above them, was sailing along in front of the dark wall of

cliff. It was in the exact shape of an open human hand, with downward-

pointing fingers. It was stained crimson by the sun; and one or two tiny

cloudlets beneath the fingers looked like falling drops of blood.

“Who can doubt now that our death is close at hand?” said Tydomin. “I

have been close to death twice today. The first time I was ready, but

now I am more ready, for I shall die side by side with the man who has

given me my first happiness.”

“Do not think of death, but of right persistence,” replied Spadevil. “I

am not here to tremble before Shaping’s portents; but to snatch men from

him.”

He at once proceeded to lead the way up the staircase. Tydomin gazed

upward after him for a moment, with an odd, worshiping light in her

eyes. Then she followed him, the second of the party. Maskull climbed

last. He was travel stained, unkempt, and very tired; but his soul was

at peace. As they steadily ascended the almost perpendicular stairs, the

sun got higher in the sky. Its light dyed their bodies a ruddy gold.

They gained the top. There they found rolling in front of them, as far

as the eye could see, a barren desert of white sand, broken here and

there by large, jagged masses of black rock. Tracts of the sand were

reddened by the sinking sun. The vast expanse of sky was filled by evil-

shaped clouds and wild colors. The freezing wind, flurrying across the

desert, drove the fine particles of sand painfully against their faces.

“Where now do you take us?” asked Maskull.

“He who guards the old wisdom of Sant must give up that wisdom to me,

that I may change it. What he says, others will say. I go to find

Maulger.”

“And where will you seek him, in this bare country?”

Spadevil struck off toward the north unhesitatingly.

“It is not so far,” he said. “It is his custom to be in that part where

Sant overhangs the Wombflash Forest. Perhaps he will be there, but I

cannot say.”

Maskull glanced toward Tydomin. Her sunken cheeks, and the dark circles

beneath her eyes told of her extreme weariness.

“The woman is tired, Spadevil,” he said.

She smiled. “It’s but another step into the land of death. I can manage

it. Give me your arm, Maskull.”

He put his arm around her waist, and supported her along that way.

“The sun is now sinking,” said Maskull. “Will we get there before dark?”

“Fear nothing, Maskull and Tydomin; this pain is eating up the evil in

your nature. The road you are walking cannot remain unwalked. We shall

arrive before dark.”

The sun then disappeared behind the far-distant ridges that formed the

western boundary of the Ifdawn Marest. The sky blazed up into more vivid

colors. The wind grew colder.

They passed some pools of colourless gnawl water, round the banks of

which were planted fruit trees. Maskull ate some of the fruit. It was

hard, bitter, and astringent; he could not get rid of the taste, but he

felt braced and invigorated by the downward-flowing juices. No other

trees or shrubs were to be seen anywhere. No animals appeared, no birds

or insects. It was a desolate land.

A mile or two passed, when they again approached the edge of the

plateau. Far down, beneath their feet, the great Wombflash Forest began.

But daylight had vanished there; Maskull’s eyes rested only on a vague

darkness. He faintly heard what sounded like the distant sighing of

innumerable treetops.

In the rapidly darkening twilight, they came abruptly on a man. He was

standing in a pool, on one leg. A pile of boulders had hidden him from

their view. The water came as far up as his calf. A trifork, similar to

the one Maskull had seen on Disscourn, but smaller, had been stuck in

the mud close by his hand.

They stopped by the side of the pond, and waited. Immediately he became

aware of their presence, the man set down his other leg, and waded out

of the water toward them, picking up his trifork in doing so.

“This is not Maulger, but Catice,” said Spadevil.

“Maulger is dead,” said Catice, speaking the same tongue as Spadevil,

but with an even harsher accent, so that the tympanum of Maskull’s ear

was affected painfully.

The latter saw before him a bowed, powerful individual, advanced in

years. He wore nothing but a scanty loincloth. His trunk was long and

heavy, but his legs were rather short. His face was beardless, lemon-

coloured, and anxious-looking. It was disfigured by a number of

longitudinal ruts, a quarter of an inch deep, the cavities of which

seemed clogged with ancient dirt. The hair of his head was black and

sparse. Instead of the twin membranous organs of Spadevil, he possessed

but one; and this was in the centre of his brow.

Spadevil’s dark, solid person stood out from the rest like a reality

among dreams.

“Has the trifork passed to you?” he demanded.

“Yes. Why have you brought this woman to Sant?”

“I have brought another thing to Sant. I have brought the new faith.”

Catice stood motionless, and looked troubled. “State it.”

“Shall I speak with many words, or few words?”

“If you wish to say what is not, many words will not suffice. If you

wish to say what is, a few words will be enough.”

Spadevil frowned.

“To hate pleasure brings pride with it. Pride is a pleasure. To kill

pleasure, we must attach ourselves to duty. While the mind is planning

right action, it has no time to think of pleasure.”

“Is that the whole?” asked Catice.

“The truth is simple, even for the simplest man.”

“Do you destroy Hator, and all his generations, with a single word?”

“I destroy nature, and set up law.”

A long silence followed.

“My probe is double,” said Spadevil. “Suffer me to double yours, and you

will see as I see.”

“Come you here, you big man!” said Catice to Maskull. Maskull advanced a

step closer.

“Do you follow Spadevil in his new faith?”

“As far as death,” exclaimed Maskull.

Catice picked up a flint. “With this stone I strike out one of your two

probes. When you have but one, you will see with me, and you will

recollect with Spadevil. Choose you then the superior faith, and I shall

obey your choice.”

“Endure this little pain, Maskull, for the sake of future men,” said

Spadevil.

“The pain is nothing,” replied Maskull, “but I fear the result.”

“Permit me, although I am only a woman, to take his place, Catice,” said

Tydomin, stretching out her hand.

He struck at it violently with the flint, and gashed it from wrist to

thumb; the pale carmine blood spouted up. “What brings this kiss-lover

to Sant?” he said. “How does she presume to make the rules of life for

the sons of Hator?”

She bit her lip, and stepped back. “Well then, Maskull, accept! I

certainly should not have played false to Spadevil; but you hardly can.”

“If he bids me, I must do it,” said Maskull. “But who knows what will

come of it?”

Spadevil spoke. “Of all the descendants of Hator, Catice is the most

wholehearted and sincere. He will trample my truth underfoot, thinking

me a demon sent by Shaping, to destroy the work of this land. But a seed

will escape, and my blood and yours, Tydomin, will wash it. Then men

will know that my destroying evil is their greatest good. But none here

will live to see that.”

Maskull now went quite close to Catice, and offered his head. Catice

raised his hand, and after holding the flint poised for a moment,

brought it down with adroitness and force upon the left-hand probe.

Maskull cried out with the pain. The blood streamed down, and the

function of the organ was destroyed.

There was a pause, while he walked to and fro, trying to staunch the

blood.

“What now do you feel, Maskull? What do you see?” inquired Tydomin

anxiously.

He stopped, and stared hard at her. “I now see straight,” he said

slowly.

“What does that mean?”

He continued to wipe the blood from his forehead. He looked troubled.

“Henceforward, as long as I live, I shall fight with my nature, and

refuse to feel pleasure. And I advise you to do the same.”

Spadevil gazed at him sternly. “Do you renounce my teaching?”

Maskull, however, returned the gaze without dismay. Spadevil’s image-

like clearness of form had departed for him; his frowning face he knew

to be the deceptive portico of a weak and confused intellect.

“It is false.”

“Is it false to sacrifice oneself for another?” demanded Tydomin.

“I can’t argue as yet,” said Maskull. “At this moment the world with its

sweetness seems to me a sort of charnel house. I feel a loathing for

everything in it, including myself. I know no more.”

“Is there no duty?” asked Spadevil, in a harsh tone.

“It appears to me but a cloak under which we share the pleasure of other

people.”

Tydomin pulled at Spadevil’s arm. “Maskull has betrayed you, as he has

so many others. Let us go.”

He stood fast. “You have changed quickly, Maskull.”

Maskull, without answering him, turned to Catice. “Why do men go on

living in this soft, shameful world, when they can kill themselves?”

“Pain is the native air of Surtur’s children. To what other air do you

wish to escape?”

“Surtur’s children? Is not Surtur Shaping?”

“It is the greatest of lies. It is Shaping’s masterpiece.”

“Answer, Maskull!” said Spadevil. “Do you repudiate right action?”

“Leave me alone. Go back! I am not thinking of you, and your ideas. I

wish you no harm.”

The darkness came on fast. There was another prolonged silence.

Catice threw away the flint, and picked up his staff. “The woman must

return home,” he said.

“She was persuaded here, and did not come freely. You, Spadevil, must

die—backslider as you are!”

Tydomin said quietly, “He has no power to enforce this. Are you going to

allow the truth to fall to the ground, Spadevil?”

“It will not perish by my death, but by my efforts to escape from death.

Catice, I accept your judgment.”

Tydomin smiled. “For my part, I am too tired to walk farther today, so I

shall die with him.”

Catice said to Maskull, “Prove your sincerity. Kill this man and his

mistress, according to the laws of Hator.”

“I can’t do that. I have travelled in friendship with them.”

“You denied duty; and now you must do your duty,” said Spadevil, calmly

stroking his beard. “Whatever law you accept, you must obey, without

turning to right or left. Your law commands that we must be stoned; and

it will soon be dark.”

“Have you not even this amount of manhood?” exclaimed Tydomin.

Maskull moved heavily. “Be my witness, Catice, that the thing was forced

on me.”

“Hator is looking on, and approving,” replied Catice.

Maskull then went apart to the pile of boulders scattered by the side of

the pool. He glanced about him, and selected two large fragments of

rock, the heaviest that he thought he could carry. With these in his

arms, he staggered back.

He dropped them on the ground, and stood, recovering his breath. When he

could speak again, he said, “I have a bad heart for the business. Is

there no alternative? Sleep here tonight, Spadevil, and in the morning

go back to where you have come from. No one shall harm you.”

Spadevil’s ironic smile was lost in the gloom.

“Shall I brood again, Maskull, for still another year, and after that

come back to Sant with other truths? Come, waste no time, but choose the

heavier stone for me, for I am stronger than Tydomin.”

Maskull lifted one of the rocks, and stepped out four full paces.

Spadevil confronted him, erect, and waited tranquilly.

The huge stone hurtled through the air. Its flight looked like a dark

shadow. It struck Spadevil full in the face, crushing his features, and

breaking his neck. He died instantaneously.

Tydomin looked away from the fallen man.

“Be very quick, Maskull, and don’t let me keep him waiting.”

He panted, and raised the second stone. She placed herself in front of

Spadevil’s body, and stood there, unsmiling and cold.

The blow caught her between breast and chin, and she fell. Maskull went

to her, and, kneeling on the ground, half-raised her in his arms. There

she breathed out her last sighs.

