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A Voyage to Arcturus

by David Lindsay · English · Gutenberg #1329 · 547,740 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Voyage to Arcturus

Author: David Lindsay


        
Release date: May 1, 1998 [eBook #1329]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS ***

A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS.

By David Lindsay



CONTENTS



Chapter 1. THE SÉANCE

Chapter 2. IN THE STREET

Chapter 3. STARKNESS

Chapter 4. THE VOICE

Chapter 5. THE NIGHT OF DEPARTURE

Chapter 6. JOIWIND

Chapter 7. PANAWE

Chapter 8. THE LUSION PLAIN

Chapter 9. OCEAXE

Chapter 10. TYDOMIN

Chapter 11. ON DISSCOURN

Chapter 12. SPADEVIL

Chapter 13. THE WOMBFLASH FOREST

Chapter 14. POLECRAB

Chapter 15. SWAYLONE’S ISLAND

Chapter 16. LEEHALLFAE

Chapter 17. CORPANG

Chapter 18. HAUNTE

Chapter 19. SULLENBODE

Chapter 20. BAREY

Chapter 21. MUSPEL



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 sac

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