After that, he laid her down again, and rested heavily on his hands,

while he peered into the dead face. The transition from its heroic,

spiritual expression to the vulgar and grinning mask of Crystalman came

like a flash; but he saw it.

He stood up in the darkness, and pulled Catice toward him.

“Is that the true likeness of Shaping?”

“It is Shaping stripped of illusion.”

“How comes this horrible world to exist?”

Catice did not answer.

“Who is Surtur?”

“You will get nearer to him tomorrow; but not here.”

“I am wading through too much blood,” said Maskull. “Nothing good can

come of it.”

“Do not fear change and destruction; but laughter and joy.”

Maskull meditated.

“Tell me, Catice. If I had elected to follow Spadevil, would you really

have accepted his faith?”

“He was a great-souled man,” replied Catice. “I see that the pride of

our men is only another sprouting-out of pleasure. Tomorrow I too shall

leave Sant, to reflect on all this.”

Maskull shuddered. “Then these two deaths were not a necessity, but a

crime!”

“His part was played and henceforward the woman would have dragged down

his ideas, with her soft love and loyalty. Regret nothing, stranger, but

go away at once out of the land.”

“Tonight? Where shall I go?”

“To Wombflash, where you will meet the deepest minds. I will put you on

the way.”

He linked his arm in Maskull’s, and they walked away into the night. For

a mile or more they skirted the edge of the precipice. The wind was

searching, and drove grit into their faces. Through the rifts of the

clouds, stars, faint and brilliant, appeared. Maskull saw no familiar

constellations. He wondered if the sun of earth was visible, and if so

which one it was.

They came to the head of a rough staircase, leading down the cliffside.

It resembled the one by which he had come up; but this descended to the

Wombflash Forest.

“That is your path,” said Catice, “and I shall not come any farther.”

Maskull detained him. “Say just this, before we part company—why does

pleasure appear so shameful to us?”

“Because in feeling pleasure, we forget our home.”

“And that is—”

“Muspel,” answered Catice.

Having made this reply, he disengaged himself, and, turning his back,

disappeared into the darkness.

Maskull stumbled down the staircase as best he could. He was tired, but

contemptuous of his pains. His uninjured probe began to discharge

matter. He lowered himself from step to step during what seemed an

interminable time. The rustling and sighing of the trees grew louder as

he approached the bottom; the air became still and warm. Inky blackness

was all around him.

*****

He at last reached level ground. Still attempting to proceed, he began

to trip over roots, and to collide with tree trunks. After this had

happened a few times, he determined to go no farther that night. He

heaped together some dry leaves for a pillow, and immediately flung

himself down to sleep. Deep and heavy unconsciousness seized him almost

instantly.

Chapter 13. THE WOMBFLASH FOREST

He awoke to his third day on Tormance. His limbs ached. He lay on his

side, looking stupidly at his surroundings. The forest was like night,

but that period of the night when the grey dawn is about to break and

objects begin to be guessed at, rather than seen. Two or three amazing

shadowy shapes, as broad as houses, loomed up out of the twilight. He

did not realise that they were trees, until he turned over on his back

and followed their course upward. Far overhead, so high up that he dared

not calculate the height, he saw their tops glittering in the sunlight,

against a tiny patch of blue sky.

Clouds of mist, rolling over the floor of the forest, kept interrupting

his view. In their silent passage they were like phantoms flitting among

the trees. The leaves underneath him were sodden, and heavy drops of

moisture splashed onto his head from time to time.

He continued lying there, trying to reconstruct the events of the

preceding day. His brain was lethargic and confused. Something terrible

had happened, but what it was he could not for a long time recollect.

Then suddenly there came before his eyes that ghastly closing scene at

dusk on the Sant plateau—Spadevil’s crushed and bloody features and

Tydomin’s dying sighs.... He shuddered convulsively, and felt sick.

The peculiar moral outlook that had dictated these brutal murders had

departed from him during the night, and now he recognised what he had

done! During the whole of the previous day he seemed to have been

labouring under a series of heavy enchantments. First Oceaxe had

enslaved him, then Tydomin, then Spadevil, and lastly Catice. They had

forced him to murder and violate; he had guessed nothing, but had

imagined that he was travelling as a free and enlightened stranger. What

was this nightmare journey for—and would it continue, in the same

way?...

The silence of the forest was so intense that he heard no sound except

the pumping of blood through his arteries.

Putting his hand to his face, he found that his remaining probe had

disappeared and that he was in possession of three eyes. The third eye

was on his forehead, where the old sorb had been. He could not guess its

use. He still had his third arm, but it was nerveless.

Now he puzzled his head for a long time, trying unsuccessfully to recall

that name which had been the last word spoken by Catice.

He got up, with the intention of resuming his journey. He had no toilet

to make, and no meal to prepare. The forest was tremendous. The nearest

tree appeared to him to have a circumference of at least a hundred feet.

Other dim boles looked equally large. But what gave the scene its aspect

of immensity was the vast spaces separating tree from tree. It was like

some gigantic, supernatural hall in a life after death. The lowest

branches were fifty yards or more from the ground. There was no

underbrush; the soil was carpeted only by the dead, wet leaves. He

looked all around him, to find his direction, but the cliffs of Sant,

which he had descended, were invisible—every way was like every other

way, he had no idea which quarter to attack. He grew frightened, and

muttered to himself. Craning his neck back, he stared upward and tried

to discover the points of the compass from the direction of the

sunlight, but it was impossible.

While he was standing there, anxious and hesitating, he heard the drum

taps. The rhythmical beats proceeded from some distance off. The unseen

drummer seemed to be marching through the forest, away from him.

“Surtur!” he said, under his breath. The next moment he marvelled at

himself for uttering the name. That mysterious being had not been in his

thoughts, nor was there any ostensible connection between him and the

drumming.

He began to reflect—but in the meantime the sounds were travelling away.

Automatically he started walking in the same direction. The drum beats

had this peculiarity—though odd and mystical, there was nothing awe-

inspiring in them, but on the contrary they reminded him of some place

and some life with which he was perfectly familiar. Once again they

caused all his other sense impressions to appear false.

The sounds were intermittent. They would go on for a minute, or for five

minutes, and then cease for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Maskull

followed them as well as he could. He walked hard among the huge,

indistinct trees, in the attempt to come up with the origin of the

noise, but the same distance always seemed to separate them. The forest

from now onward descended. The gradient was mostly gentle—about one foot

in ten—but in some places it was much steeper, and in other parts again

it was practically level ground for quite long stretches. There were

great swampy marshes, through which Maskull was obliged to splash. It

was a matter of indifference to him how wet he became—if only he could

catch sight of that individual with the drum. Mile after mile was

covered, and still he was no nearer to doing so.

The gloom of the forest settled down upon his spirits. He felt

despondent, tired, and savage. He had not heard the drum beats for some

while, and was half inclined to discontinue the pursuit.

Passing around a great, columnar tree trunk, he almost stumbled against

a man who was standing on the farther side. He was leaning against the

trunk with one hand, in an attitude of repose. His other hand was

resting on a staff. Maskull stopped short and stared at him.

He was nearly naked, and of gigantic build. He over-topped Maskull by a

head. His face and body were faintly phosphorescent. His eyes—three in

number—were pale green and luminous, shining like lamps. His skin was

hairless, but the hair of his head was piled up in thick, black coils,

and fastened like a woman’s. His features were absolutely tranquil, but

a terrible, quiet energy seemed to lie just underneath the surface.

Maskull addressed him. “Did the drumming come from you?”

The man shook his head.

“What is your name?”

He replied in a strange, strained, twisted voice. Maskull gathered that

the name he gave was “Dreamsinter.”

“What is that drumming?”

“Surtur,” said Dreamsinter.

“Is it advisable for me to follow it?”

“Why?”

“Perhaps he intends me to. He brought me here from Earth.”

Dreamsinter caught hold of him, bent down, and peered into his face.

“Not you, but Nightspore.”

This was the first time that Maskull had heard Nightspore’s name since

his arrival on the planet. He was so astonished that he could frame no

more questions.

“Eat this,” said Dreamsinter. “Then we will chase the sound together.”

He picked something up from the ground and handed it to Maskull. He

could not see distinctly, but it felt like a hard, round nut, of the

size of a fist.

“I can’t crack it.”

Dreamsinter took it between his hands, and broke it into pieces. Maskull

then ate some of the pulpy interior, which was intensely disagreeable.

“What am I doing in Tormance, then?” he asked.

“You came to steal Muspel-fire, to give a deeper life to men—never

doubting if your soul could endure that burning.”

Maskull could hardly decipher the strangled words.

“Muspel.... That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember ever since I

awoke.”

Dreamsinter suddenly turned his head sideways, and appeared to listen

for something. He motioned with his hand to Maskull to keep quiet.

“Is it the drumming?”

“Hush! They come.”

He was looking toward the upper forest. The now familiar drum rhythm was

heard—this time accompanied by the tramp of marching feet.

Maskull saw, marching through the trees and heading toward them, three

men in single file separated from one another by only a yard or so. They

were travelling down hill at a swift pace, and looked neither to left

nor right. They were naked. Their figures were shining against the black

background of the forest with a pale, supernatural light—green and

ghostly. When they were abreast of him, about twenty feet off, he

perceived who they were. The first man was himself—Maskull. The second

was Krag. The third man was Nightspore. Their faces were grim and set.

The source of the drumming was out of sight. The sound appeared to come

from some point in front of them. Maskull and Dreamsinter put themselves

in motion, to keep up with the swiftly moving marchers. At the same time

a low, faint music began.

Its rhythm stepped with the drum beats, but, unlike the latter, it did

not seem to proceed from any particular quarter of the forest. It

resembled the subjective music heard in dreams, which accompanies the

dreamer everywhere, as a sort of natural atmosphere, rendering all his

experiences emotional. It seemed to issue from an unearthly orchestra,

and was strongly troubled, pathetic and tragic. Maskull marched, and

listened; and as he listened, it grew louder and stormier. But the pulse

of the drum interpenetrated all the other sounds, like the quiet beating

of reality.

His emotion deepened. He could not have said if minutes or hours were

passing. The spectral procession marched on, a little way ahead, on a

path parallel with his own and Dreamsinter’s. The music pulsated

violently. Krag lifted his arm, and displayed a long, murderous-looking

knife. He sprang forward and, raising it over the phantom Maskull’s

back, stabbed him twice, leaving the knife in the wound the second time.

Maskull threw up his arms, and fell down dead. Krag leaped into the

forest and vanished from sight. Nightspore marched on alone, stern and

unmoved.

The music rose to crescendo. The whole dim, gigantic forest was roaring

with sound. The tones came from all sides, from above, from the ground

under their feet. It was so grandly passionate that Maskull felt his

soul loosening from its bodily envelope.

He continued to follow Nightspore. A strange brightness began to glow in

front of them. It was not daylight, but a radiance such as he had never

seen before, and such as he could not have imagined to be possible.

Nightspore moved straight toward it. Maskull felt his chest bursting.

The light flashed higher. The awful harmonies of the music followed hard

one upon another, like the waves of a wild, magic ocean.... His body was

incapable of enduring such shocks, and all of a sudden he tumbled over

in a faint that resembled death.

Chapter 14. POLECRAB

The morning slowly passed. Maskull made some convulsive movements, and

opened his eyes. He sat up, blinking. All was night-like and silent in

the forest. The strange light had gone, the music had ceased,

Dreamsinter had vanished. He fingered his beard, clotted with Tydomin’s

blood, and fell into a deep muse.

“According to Panawe and Catice, this forest contains wise men. Perhaps

Dreamsinter was one. Perhaps that vision I have just seen was a specimen

of his wisdom. It looked almost like an answer to my question.... I

ought not to have asked about myself, but about Surtur. Then I would

have got a different answer. I might have learned something... I might

have seen him.”

He remained quiet and apathetic for a bit.

“But I couldn’t face that awful glare,” he proceeded. “It was bursting

my body. He warned me, too. And so Surtur does really exist, and my

journey stands for something. But why am I here, and what can I do? Who

is Surtur? Where is he to be found?”

Something wild came into his eyes.

“What did Dreamsinter mean by his ‘Not you, but Nightspore’? Am I a

secondary character—is he regarded as important; and I as unimportant?

Where is Nightspore, and what is he doing? Am I to wait for his time and

pleasure—can I originate nothing?”

He continued sitting up, with straight-extended legs.

“I must make up my mind that this is a strange journey, and that the

strangest things will happen in it. It’s no use making plans, for I

can’t see two steps ahead—everything is unknown. But one thing’s

evident: nothing but the wildest audacity will carry me through, and I

must sacrifice everything else to that. And therefore if Surtur shows

himself again, I shall go forward to meet him, even if it means death.”

Through the black, quiet aisles of the forest the drum beats came again.

The sound was a long way off and very faint. It was like the last

mutterings of thunder after a heavy storm. Maskull listened, without

getting up. The drumming faded into silence, and did not return.

He smiled queerly, and said aloud, “Thanks, Surtur! I accept the omen.”

When he was about to get up, he found that the shrivelled skin that had

been his third arm was flapping disconcertingly with every movement of

his body. He made perforations in it all around, as close to his chest

as possible, with the fingernails of both hands; then he carefully

twisted it off. In that world of rapid growth and ungrowth he judged

that the stump would soon disappear. After that, he rose and peered into

the darkness.

The forest at that point sloped rather steeply and, without thinking

twice about it, he took the downhill direction, never doubting it would

bring him somewhere. As soon as he started walking, his temper became

gloomy and morose—he was shaken, tired, dirty, and languid with hunger;

moreover, he realised that the walk was not going to be a short one. Be

that as it may, he determined to sit down no more until the whole dismal

forest was at his back.

One after another the shadowy, houselike trees were observed, avoided,

and passed. Far overhead the little patch of glowing sky was still

always visible; otherwise he had no clue to the time of day. He

continued tramping sullenly down the slope for many damp, slippery

miles—in some places through bogs. When, presently, the twilight seemed

to thin, he guessed that the open world was not far away. The forest

grew more palpable and grey, and now he saw its majesty better. The tree

trunks were like round towers, and so wide were the intervals that they

resembled natural amphitheatres. He could not make out the colour of the

bark. Everything he saw amazed him, but his admiration was of the

growling, grudging kind. The difference in light between the forest

behind him and the forest ahead became so marked that he could no longer

doubt that he was on the point of coming out.

Real light was in front of him; looking back, he found he had a shadow.

The trunks acquired a reddish tint. He quickened his pace. As the

minutes went by, the bright patch ahead grew luminous and vivid; it had

a tinge of blue. He also imagined that he heard the sound of surf.

All that part of the forest toward which he was moving became rich with

colour. The boles of the trees were of a deep, dark red; their leaves,

high above his head, were ulfire-hued; the dead leaves on the ground

were of a colour he could not name. At the same time he discovered the

use of his third eye. By adding a third angle to his sight, every object

he looked at stood out in greater relief. The world looked less

flat—more realistic and significant. He had a stronger attraction toward

his surroundings; he seemed somehow to lose his egotism, and to become

free and thoughtful.

Now through the last trees he saw full daylight. Less than half a mile

separated him from the border of the forest, and, eager to discover what

lay beyond, he broke into a run. He heard the surf louder. It was a

peculiar hissing sound that could proceed only from water, yet was

unlike the sea. Almost immediately he came within sight of an enormous

horizon of dancing waves, which he knew must be the Sinking Sea. He fell

back into a quick walk, continuing to stare hard. The wind that met him

was hot, fresh and sweet.

When he arrived at the final fringe of forest, which joined the wide

sands of the shore without any change of level, he leaned with his back

to a great tree and gazed his fill, motionless, at what lay in front of

him. The sands continued east and west in a straight line, broken only

here and there by a few creeks. They were of a brilliant orange colour,

but there were patches of violet. The forest appeared to stand sentinel

over the shore for its entire length. Everything else was sea and sky—he

had never seen so much water. The semicircle of the skyline was so vast

that he might have imagined himself on a flat world, with a range of

vision determined only by the power of his eye. The sea was unlike any

sea on Earth. It resembled an immense liquid opal. On a body colour of

rich, magnificent emerald-green, flashes of red, yellow, and blue were

everywhere shooting up and vanishing. The wave motion was extraordinary.

Pinnacles of water were slowly formed until they attained a height of

perhaps ten or twenty feet, when they would suddenly sink downward and

outward, creating in their descent a series of concentric rings for long

distances around them. Quickly moving currents, like rivers in the sea,

could be seen, racing away from land; they were of a darker green and

bore no pinnacles. Where the sea met the shore, the waves rushed over

the sands far in, with almost sinister rapidity—accompanied by a weird,

hissing, spitting sound, which was what Maskull had heard. The green

tongues rolled in without foam.

About twenty miles distant, as he judged, directly opposite him, a long,

low island stood up from the sea, black and not distinguished in

outline. It was Swaylone’s Island. Maskull was less interested in that

than in the blue sunset that glowed behind its back. Alppain had set,

but the whole northern sky was plunged into the minor key by its

afterlight. Branchspell in the zenith was white and overpowering, the

day was cloudless and terrifically hot; but where the blue sun had sunk,

a sombre shadow seemed to overhang the world. Maskull had a feeling of

disintegration—just as if two chemically distinct forces were

simultaneously acting upon the cells of his body. Since the afterglow of

Alppain affected him like this, he thought it more than likely that he

would never be able to face that sun itself, and go on living. Still,

some modification might happen to him that would make it possible.

The sea tempted him. He made up his mind to bathe, and at once walked

toward the shore. The instant he stepped outside the shadow line of the

forest trees, the blinding rays of the sun beat down on him so savagely

that for a few minutes he felt sick and his head swam. He trod quickly

across the sands. The orange-coloured parts were nearly hot enough to

roast food, he judged, but the violet parts were like fire itself. He

stepped on a patch in ignorance, and immediately jumped high into the

air with a startled yell.

The sea was voluptuously warm. It would not bear his weight, so he

determined to try swimming. First of all he stripped off his skin

garment, washed it thoroughly with sand and water, and laid it in the

sun to dry. Then he scrubbed himself as well as he could and washed out

his beard and hair. After that, he waded in a long way, until the water

reached his breast, and took to swimming—avoiding the spouts as far as

possible He found it no pastime. The water was everywhere of unequal

density. In some places he could swim, in others he could barely save

himself from drowning, in others again he could not force himself

beneath the surface at all. There were no outward signs to show what the

water ahead held in store for him. The whole business was most

dangerous.

He came out, feeling clean and invigorated. For a time he walked up and

down the sands, drying himself in the hot sunshine and looking around

him. He was a naked stranger in a huge, foreign, mystical world, and

whichever way he turned, unknown and threatening forces were glaring at

him. The gigantic, white, withering Branchspell, the awful, body-

changing Alppain, the beautiful, deadly, treacherous sea, the dark and

eerie Swaylone’s Island, the spirit-crushing forest out of which he had

just escaped—to all these mighty powers, surrounding him on every side,

what resources had he, a feeble, ignorant traveller from a tiny planet

on the other side of space, to oppose, to avoid being utterly

destroyed?... Then he smiled to himself. “I’ve already been here two

days, and still I survive. I have luck—and with that one can balance the

universe. But what is luck—a verbal expression, or a thing?”

As he was putting on his skin, which was now dry, the answer came to

him, and this time he was grave. “Surtur brought me here, and Surtur is

watching over me. That is my ‘luck.’... But what is Surtur in this

world?... How is he able to protect me against the blind and

ungovernable forces of nature? Is he stronger than Nature?...”

Hungry as he was for food, he was hungrier still for human society, for

he wished to inquire about all these things. He asked himself which way

he should turn his steps. There were only two ways; along the shore,

either east or west. The nearest creek lay to the east, cutting the

sands about a mile away. He walked toward it.

The forest face was forbidding and enormously high. It was so squarely

turned to the sea that it looked as though it had been planed by tools.

Maskull strode along in the shade of the trees, but kept his head

constantly turned away from them, toward the sea—there it was more

cheerful. The creek, when he reached it, proved to be broad and flat-

banked. It was not a river, but an arm of the sea. Its still, dark green

water curved around a bend out of sight, into the forest. The trees on

both banks overhung the water, so that it was completely in shadow.

He went as far as the bend, beyond which another short reach appeared. A

man was sitting on a narrow shelf of bank, with his feet in the water.

He was clothed in a coarse, rough hide, which left his limbs bare. He

was short, thick, and sturdy, with short legs and a long, powerful arms,

terminating in hands of an extraordinary size. He was oldish. His face

was plain, slablike, and expressionless; it was full of wrinkles, and

walnut-coloured. Both face and head were bald, and his skin was tough

and leathery. He seemed to be some sort of peasant, or fisherman; there

was no trace in his face of thought for others, or delicacy of feeling.

He possessed three eyes, of different colors—jade-green, blue, and

ulfire.

In front of him, riding on the water, moored to the bank, was an

elementary raft, consisting of the branches of trees, clumsily corded

together.

Maskull addressed him. “Are you another of the wise men of the Wombflash

Forest?”

The man answered him in a gruff, husky voice, looking up as he did so.

“I’m a fisherman. I know nothing about wisdom.”

“What name do you go by?”

“Polecrab. What’s yours?”

“Maskull. If you’re a fisherman, you ought to have fish. I’m famishing.”

Polecrab grunted, and paused a minute before answering.

“There’s fish enough. My dinner is cooking in the sands now. It’s easy

enough to get you some more.”

Maskull found this a pleasant speech.

“But how long will it take?” he asked.

The man slid the palms of his hands together, producing a shrill,

screeching noise. He lifted his feet from the water, and clambered onto

the bank. In a minute or two a curious little beast came crawling up to

his feet, turning its face and eyes up affectionately, like a dog. It

was about two feet long, and somewhat resembled a small seal, but had

six legs, ending in strong claws.

“Arg, go fish!” said Polecrab hoarsely.

The animal immediately tumbled off the bank into the water. It swam

gracefully to the middle of the creek and made a pivotal dive beneath

the surface, where it remained a great while.

“Simple fishing,” remarked Maskull. “But what’s the raft for?”

“To go to sea with. The best fish are out at sea. These are eatable.”

“That arg seems a highly intelligent creature.”

Polecrab grunted again. “I’ve trained close on a hundred of them. The

bigheads learn best, but they’re slow swimmers. The narrowheads swim

like eels, but can’t be taught. Now I’ve started interbreeding them—he’s

one of them.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“No, I’ve got a wife and three boys. My wife’s sleeping somewhere, but

where the lads are, Shaping knows.”

Maskull began to feel very much at home with this unsophisticated being.

“The raft’s all crazy,” he remarked, staring at it. “If you go far out

in that, you’ve got more pluck than I have.”

“I’ve been to Matterplay on it,” said Polecrab.

The arg reappeared and started swimming to shore, but this time

clumsily, as if it were bearing a heavy weight under the surface. When

it landed at its master’s feet, they saw that each set of claws was

clutching a fish—six in all. Polecrab took them from it. He proceeded to

cut off the heads and tails with a sharp-edged stone which he picked up;

these he threw to the arg, which devoured them without any fuss.

Polecrab beckoned to Maskull to follow him and, carrying the fish,

walked toward the open shore, by the same way that he had come. When

they reached the sands, he sliced the fish, removed the entrails, and

digging a shallow hole in a patch of violet sand, placed the remainder

of the carcasses in it, and covered them over again. Then he dug up his

own dinner. Maskull’s nostrils quivered at the savoury smell, but he was

not yet to dine.

Polecrab, turning to go with the cooked fish in his hands, said, “These

are mine, not yours. When yours are done, you can come back and join me,

supposing you want company.”

“How soon will that be?”

“About twenty minutes,” replied the fisherman, over his shoulder.

Maskull sheltered himself in the shadows of the forest, and waited. When

the time had approximately elapsed, he disinterred his meal, scorching

his fingers in the operation, although it was only the surface of the

sand which was so intensely hot. Then he returned to Polecrab.

In the warm, still air and cheerful shade of the inlet, they munched in

silence, looking from their food to the sluggish water, and back again.

With every mouthful Maskull felt his strength returning. He finished

before Polecrab, who ate like a man for whom time has no value. When he

had done, he stood up.

“Come and drink,” he said, in his husky voice.

Maskull looked at him inquiringly.

The man led him a little way into the forest, and walked straight up to

a certain tree. At a convenient height in its trunk a hole had been

tapped and plugged. Polecrab removed the plug and put his mouth to the

aperture, sucking for quite a long time, like a child at its mother’s

breast. Maskull, watching him, imagined that he saw his eyes growing

brighter.

When his own turn came to drink, he found the juice of the tree somewhat

like coconut milk in flavour, but intoxicating. It was a new sort of

intoxication, however, for neither his will not his emotions were

excited, but only his intellect—and that only in a certain way. His

thoughts and images were not freed and loosened, but on the contrary

kept labouring and swelling painfully, until they reached the full

beauty of an aperçu, which would then flame up in his consciousness,

burst, and vanish. After that, the whole process started over again. But

there was never a moment when he was not perfectly cool, and master of

his senses. When each had drunk twice, Polecrab replugged the hole, and

they returned to their bank.

“Is it Blodsombre yet?” asked Maskull, sprawling on the ground, well

content.

Polecrab resumed his old upright sitting posture, with his feet in the

water. “Just beginning,” was his hoarse response.

“Then I must stay here till it’s over.... Shall we talk?”

“We can,” said the other, without enthusiasm.

Maskull glanced at him through half-closed lids, wondering if he were

exactly what he seemed to be. In his eyes he thought he detected a wise

light.

“Have you travelled much, Polecrab?”

“Not what you would call travelling.”

“You tell me you’ve been to Matterplay—what kind of country is that?”

“I don’t know. I went there to pick up flints.”

“What countries lie beyond it?”

“Threal comes next, as you go north. They say it’s a land of mystics...

I don’t know.”

“Mystics?”

“So I’m told.... Still farther north there’s Lichstorm.”

“Now we’re going far afield.”

“There are mountains there—and altogether it must be a very dangerous

place, especially for a full-blooded man like you. Take care of

yourself.”

“This is rather premature, Polecrab. How do you know I’m going there?”

“As you’ve come from the south, I suppose you’ll go north.”

“Well, that’s right enough,” said Maskull, staring hard at him. “But how

do you know I’ve come from the south?”

“Well, then, perhaps you haven’t—but there’s a look of Ifdawn about

you.”

“What kind of look?”

“A tragical look,” said Polecrab. He never even glanced at Maskull, but

was gazing at a fixed spot on the water with unblinking eyes.

“What lies beyond Lichstorm?” asked Maskull, after a minute or two.

“Barey, where you have two suns instead of one—but beyond that fact I

know nothing about it.... Then comes the ocean.”

“And what’s on the other side of the ocean?”

“That you must find out for yourself, for I doubt if anybody has ever

crossed it and come back.”

Maskull was silent for a little while.

“How is it that your people are so unadventurous? I seem to be the only

one travelling from curiosity.”

“What do you mean by ‘your people’?”

“True—you don’t know that I don’t belong to your planet at all. I’ve

come from another world, Polecrab.”

“What to find?”

“I came here with Krag and Nightspore—to follow Surtur. I must have

fainted the moment I arrived. When I sat up, it was night and the others

had vanished. Since then I’ve been travelling at random.”

Polecrab scratched his nose. “You haven’t found Surtur yet?”

“I’ve heard his drum taps frequently. In the forest this morning I came

quite close to him. Then two days ago, in the Lusion Plain, I saw a

vision—a being in man’s shape, who called himself Surtur.”

“Well, maybe it was Surtur.”

“No, that’s impossible,” replied Maskull reflectively. “It was

Crystalman. And it isn’t a question of my suspecting it—I know it.”

“How?”

“Because this is Crystalman’s world, and Surtur’s world is something

quite different.”

“That’s queer, then,” said Polecrab.

“Since I’ve come out of that forest,” proceeded Maskull, talking half to

himself, “a change has come over me, and I see things differently.

Everything here looks much more solid and real in my eyes than in other

places so much so that I can’t entertain the least doubt of its

existence. It not only looks real, it is real—and on that I would stake

my life.... But at the same time that it’s real, it is false.”

“Like a dream?”

“No—not at all like a dream, and that’s just what I want to explain.

This world of yours—and perhaps of mine too, for that matter—doesn’t

give me the slightest impression of a dream, or an illusion, or anything

of that sort. I know it’s really here at this moment, and it’s exactly

as we’re seeing it, you and I. Yet it’s false. It’s false in this sense,

Polecrab. Side by side with it another world exists, and that other

world is the true one, and this one is all false and deceitful, to the

very core. And so it occurs to me that reality and falseness are two

words for the same thing.”

“Perhaps there is such another world,” said Polecrab huskily. “But did

that vision also seem real and false to you?”

“Very real, but not false then, for then I didn’t understand all this.

But just because it was real, it couldn’t have been Surtur, who has no

connection with reality.”

“Didn’t those drum taps sound real to you?”

“I had to hear them with my ears, and so they sounded real to me. Still,

they were somehow different, and they certainly came from Surtur. If I

didn’t hear them correctly, that was my fault and not his.”

Polecrab growled a little. “If Surtur chooses to speak to you in that

fashion, it appears he’s trying to say something.”

“What else can I think? But, Polecrab, what’s your opinion—is he calling

me to the life after death?”

The old man stirred uneasily. “I’m a fisherman,” he said, after a minute

or two. “I live by killing, and so does everybody. This life seems to me

all wrong. So maybe life of any kind is wrong, and Surtur’s world is not

life at all, but something else.”

“Yes, but will death lead me to it, whatever it is?”

“Ask the dead,” said Polecrab, “and not a living man.”

Maskull continued. “In the forest I heard music and saw a light, which

could not have belonged to this world. They were too strong for my

senses, and I must have fainted for a long time. There was a vision as

well, in which I saw myself killed, while Nightspore walked on toward

the light, alone.”

Polecrab uttered his grunt. “You have enough to think over.”

A short silence ensued, which was broken by Maskull.

“So strong is my sense of the untruth of this present life, that it may

come to my putting an end to myself.” The fisherman remained quiet and

immobile.

Maskull lay on his stomach, propped his face on his hands, and stared at

him. “What do you think, Polecrab? Is it possible for any man, while in

the body, to gain a closer view of that other world than I have done?”

“I am an ignorant man, stranger, so I can’t say. Perhaps there are many

others like you who would gladly know.”

“Where? I should like to meet them.”

“Do you think you were made of one stuff, and the rest of mankind of

another stuff?”

“I can’t be so presumptuous. Possibly all men are reaching out toward

Muspel, in most cases without being aware of it.”

“In the wrong direction,” said Polecrab.

Maskull gave him a strange look. “How so?”

“I don’t speak from my own wisdom,” said Polecrab, “for I have none; but

I have just now recalled what Broodviol once told me, when I was a young

man, and he was an old one. He said that Crystalman tries to turn all

things into one, and that whichever way his shapes march, in order to

escape from him, they find themselves again face to face with

Crystalman, and are changed into new crystals. But that this marching of

shapes (which we call ‘forking’) springs from the unconscious desire to

find Surtur, but is in the opposite direction to the right one. For

Surtur’s world does not lie on this side of the one, which was the

beginning of life, but on the other side; and to get to it we must

repass through the one. But this can only be by renouncing our self-

life, and reuniting ourselves to the whole of Crystalman’s world. And

when this has been done, it is only the first stage of the journey;

though many good men imagine it to be the whole journey.... As far as I

can remember, that is what Broodviol said, but perhaps, as I was then a

young and ignorant man, I may have left out words which would explain

his meaning better.”

Maskull, who had listened attentively to all this, remained thoughtful

at the end.

“It’s plain enough,” he said. “But what did he mean by our reuniting

ourselves to Crystalman’s world? If it is false, are we to make

ourselves false as well?”

“I didn’t ask him that question, and you are as well qualified to answer

it as I am.”

“He must have meant that, as it is, we are each of us living in a false,

private world of our own, a world of dreams and appetites and distorted

perceptions. By embracing the great world we certainly lose nothing in

truth and reality.”

Polecrab withdrew his feet from the water, stood up, yawned, and

stretched his limbs.

“I have told you all I know,” he said in a surly voice. “Now let me go

to sleep.”

Maskull kept his eyes fixed on him, but made no reply. The old man let

himself down stiffly on to the ground, and prepared to rest.

While he was still arranging his position to his liking, a footfall

sounded behind the two men, coming from the direction of the forest.

Maskull twisted his neck, and saw a woman approaching them. He at once

guessed that it was Polecrab’s wife. He sat up, but the fisherman did

not stir. The woman came and stood in front of them, looking down from

what appeared a great height.

Her dress was similar to her husband’s, but covered her limbs more. She

was young, tall, slender, and strikingly erect. Her skin was lightly

tanned, and she looked strong, but not at all peasantlike. Refinement

was stamped all over her. Her face had too much energy of expression for

a woman, and she was not beautiful. Her three great eyes kept flashing

and glowing. She had great masses of fine, yellow hair, coiled up and

fastened, but so carelessly that some of the strands were flowing down

her back.

When she spoke, it was in a rather weak voice, but full of lights and

shades, and somehow intense passionateness never seemed to be far away

from it.

“Forgiveness is asked for listening to your conversation,” she said,

addressing Maskull. “I was resting behind the tree, and heard it all.”

He got up slowly. “Are you Polecrab’s wife?”

“She is my wife,” said Polecrab, “and her name is Gleameil. Sit down

again, stranger—and you too, wife, since you are here.”

They both obeyed. “I heard everything,” repeated Gleameil. “But what I

did not hear was where you are going to, Maskull, after you have left

us.”

“I know no more than you do.”

“Listen, then. There’s only one place for you to go to, and that is

Swaylone’s Island. I will ferry you across myself before sunset.”

“What shall I find there?”

“He may go, wife,” put in the old man hoarsely, “but I won’t allow you

to go. I will take him over myself.”

“No, you have always put me off,” said Gleameil, with some emotion.

“This time I mean to go. When Teargeld shines at night, and I sit on the

shore here, listening to Earthrid’s music travelling faintly across the

sea, I am tortured—I can’t endure it.... I have long since made up my

mind to go to the island, and see what this music is. If it’s bad, if it

kills me—well.”

“What have I to do with the man and his music, Gleameil?” demanded

Maskull.

“I think the music will answer all your questions better than Polecrab

has done—and possibly in a way that will surprise you.”

“What kind of music can it be to travel all those miles across the sea?”

“A peculiar kind, so we are told. Not pleasant, but painful. And the man

that can play the instrument of Earthrid would be able to conjure up the

most astonishing forms, which are not phantasms, but realities.”

“That may be so,” growled Polecrab. “But I have been to the island by

daylight, and what did I find there? Human bones, new and ancient. Those

are Earthrid’s victims. And you, wife, shall not go.”

“But will that music play tonight?” asked Maskull.

“Yes,” replied Gleameil, gazing at him intently. “When Teargeld rises,

which is our moon.”

“If Earthrid plays men to death, it appears to me that his own death is

due. In any case I should like to hear those sounds for myself. But as

for taking you with me, Gleameil—women die too easily in Tormance. I

have only just now washed myself clean of the death blood of another

woman.”

Gleameil laughed, but said nothing.

“Now go to sleep,” said Polecrab. “When the time comes, I will take you

across myself.”

He lay down again, and closed his eyes. Maskull followed his example;

but Gleameil remained sitting erect, with her legs under her.

“Who was that other woman, Maskull?” she asked presently.

He did not answer, but pretended to sleep.

Chapter 15. SWAYLONE’S ISLAND

When he awoke, the day was not so bright, and he guessed it was late

afternoon. Polecrab and his wife were both on their feet, and another

meal of fish had been cooked and was waiting for him.

“Is it decided who is to go with me?” he asked, before sitting down.

“I go,” said Gleameil.

“Do you agree, Polecrab?”

The fisherman growled a little in his throat and motioned to the others

to take their seats. He took a mouthful before answering.

“Something strong is attracting her, and I can’t hold her back. I don’t

think I shall see you again, wife, but the lads are now nearly old

enough to fend for themselves.”

“Don’t take dejected views,” replied Gleameil sternly. She was not

eating. “I shall come back, and make amends to you. It’s only for a

night.”

Maskull gazed from one to the other in perplexity. “Let me go alone. I

would be sorry if anything happened.”

Gleameil shook her head.

“Don’t regard this as a woman’s caprice,” she said. “Even if you hadn’t

passed this way, I would have heard that music soon. I have a hunger for

it.”

“Haven’t you any such feeling, Polecrab?”

“No. A woman is a noble and sensitive creature, and there are

attractions in nature too subtle for males. Take her with you, since she

is set on it. Maybe she’s right. Perhaps Earthrid’s music will answer

your questions, and hers too.”

“What are your questions, Gleameil?”

The woman shed a strange smile. “You may be sure that a question which

requires music for an answer can’t be put into words.”

“If you are not back by the morning,” remarked her husband, “I will know

you are dead.”

The meal was finished in a constrained silence. Polecrab wiped his

mouth, and produced a seashell from a kind of pocket.

“Will you say goodbye to the boys? Shall I call them?” She considered a

moment.

“Yes—yes, I must see them.”

He put the shell to his mouth, and blew; a loud, mournful noise passed

through the air.

A few minutes later there was a sound of scurrying footsteps, and the

boys were seen emerging from the forest. Maskull looked with curiosity

at the first children he had seen on Tormance. The oldest boy was

carrying the youngest on his back, while the third trotted some distance

behind. The child was let down, and all the three formed a semicircle in

front of Maskull, standing staring up at him with wide-open eyes.

Polecrab looked on stolidly, but Gleameil glanced away from them, with

proudly raised head and a baffling expression.

Maskull put the ages of the boys at about nine, seven, and five years,

respectively; but he was calculating according to Earth time. The eldest

was tall, slim, but strongly built. He, like his brothers, was naked,

and his skin from top to toe was ulfire-colored. His facial muscles

indicated a wild and daring nature, and his eyes were like green fires.

The second showed promise of being a broad, powerful man. His head was

large and heavy, and drooped. His face and skin were reddish. His eyes

were almost too sombre and penetrating for a child’s.

“That one,” said Polecrab, pinching the boy’s ear, “may perhaps grow up

to be a second Broodviol.”

“Who was that?” demanded the boy, bending his head forward to hear the

answer.

“A big, old man, of marvellous wisdom. He became wise by making up his

mind never to ask questions, but to find things out for himself.”

“If I had not asked this question, I should not have known about him.”

“That would not have mattered,” replied the father.

The youngest child was paler and slighter than his brothers. His face

was mostly tranquil and expressionless, but it had this peculiarity

about it, that every few minutes, without any apparent cause, it would

wrinkle up and look perplexed. At these times his eyes, which were of a

tawny gold, seemed to contain secrets difficult to associate with one of

his age.

“He puzzles me,” said Polecrab. “He has a soul like sap, and he’s

interested in nothing. He may turn out to be the most remarkable of the

bunch.”

Maskull took the child in one hand, and lifted him as high as his head.

He took a good look at him, and set him down again. The boy never

changed countenance.

“What do you make of him?” asked the fisherman.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, but it just escapes me. Let me

drink again, and then I shall have it.”

“Go and drink, then.”

Maskull strode over to the tree, drank, and returned. “In ages to come,”

he said, speaking deliberately, “he will be a grand and awful tradition.

A seer possibly, or even a divinity. Watch over him well.”

The eldest boy looked scornful. “I want to be none of those things. I

would like to be like that big fellow.” And he pointed his finger at

Maskull.

He laughed, and showed his white teeth through his beard. “Thanks for

the compliments old warrior!” he said.

“He’s great and brawny,” continued the boy, “and can hold his own with

other men. Can you hold me up with one arm, as you did that child?”

Maskull complied.

“That is being a man!” exclaimed the boy. “Enough!” said Polecrab

impatiently. “I called you lads here to say goodbye to your mother. She

is going away with this man. I think she may not return, but we don’t

know.”

The second boy’s face became suddenly inflamed. “Is she going of her own

choice?” he inquired.

“Yes,” replied the father.

“Then she is bad.” He brought the words out with such force and emphasis

that they sounded like the crack of a whip.

The old man cuffed him twice. “Is it your mother you are speaking of?”

The boy stood his ground, without change of expression, but said

nothing.

The youngest child spoke, for the first time. “My mother will not come

back, but she will die dancing.”

Polecrab and his wife looked at one another.

“Where are you going to, Mother?” asked the eldest lad.

Gleameil bent down, and kissed him. “To the Island.”

“Well then, if you don’t come back by tomorrow morning, I will go and

look for you.”

Maskull grew more and more uneasy in his mind. “This seems to me to be a

man’s journey,” he said. “I think it would be better for you not to

come, Gleameil.”

“I am not to be dissuaded,” she replied.

He stroked his beard in perplexity. “Is it time to start?”

“It wants four hours to sunset, and we shall need all that.”

Maskull sighed. “I’ll go to the mouth of the creek, and wait there for

you and the raft. You will wish to make your farewells, Gleameil.”

He then clasped Polecrab by the hand. “Adieu, fisherman!”

“You have repaid me well for my answers,” said the old man gruffly. “But

it’s not your fault, and in Shaping’s world the worst things happen.”

The eldest boy came close to Maskull, and frowned at him. “Farewell, big

man!” he said. “But guard my mother well, as well as you are well able

to, or I shall follow you, and kill you.”

Maskull walked slowly along the creek bank till he came to the bend. The

glorious sunshine, and the sparkling, brilliant sea then met his eyes

again; and all melancholy was swept out of his mind. He continued as far

as the seashore, and issuing out of the shadows of the forest, strolled

on to the sands, and sat down in the full sunlight. The radiance of

Alppain had long since disappeared. He drank in the hot, invigorating

wind, listened to the hissing waves, and stared over the coloured sea

with its pinnacles and currents, at Swaylone’s Island.

“What music can that be, which tears a wife and mother away from all she

loves the most?” he meditated. “It sounds unholy. Will it tell me what I

want to know? Can it?”

In a little while he became aware of a movement behind him, and, turning

his head, he saw the raft floating along the creek, toward the open sea.

Polecrab was standing upright, propelling it with a rude pole. He passed

by Maskull, without looking at him, or making any salutation, and

proceeded out to sea.

While he was wondering at this strange behaviour, Gleameil and the boys

came in sight, walking along the bank of the inlet. The eldest-born was

holding her hand, and talking; and the other two were behind. She was

calm and smiling, but seemed abstracted.

“What is your husband doing with the raft?” asked Maskull.

“He’s putting it in position and we shall wade out and join it,” she

answered, in her low-toned voice.

“But how shall we make the island, without oars or sails?”

“Don’t you see that current running away from land? See, he is

approaching it. That will take us straight there.”

“But how can you get back?”

“There is a way; but we need not think of that today.”

“Why shouldn’t I come too?” demanded the eldest boy.

“Because the raft won’t carry three. Maskull is a heavy man.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the boy. “I know where there is wood for

another raft. As soon as you have gone, I shall set to work.”

Polecrab had by this time manoeuvred his flimsy craft to the position he

desired, within a few yards of the current, which at that point made a

sharp bend from the east. He shouted out some words to his wife and

Maskull. Gleameil kissed her children convulsively, and broke down a

little. The eldest boy bit his lip till it bled, and tears glistened in

his eyes; but the younger children stared wide-eyed, and displayed no

emotion.

Gleameil now walked into the sea, followed by Maskull. The water covered

first their ankles, then their knees, but when it came as high as their

waists, they were close on the raft. Polecrab let himself down into the

water, and assisted his wife to climb over the side. When she was up,

she bent down and kissed him. No words were exchanged. Maskull scrambled

up on to the front part of the raft. The woman sat cross-legged in the

stern, and seized the pole.

Polecrab shoved them off toward the current, while she worked her pole

until they had got within its power. The raft immediately began to

travel swiftly away from land, with a smooth, swaying motion.

The boys waved from the shore. Gleameil responded; but Maskull turned

his back squarely to land, and gazed ahead. Polecrab was wading back to

the shore.

For upward of an hour Maskull did not change his position by an inch. No

sound was heard but the splashing of the strange waves all around them,

and the streamlike gurgle of the current, which threaded its way

smoothly through the tossing, tumultuous sea. From their pathway of

safety, the beautiful dangers surrounding them were an exhilarating

experience. The air was fresh and clean, and the heat from Branchspell,

now low in the west, was at last endurable. The riot of sea colors had

long since banished all sadness and anxiety from his heart. Yet he felt

such a grudge against the woman for selfishly forsaking those who should

have been dear to her that he could not bring himself to begin a

conversation.

But when, over the now enlarged shape of the dark island, he caught

sight of a long chain of lofty, distant mountains, glowing salmon-pink

in the evening sunlight, he felt constrained to break the silence by

inquiring what they were.

“It is Lichstorm,” said Gleameil.

Maskull asked no questions about it; but in turning to address her, his

eyes had rested on the rapidly receding Wombflash Forest, and he

continued to stare at that. They had travelled about eight miles, and

now he could better estimate the enormous height of the trees.

Overtopping them, far away, he saw Sant; and he fancied, but was not

quite sure, that he could distinguish Disscourn as well.

“Now that we are alone in a strange place,” said Gleameil, averting her

head, and looking down over the side of the raft into the water, “tell

me what you thought of Polecrab.”

Maskull paused before answering. “He seemed to me like a mountain

wrapped in cloud. You see the lower buttresses, and think that is all.

But then, high up, far above the clouds, you suddenly catch sight of

more mountain—and even then it is not the top.”

“You read character well, and have great perception,” remarked Gleameil

quietly. “Now say what I am.”

“In place of a human heart, you have a wild harp, and that’s all I know

about you.”

“What was that you said to my husband about two worlds?”

“You heard.”

“Yes, I heard. And I also am conscious of two worlds. My husband and

boys are real to me, and I love them fondly. But there is another world

for me, as there is for you, Maskull, and it makes my real world appear

all false and vulgar.”

“Perhaps we are seeking the same thing. But can it be right to satisfy

our self-nature at the expense of other people?”

“No, it’s not right. It is wrong, and base. But in that other world

these words have no meaning.”

There was a silence.

“It’s useless to discuss such topics,” said Maskull. “The choice is now

out of our hands, and we must go where we are taken. What I would rather

speak about is what awaits us on the island.”

“I am ignorant—except that we shall find Earthrid there.”

“Who is Earthrid, and why is it called Swaylone’s Island?”

“They say Earthrid came from Threal, but I know nothing else about him.

As for Swaylone, if you like I will tell you his legend.”

“If you please,” said Maskull.

“In a far-back age,” began Gleameil, “when the seas were hot, and clouds

hung heavily over the earth, and life was rich with transformations,

Swaylone came to this island, on which men had never before set foot,

and began to play his music—the first music in Tormance. Nightly, when

the moon shone, people used to gather on this shore behind us, and

listen to the faint, sweet strains floating from over the sea. One

night, Shaping (whom you call Crystalman) was passing this way in

company with Krag. They listened a while to the music, and Shaping said

‘Have you heard more beautiful sounds? This is my world and my music.’

Krag stamped with his foot, and laughed. ‘You must do better than that,

if I am to admire it. Let us pass over, and see this bungler at work.’

Shaping consented, and they passed over to the island. Swaylone was not

able to see their presence. Shaping stood behind him, and breathed

thoughts into his soul, so that his music became ten times lovelier, and

people listening on that shore went mad with sick delight. ‘Can any

strains be nobler?’ demanded Shaping. Krag grinned and said, ‘You are

naturally effeminate. Now let me try.’ Then he stood behind Swaylone,

and shot ugly discords fast into his head. His instrument was so

cracked, that never since has it played right. From that time forth

Swaylone could utter only distorted music; yet it called to folk more

than the other sort. Many men crossed over to the island during his

lifetime, to listen to the amazing tones, but none could endure them;

all died. After Swaylone’s death, another musician took up the tale; and

so the light has passed down from torch to torch, till now Earthrid

bears it.”

“An interesting legend,” commented Maskull. “But who is Krag?”

“They say that when the world was born, Krag was born with it—a spirit

compounded of those vestiges of Muspel which Shaping did not know how to

transform. Thereafter nothing has gone right with the world, for he dogs

Shaping’s footsteps everywhere, and whatever the latter does, he undoes.

To love he joins death; to sex, shame; to intellect, madness; to virtue,

cruelty; and to fair exteriors, bloody entrails. These are Krag’s

actions, so the lovers of the world call him ‘devil.’ They don’t

understand, Maskull, that without him the world would lose its beauty.”

“Krag and beauty!” exclaimed he, with a cynical smile.

“Even so. That same beauty which you and I are now voyaging to discover.

That beauty for whose sake I am renouncing husband, children, and

happiness.... Did you imagine beauty to be pleasant?”

“Surely.”

“That pleasant beauty is an insipid compound of Shaping. To see beauty

in its terrible purity, you must tear away the pleasure from it.”

“Do you say I am going to seek beauty, Gleameil? Such an idea is far

from my mind.”

She did not respond to his remark. After waiting for a few minutes, to

hear if she would speak again, he turned his back on her once more.

There was no more talk until they reached the island.

The air had grown chill and damp by the time they approached its shores.

Branchspell was on the point of touching the sea. The Island appeared to

be some three or four miles in length. There were first of all broad

sands, then low, dark cliffs, and behind these a wilderness of

insignificant, swelling hills, entirely devoid of vegetation. The

current bore them to within a hundred yards of the coast, when it made a

sharp angle, and proceeded to skirt the length of the land.

Gleameil jumped overboard, and began swimming to shore. Maskull followed

her example, and the raft, abandoned, was rapidly borne away by the

current. They soon touched ground, and were able to wade the rest of the

way. By the time they reached dry land, the sun had set.

Gleameil made straight for the hills; and Maskull, after casting a

single glance at the low, dim outline of the Wombflash Forest, followed

her. The cliffs were soon scrambled up. Then the ascent was gentle and

easy, while the rich, dry, brown mould was good to walk upon.

A little way off, on their left, something white was shining.

“You need not go to it,” said the woman. “It can be nothing else than

one of those skeletons Polecrab talked about. And look—there is another

one over there!”

“This brings it home!” remarked Maskull, smiling.

“There is nothing comical in having died for beauty,” said Gleameil,

bending her brows at him.

And when in the course of their walk he saw the innumerable human bones,

from gleaming white to dirty yellow, lying scattered about, as if it

were a naked graveyard among the hills, he agreed with her, and fell

into a sombre mood.

It was still light when they reached the highest point, and could set

eyes on the other side. The sea to the north of the island was in no way

different from that which they had crossed, but its lively colors were

fast becoming invisible.

“That is Matterplay,” said the woman, pointing her finger toward some

low land on the horizon, which seemed to be even farther off than

Wombflash.

“I wonder how Digrung passed over,” meditated Maskull.

Not far away, in a hollow enclosed by a circle of little hills, they saw

a small, circular lake, not more than half a mile in diameter. The

sunset colors of the sky were reflected in its waters.

“That must be Irontick,” remarked Gleameil.

“What is that?”

“I have heard that it’s the instrument Earthrid plays on.”

“We are getting close,” responded he. “Let us go and investigate.”

When they drew nearer, they observed that a man was reclining on the

farther side, in an attitude of sleep.

“If that’s not the man himself, who can it be?” said Maskull. “Let’s get

across the water, if it will bear us; it will save time.”

He now assumed the lead, and took running strides down the slope which

bounded the lake on that side. Gleameil followed him with greater

dignity, keeping her eyes fixed on the recumbent man as if fascinated.

When Maskull reached the water’s edge, he tried it with one foot, to

discover if it would carry his weight. Something unusual in its

appearance led him to have doubts. It was a tranquil, dark, and

beautifully reflecting sheet of water; it resembled a mirror of liquid

metal. Finding that it would bear him, and that nothing happened, he

placed his second foot on its surface. Instantly he sustained a violent

shock throughout his body, as from a powerful electric current; and he

was hurled in a tumbled heap back on to the bank.

He picked himself up, brushed the dirt off his person, and started

walking around the lake. Gleameil joined him, and they completed the

half circuit together. They came to the man, and Maskull prodded him

with his foot. He woke up, and blinked at them.

His face was pale, weak, and vacant-looking, and had a disagreeable

expression. There were thin sprouts of black hair on his chin and head.

On his forehead, in place of a third eye, he possessed a perfectly

circular organ, with elaborate convolutions, like an ear. He had an

unpleasant smell. He appeared to be of young middle age.

“Wake up, man,” said Maskull sharply, “and tell us if you are Earthrid.”

“What time is it?” counterquestioned the man. “Does it want long to

moonrise?”

Without appearing to care about an answer, he sat up, and turning away

from them, began to scoop up the loose soil with his hand, and to eat it

halfheartedly.

“Now, how can you eat that filth?” demanded Maskull, in disgust.

“Don’t be angry, Maskull,” said Gleameil, laying hold of his arm, and

flushing a little. “It is Earthrid—the man who is to help us.”

“He has not said so.”

“I am Earthrid,” said the other, in his weak and muffled voice, which,

however, suddenly struck Maskull as being autocratic. “What do you want

here? Or rather, you had better get away as quickly as you can, for it

will be too late when Teargeld rises.”

“You need not explain,” exclaimed Maskull. “We know your reputation, and

we have come to hear your music. But what’s that organ for on your

forehead?”

Earthrid glared, and smiled, and glared again.

“That is for rhythm, which is what changes noise into music. Don’t stand

and argue, but go away. It is no pleasure to me to people the island

with corpses. They corrupt the air, and do nothing else.”

Darkness now crept swiftly on over the landscape.

“You are rather bigmouthed,” said Maskull coolly. “But after we have

heard you play, perhaps I shall adventure a tune myself.”

“You? Are you a musician, then? Do you even know what music is?”

A flame danced in Gleameil’s eyes.

“Maskull thinks music reposes in the instrument,” she said in her

intense way. “But it is in the soul of the Master.”

“Yes,” said Earthrid, “but that is not all. I will tell you what it is.

In Threal, where I was born and brought up, we learn the mystery of the

Three in nature. This world, which lies extended before us, has three

directions. Length is the line which shuts off what is, from what is

not. Breadth is the surface which shows us in what manner one thing of

what-is, lives with another thing. Depth is the path which leads from

what-is, to our own body. In music it is not otherwise. Tone is

existence, without which nothing at all can be. Symmetry and Numbers are

the manner in which tones exist, one with another. Emotion is the

movement of our soul toward the wonderful world that is being created.

Now, men when they make music are accustomed to build beautiful tones,

because of the delight they cause. Therefore their music world is based

on pleasure; its symmetry is regular and charming, its emotion is sweet

and lovely.... But my music is founded on painful tones; and thus its

symmetry is wild, and difficult to discover; its emotion is bitter and

terrible.”

“If I had not anticipated its being original, I would not have come

here,” said Maskull. “Still, explain—why can’t harsh tones have simple

symmetry of form? And why must they necessarily cause more profound

emotions in us who listen?”

“Pleasures may harmonise. Pains must clash; and in the order of their

clashing lies the symmetry. The emotions follow the music, which is

rough and earnest.”

“You may call it music,” remarked Maskull thoughtfully, “but to me it

bears a closer resemblance to actual life.”

“If Shaping’s plans had gone straight, life would have been like that

other sort of music. He who seeks can find traces of that intention in

the world of nature. But as it has turned out, real life resembles my

music and mine is the true music.”

“Shall we see living shapes?”

“I don’t know what my mood will be,” returned Earthrid. “But when I have

finished, you shall adventure your tune, and produce whatever shapes you

please—unless, indeed, the tune is out of your own big body.”

“The shocks you are preparing may kill us,” said Gleameil, in a low,

taut voice, “but we shall die, seeing beauty.”

Earthrid looked at her with a dignified expression.

“Neither you, nor any other person, can endure the thoughts which I put

into my music. Still, you must have it your own way. It needed a woman

to call it ‘beauty.’ But if this is beauty, what is ugliness?”

“That I can tell you, Master,” replied Gleameil, smiling at him.

“Ugliness is old, stale life, while yours every night issues fresh from

the womb of nature.”

Earthrid stared at her, without response. “Teargeld is rising,” he said

at last. “And now you shall see—though not for long.”

As the words left his mouth, the full moon peeped over the hills in the

dark eastern sky. They watched it in silence, and soon it was wholly up.

It was larger than the moon of Earth, and seemed nearer. Its shadowy

parts stood out in just as strong relief, but somehow it did not give

Maskull the impression of being a dead world. Branchspell shone on the

whole of it, but Alppain only on a part. The broad crescent that

reflected Branchspell’s rays alone was white and brilliant; but the part

that was illuminated by both suns shone with a greenish radiance that

had almost solar power, and yet was cold and cheerless. On gazing at

that combined light, he felt the same sense of disintegration that the

afterglow of Alppain had always caused in him; but now the feeling was

not physical, but merely aesthetic. The moon did not appear romantic to

him, but disturbing and mystical.

Earthrid rose, and stood quietly for a minute. In the bright moonlight,

his face seemed to have undergone a change. It lost its loose, weak,

disagreeable look, and acquired a sort of crafty grandeur. He clapped

his hands together meditatively two or three times, and walked up and

down. The others stood together, watching him.

Then he sat down by the side of the lake, and, leaning on his side,

placed his right hand, open palm downward, on the ground, at the same

time stretching out his right leg, so that the foot was in contact with

the water.

While Maskull was in the act of staring at him and at the lake, he felt

a stabbing sensation right through his heart, as though he had been

pierced by a rapier. He barely recovered himself from falling, and as he

did so he saw that a spout had formed on the water, and was now

subsiding again. The next moment he was knocked down by a violent blow

in the mouth, delivered by an invisible hand. He picked himself up; and

observed that a second spout had formed. No sooner was he on his legs,

than a hideous pain hammered away inside his brain, as if caused by a

malignant tumour. In his agony, he stumbled and fell again; this time on

the arm Krag had wounded. All his other mishaps were forgotten in this

one, which half stunned him. It lasted only a moment, and then sudden

relief came, and he found that Earthrid’s rough music had lost its power

over him.

He saw him still stretched in the same position. Spouts were coming

thick and fast on the lake, which was full of lively motion. But

Gleameil was not on her legs. She was lying on the ground, in a heap,

without moving. Her attitude was ugly, and he guessed she was dead. When

he reached her, he discovered that she was dead. In what state of mind

she had died, he did not know, for her face wore the vulgar Crystalman

grin. The whole tragedy had not lasted five minutes.

He went over to Earthrid and dragged him forcibly away from his playing.

“You have been as good as your word, musician,” he said. “Gleameil is

dead.”

Earthrid tried to collect his scattered senses.

“I warned her,” he replied, sitting up. “Did I not beg her to go away?

But she died very easily. She did not wait for the beauty she spoke

about. She heard nothing of the passion, nor even of the rhythm. Neither

have you.”

Maskull looked down at him in indignation, but said nothing.

“You should not have interrupted me,” went on Earthrid. “When I am

playing, nothing else is of importance. I might have lost the thread of

my ideas. Fortunately, I never forget. I shall start over again.”

“If music is to continue, in the presence of the dead, I play next.”

The man glanced up quickly.

“That can’t be.”

“It must be,” said Maskull decisively. “I prefer playing to listening.

Another reason is that you will have every night, but I have only

tonight.”

Earthrid clenched and unclenched his fist, and began to turn pale. “With

your recklessness, you are likely to kill us both. Irontick belongs to

me, and until you have learned how to play, you would only break the

instrument.”

“Well, then, I will break it; but I am going to try.”

The musician jumped to his feet and confronted him. “Do you intend to

take it from me by violence?”

“Keep calm! You will have the same choice that you offered us. I shall

give you time to go away somewhere.”

“How will that serve me, if you spoil my lake? You don’t understand what

you are doing.”

“Go, or stay!” responded Maskull. “I give you till the water gets smooth

again. After that, I begin playing.”

Earthrid kept swallowing. He glanced at the lake and back to Maskull.

“Do you swear it?”

“How long that will take, you know better than I; but till then you are

safe.”

Earthrid cast him a look of malice, hesitated for an instant, and then

moved away, and started to climb the nearest hill. Halfway up he glanced

over his shoulder apprehensively, as if to see what was happening. In

another minute or so, he had disappeared over the crest, travelling in

the direction of the shore that faced Matterplay.

Later, when the water was once more tranquil, Maskull sat down by its

edge, in imitation of Earthrid’s attitude. He knew neither how to set

about producing his music, nor what would come of it. But audacious

projects entered his brain and he willed to create physical shapes—and,

above all, one shape, that of Surtur.

Before putting his foot to the water, he turned things over a little in

his mind.

He said, “What themes are in common music, shapes are in this music. The

composer does not find his theme by picking out single notes; but the

whole theme flashes into his mind by inspiration. So it must be with

shapes. When I start playing, if I am worth anything, the undivided

ideas will pass from my unconscious mind to this lake, and then,

reflected back in the dimensions of reality, I shall be for the first

time made acquainted with them. So it must be.”

The instant his foot touched the water, he felt his thoughts flowing

from him. He did not know what they were, but the mere act of flowing

created a sensation of joyful mastery. With this was curiosity to learn

what they would prove to be. Spouts formed on the lake in increasing

numbers, but he experienced no pain. His thoughts, which he knew to be

music, did not issue from him in a steady, unbroken stream, but in

great, rough gushes, succeeding intervals of quiescence. When these

gushes came, the whole lake broke out in an eruption of spouts.

He realised that the ideas passing from him did not arise in his

intellect, but had their source in the fathomless depths of his will. He

could not decide what character they should have, but he was able to

force them out, or retard them, by the exercise of his volition.

At first nothing changed around him. Then the moon grew dimmer, and a

strange, new radiance began to illuminate the landscape. It increased so

imperceptibly that it was some time before he recognised it as the

Muspel-light which he had seen in the Wombflash Forest. He could not

give it a colour, or a name, but it filled him with a sort of stern and

sacred awe. He called up the resources of his powerful will. The spouts

thickened like a forest, and many of them were twenty feet high.

Teargeld looked faint and pale; the radiance became intense; but it cast

no shadows. The wind got up, but where Maskull was sitting, it was calm.

Shortly afterward it began to shriek and whistle, like a full gale. He

saw no shapes, and redoubled his efforts.

His ideas were now rushing out onto the lake so furiously that his whole

soul was possessed by exhilaration and defiance. But still he did not

know their nature. A huge spout shot up and at the same moment the hills

began to crack and break. Great masses of loose soil were erupted from

their bowels, and in the next period of quietness, he saw that the

landscape had altered. Still the mysterious light intensified. The moon

disappeared entirely. The noise of the unseen tempest was terrifying,

but Maskull played heroically on, trying to urge out ideas which would

take shape. The hillsides were cleft with chasms. The water escaping

from the tops of the spouts, swamped the land; but where he was, it was

dry.

The radiance grew terrible. It was everywhere, but Maskull fancied that

it was far brighter in one particular quarter. He thought that it was

becoming localised, preparatory to contracting into a solid form. He

strained and strained....

Immediately afterward the bottom of the lake subsided. Its waters fell

through, and his instrument was broken.

The Muspel-light vanished. The moon shone out again, but Maskull could

not see it. After that unearthly shining, he seemed to himself to be in

total blackness. The screaming wind ceased; there was a dead silence.

His thoughts finished flowing toward the lake, and his foot no longer

touched water, but hung in space.

He was too stunned by the suddenness of the change to either think or

feel. While he was still lying dazed, a vast explosion occurred in the

newly opened depths beneath the lakebed. The water in its descent had

met fire. Maskull was lifted bodily in the air, many yards high, and

came down heavily. He lost consciousness....

When he came to his senses again, he saw everything. Teargeld was

gleaming brilliantly. He was lying by the side of the old lake, but it

was now a crater, to the bottom of which his eyes could not penetrate.

The hills encircling it were torn, as if by heavy gunfire. A few

thunderclouds were floating in the air at no great height, from which

branched lightning descended to the earth incessantly, accompanied by

alarming and singular crashes.

He got on his legs, and tested his actions. Finding that he was

uninjured, he first of all viewed the crater at closer quarters, and

then started to walk painfully toward the northern shore.

When he had attained the crest above the lake, the landscape sloped

gently down for two miles to the sea. Everywhere he passed through

traces of his rough work. The country was carved into scarps, grooves,

channels, and craters. He arrived at the line of low cliffs overlooking

the beach, and found that these also were partly broken down by

landslips. He got down onto the sand and stood looking over the moonlit,

agitated sea, wondering how he could contrive to escape from this island

of failure.

Then he saw Earthrid’s body, lying quite close to him. It was on its

back. Both legs had been violently torn off and he could not see them

anywhere. Earthrid’s teeth were buried in the flesh of his right

forearm, indicating that the man had died in unreasoning physical agony.

The skin gleamed green in the moonlight, but it was stained by darker

discolourations, which were wounds. The sand about him was dyed by the

pool of blood which had long since filtered through.

Maskull left the corpse in dismay, and walked a long way along the

sweet-smelling shore. Sitting down on a rock, he waited for daybreak.

Chapter 16. LEEHALLFAE

At midnight, when Teargeld was in the south, throwing his shadow

straight toward the sea and making everything nearly as bright as day,

he saw a great tree floating in the water, not far out. It was thirty

feet out of the water, upright, and alive, and its roots must have been

enormously deep and wide. It was drifting along the coast, through the

heavy seas. Maskull eyed it incuriously for a few minutes. Then it

dawned on him that it might be a good thing to investigate its nature.

Without stopping to weigh the danger, he immediately swam out, caught

hold of the lowest branch, and swung himself up.

He looked aloft and saw that the main stem was thick to the very top,

terminating in a knob that somewhat resembled a human head. He made his

way toward this knob, through the multitude of boughs, which were

covered with tough, slippery, marine leaves, like seaweed. Arriving at

the crown, he found that it actually was a sort of head, for there were

membranes like rudimentary eyes all the way around it, denoting some

form of low intelligence.

At that moment the tree touched bottom, though some way from the shore,

and began to bump heavily. To steady himself, Maskull put his hand out,

and, in doing so, accidentally covered some of the membranes. The tree

sheered off the land, as if by an act of will. When it was steady again,

Maskull removed his hand; they at once drifted back to shore. He thought

a bit, and then started experimenting with the eyelike membranes. It was

as he had guessed—these eyes were stimulated by the light of the moon,

and whichever way the light came from, the tree would travel.

A rather defiant smile crossed Maskull’s face as it struck him that it

might be possible to navigate this huge plant-animal as far as

Matterplay. He lost no time in putting the conception into execution.

Tearing off some of the long, tough leaves, he bound up all the

membranes except the ones that faced the north. The tree instantly left

the island, and definitely put out to sea. It travelled due north. It

was not moving at more than a mile an hour, however, while Matterplay

was possibly forty miles distant.

The great spout waves fell against the trunk with mighty thuds; the

breaking seas hissed through the lower branches—Maskull rested high and

dry, but was more than a little apprehensive about their slow rate of

progress. Presently he sighted a current racing along toward the north-

west, and that put another idea into his head. He began to juggle with

the membranes again, and before long had succeeded in piloting his tree

into the fast-running stream. As soon as they were fairly in its rapids,

he blinded the crown entirely, and thenceforward the current acted in

the double capacity of road and steed.

Maskull made himself secure among the branches and slept for the

remainder of the night.

When his eyes opened again, the island was out of sight. Teargeld was

setting in the western sea. The sky in the east was bright with the

colours of the approaching day. The air was cool and fresh; the light

over the sea was beautiful, gleaming, and mysterious. Land—probably

Matterplay—lay ahead, a long, dark line of low cliffs, perhaps a mile

away. The current no longer ran toward the shore, but began to skirt the

coast without drawing any closer to it. As soon as Maskull realised the

fact, he manoeuvred the tree out of its channel and started drifting it

inshore. The eastern sky blazed up suddenly with violent dyes, and the

outer rim of Branchspell lifted itself above the sea. The moon had

already sunk.

The shore loomed nearer and nearer. In physical character it was like

Swaylone’s Island—the same wide sands, small cliffs, and rounded,

insignificant hills inland, without vegetation. In the early-morning

sunlight, however, it looked romantic. Maskull, hollow-eyed and morose,

cared nothing for all that, but the moment the tree grounded, clambered

swiftly down through the branches and dropped into the sea. By the time

he had swam ashore, the white, stupendous sun was high above the

horizon.

He walked along the sands toward the east for a considerable distance,

without having any special intention in his mind. He thought he would go

on until he came to some creek or valley, and then turn up it. The sun’s

rays were cheering, and began to relieve him of his oppressive night

weight. After strolling along the beach for about a mile, he was stopped

by a broad stream that flowed into the sea out of a kind of natural

gateway in the line of cliffs. Its water was of a beautiful, limpid

green, all filled with bubbles. So ice-cold, aerated, and enticing did

it look that he flung himself face downward on the ground and took a

prolonged draught. When he got up again his eyes started to play

pranks—they became alternately blurred and clear.... It may have been

pure imagination, but he fancied that Digrung was moving inside him.

He followed the bank of the stream through the gap in the cliffs, and

then for the first time saw the real Matterplay. A valley appeared, like

a jewel enveloped by naked rock. All the hill country was bare and

lifeless, but this valley lying in the heart of it was extremely

fertile; he had never seen such fertility. It wound up among the hills,

and all that he was looking at was its broad lower end. The floor of the

valley was about half a mile wide; the stream that ran down its middle

was nearly a hundred feet across, but was exceedingly shallow—in most

places not more than a few inches deep. The sides of the valley were

about seventy feet high, but very sloping; they were clothed from top to

bottom with little, bright-leaved trees—not of varied tints of one

colour, like Earth trees, but of widely diverse colours, most of which

were brilliant and positive.

The floor itself was like a magician’s garden. Densely interwoven trees,

shrubs, and parasitical climbers fought everywhere for possession of it.

The forms were strange and grotesque, and each one seemed different; the

colours of leaf, flower, sexual organs, and stem were equally

peculiar—all the different combinations of the five primary colours of

Tormance seemed to be represented, and the result, for Maskull was a

sort of eye chaos. So rank was the vegetation that he could not fight

his way through it; he was obliged to take to the riverbed. The contact

of the water created an odd tingling sensation throughout his body, like

a mild electric shock. There were no birds, but a few extraordinary-

looking winged reptiles of small size kept crossing the valley from hill

to hill. Swarms of flying insects clustered around him, threatening

mischief, but in the end it turned out that his blood was disagreeable

to them, for he was not bitten once. Repulsive crawling creatures

resembling centipedes, scorpions, snakes, and so forth were in myriads

on the banks of the stream, but they also made no attempt to use their

weapons on his bare legs and feet, as he passed through them into the

water.... Presently however, he was confronted in midstream by a hideous

monster, of the size of a pony, but resembling in shape—if it resembled

anything—a sea crustacean; and then he came to a halt. They stared at

one another, the beast with wicked eyes, Maskull with cool and wary

ones. While he was staring, a singular thing happened to him.

His eyes blurred again. But when in a minute or two this blurring passed

away and he saw clearly once more, his vision had changed in character.

He was looking right through the animal’s body and could distinguish all

its interior parts. The outer crust, however, and all the hard tissues

were misty and semi-transparent; through them a luminous network of

blood-red veins and arteries stood out in startling distinctness. The

hard parts faded away to nothingness, and the blood system alone was

left. Not even the fleshy ducts remained. The naked blood alone was

visible, flowing this way and that like a fiery, liquid skeleton, in the

shape of the monster. Then this blood began to change too. Instead of a

continuous liquid stream, Maskull perceived that it was composed of a

million individual points. The red colour had been an illusion caused by

the rapid motion of the points; he now saw clearly that they resembled

minute suns in their scintillating brightness. They seemed like a double

drift of stars, streaming through space. One drift was travelling toward

a fixed point in the centre, while the other was moving away from it. He

recognised the former as the veins of the beast, the latter as the

arteries, and the fixed point as the heart.

While he was still looking, lost in amazement, the starry network went

out suddenly like an extinguished flame. Where the crustacean had stood,

there was nothing. Yet through this “nothing” he could not see the

landscape. Something was standing there that intercepted the light,

though it possessed neither shape, colour, nor substance. And now the

object, which could no longer be perceived by vision, began to be felt

by emotion. A delightful, springlike sense of rising sap, of quickening

pulses of love, adventure, mystery, beauty, femininity—took possession

of his being, and, strangely enough, he identified it with the monster.

Why that invisible brute should cause him to feel young, sexual, and

audacious, he did not ask himself, for he was fully occupied with the

effect. But it was as if flesh, bones, and blood had been discarded, and

he were face to face with naked Life itself, which slowly passed into

his own body.

The sensations died away. There was a brief interval, and then the

streaming, starlike skeleton rose up again out of space. It changed to

the red-blood system. The hard parts of the body reappeared, with more

and more distinctness, and at the same time the network of blood grew

fainter. Presently the interior parts were entirely concealed by the

crust—the creature stood opposite Maskull in its old formidable

ugliness, hard, painted, and concrete.

Disliking something about him, the crustacean turned aside and stumbled

awkwardly away on its six legs, with laborious and repulsive movements,

toward the other bank of the stream.

Maskull’s apathy left him after this adventure. He became uneasy and

thoughtful. He imagined that he was beginning to see things through

Digrung’s eyes, and that there were strange troubles immediately ahead.

The next time his eyes started to blur, he fought it down with his will,

and nothing happened.

The valley ascended with many windings toward the hills. It narrowed

considerably, and the wooded slopes on either side grew steeper and

higher. The stream shrunk to about twenty feet across, but it was

deeper—it was alive with motion, music, and bubbles. The electric

sensations caused by its water became more pronounced, almost

disagreeably so; but there was nowhere else to walk. With its deafening

confusion of sounds from the multitude of living creatures, the little

valley resembled a vast conversation hall of Nature. The life was still

more prolific than before; every square foot of space was a tangle of

struggling wills, both animal and vegetable. For a naturalist it would

have been paradise, for no two shapes were alike, and all were

fantastic, with individual character.

It looked as if life forms were being coined so fast by Nature that

there was not physical room for all. Nevertheless it was not as on

Earth, where a hundred seeds are scattered in order that one may be

sown. Here the young forms seemed to survive, while, to find

accommodation for them, the old ones perished; everywhere he looked they